- Joined
- Mar 18, 2007
- Messages
- 3,669
A little heads up, this is quite morbid. I just felt like making a short story right on the spot.
I came home from the factory, drenched in sweat and frustrated as usual. Frustrated, but able to recall worse days. A few beers later, I've decided I should finally go feed Her. Fumbling with the keys a bit, I eventually managed to get the padlock down, and take the bag of dog food down the basement stairway.
She was a filthy beast that lived in the darkness, cowering in the corner in an attempt to shut out the light when the door slammed open, her eyes filled with fear, but not a sound. She was covered with an uncountable amount of bruises and gashes. Her hair was in patches, and she was but skin and bones. As I reluctantly poured the dog food into the bowl (the only spotless part of the room), I recognized a foul odor. The stench of waste. The filthy thing soiled herself! I threw the food at her. If that bitch doesn't know how to control herself, perhaps she shouldn't be eating at all. I kicked her in the stomach and watched her curl over. Then, I stomped on her back as she tried to cry out in pain. I watched her try to crawl away, a pitiful attempt that managed to piss me off even more. I kicked her over, picked her up by her hair, and proceeded to lay a few more hits on her with my fist. Eventually, I grew tired of taking my anger out on the beast, kicking her once more before leaving her for dead and returning back out, frustrated, but able to recall worse days.
I can't believe they call that thing my daughter.
I came home from the factory, drenched in sweat and frustrated as usual. Frustrated, but able to recall worse days. A few beers later, I've decided I should finally go feed Her. Fumbling with the keys a bit, I eventually managed to get the padlock down, and take the bag of dog food down the basement stairway.
She was a filthy beast that lived in the darkness, cowering in the corner in an attempt to shut out the light when the door slammed open, her eyes filled with fear, but not a sound. She was covered with an uncountable amount of bruises and gashes. Her hair was in patches, and she was but skin and bones. As I reluctantly poured the dog food into the bowl (the only spotless part of the room), I recognized a foul odor. The stench of waste. The filthy thing soiled herself! I threw the food at her. If that bitch doesn't know how to control herself, perhaps she shouldn't be eating at all. I kicked her in the stomach and watched her curl over. Then, I stomped on her back as she tried to cry out in pain. I watched her try to crawl away, a pitiful attempt that managed to piss me off even more. I kicked her over, picked her up by her hair, and proceeded to lay a few more hits on her with my fist. Eventually, I grew tired of taking my anger out on the beast, kicking her once more before leaving her for dead and returning back out, frustrated, but able to recall worse days.
I can't believe they call that thing my daughter.
