I awoke this morning head pounding, stomach turning; most likely from the copious amounts of Whiskey I had consumed hours prior. I stumbled from bed wearing the same clothes I had worn the previous day: a heavy winter’s coat, thick gloves, waterproof pants, and snow boots. I made my way to the den where the fire sat, blazing from last night’s use. I rubbed my temples and focused hard on the roaring flames. It was as if the dancing orange inferno was aching to tell me something, undoubtedly about how disturbing my actions were the evening before. My eyes widened and began to water as I held them open in a futile attempt to win this staring contest with the combustion reaction of elements and water vapor. Liquid began to pour from my eyes, yet I couldn’t make out what the fire was so desperately trying to tell me. It’s murmur in too soft of a pitch for my hung-over ears to detect. How I envied that fire, able to see what crimes I had committed in my intoxicated state, able to listen to my incomprehensible rambling of inebriated solitude, and able to watch as any ethical percentage of human decency I had left shrink into nothingness.
I turned from the whispering flames, eyes glossy and thoughts as unclear as they always are the morning after my monthly rampages, which had recently come about more often and closer between than 30 day intervals. I grabbed a few pain medicine tablets that I had strategically placed, at some previous time, near the empty glass bottle that encased the liquid version of my personal downfall. I popped the pills and thanked my former self for being so thoughtful and well prepared. My bloodshot eyes shifted toward the ground of the foyer, moments later my brows furrowed in confusion. My blurry vision focused on the shiny surface of the large dining room candlestick which sat on its side a few inches from the front door. Its golden shaft stained with red as it lay motionless in a puddle of blood, as if it had been murdered.
This wasn’t the most unusual thing I had observed the day after a drunken stupor, an inanimate object falling victim to the unspeakable crime of homicide. In fact, I had previously woken up to witness much worse: broken glass from every mirror scattered across the cold, hardwood floors, blood oozing from some self-induced gash that insisted on immediate medical attention, even to ex-partners screaming of abuse and fits of psychotic rage. The last of which happened to be the main factor that led to my condemned state of isolation deep within the mountains, divorced and alone. But women never made me as happy as booze did, so carefree and comfortable in my own skin. Regret was only felt the morning after, and it lasted only as long as it took to pour myself another drink.
I examined my clothed skin. No sign of an exit wound where the blood on the floor could have expelled from. I felt no stinging beneath material that rubbed at my flesh as I walked. I glanced at the doorknob leading to the frigid temperatures of the outside air. It, too, was masked with dry blood and not fully latched. The entire door sat crocked on its hinges and open several centimeters. This was truly the only occurrence that struck me as odd. My curiosity about the death of the candlestick was quickly exchanged for alarm. The door had been slightly damaged since I bought the cabin a year before. It had to be lifted into its deformed wooden frame to latch shut. As far as I knew I was the only one who could properly do so, due to endless attempts when I first moved in, being that I was both too cheap and drunk to fix it properly. Yet, after each blackout I would awaken with the door not only shut, but locked. Even deep within my own frightening oblivion I knew bears were a serious danger. This led to a question that sent chills up my spine, was somebody else here last night?
I grasped the door handle and flung open the large hunk of wood. Last night’s snowstorm had blanketed the ground for as far as the eye could see with the purest shade of white. I stepped onto the front porch while plumes of carbon dioxide became visible from each exhaled breath. I looked down. Small footsteps led from my porch to a wooden shack that sat thirty feet from my own. This wasn’t an unusual sight. My cabin was only a fourth of a mile from a popular trail and stragglers came and went as often as the wolves. But these were different. They not only came obviously from within my home, but had minuscule spots of blood between each light footfall.
I traced each previously laid step. The drips of blood slightly melted the snow from their warmth and grew in size as I progressed towards the shack. My footsteps sunk much deeper into the snow and sat closer together than the first set, making me think the individual who had left them had been running. In twenty seconds I stood at the shacks door. My heart began pounding. I felt beads of sweat being birthed from each pore on my forehead and stream down my face. I could feel my palms begin to clam up from beneath each glove, and every worst case scenario cascaded through my thoughts. Bears, monsters, aliens, serial killers, all flashed before my mind’s eye. Fear established itself deep within my gut, and then ran through each vein until I was filled with numbing adrenaline.
I swung open the door of the shed. I gasped in horror. An unconscious woman, half naked and spotted with cuts and blood, lay sprawled across the floor. I ran to her side and knelt before her. I spoke harshly to awaken her from slumber and shook her aggressively, but to no avail. I pulled off a heavy glove to check her pulse.
I froze.
Dried blood crusted over the epidermis off my hand. My eyes flew to woman. I held my hand above a bloody hand-print on her arm, it belonged to me.
At this moment I only knew two things for sure: one, the footprints leading from my door belonged to this woman, and two, I had killed her.
Shaking my head, I stood and walked to the woman’s feet. I bent my knees slightly and gripped her left ankle. Leaving the shack, I began to drag the limp body behind me. Her dead-weight sunk into the fallen crystals, exchanging snow white for blood red as I heaved.
Looking down I knew one thing for sure: I’ll have dinner for at least a week.
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Great writing skills, could have been a very good story, just not written properly.
I see many people complaining about the use of less common words in place of regular words. Such as “epidermis.” I’d just like to add that maybe the write decided to use this language to add to the mood they set at the beginning when they mentioned he retreated to the mountains in an isolated area and lives alone. Maybe the character has too much time on their hands and doesn’t talk like your normal adult. Although I do think at times you carried on a bit much. The only part I didn’t like much about it was when he started finding clues of something happening, he was nervous and felt some kind of emotion. He was shocked when he found the body and even seemed to feel a little bad. Your average cannibal isn’t going to feel these emotions. My tip is to rewrite it and maybe even at the end add something to it, not just that he’s going to eat her. I have a lot of questions. Was she naked because he’s a rapist cannibal or did he rip her clothing off in the struggle? Has he done this before and if not, what happens after he gets a taste of human meat? When he said hes gotten drunk and committed some crim in the beginning, does he mean hes used to this? My guess is that hes done it before considering he knew about how long the meat would last. But when did it start and why is the drinking such a big thing to him? Lots of questions. This could actually be a really good story if you focused more on details and less on the extra words. You seemed to go on and on about the door and I would have figured it would have meant something because of all that talk about it. I like it a lot, but you could so use this plot and turn it into a 10/10. You get a 6.5 from me.
I thought this was a great story. Not everything has to be written casually. This was a great insight into the mind of a real-life monster, an unapologetic, isolated, raging alcoholic. He blacked out, killed a hiker (she was probably in need of food, water, shelter, or all three), and does he call the police? Nope. He plans to eat her. And no one will ever know. Probably. The things this story didn’t say, but which lie beneath the surface, make it even richer. Bravo! :)
Is the narrator a werewolf?
This creates an entirely new aspect to the story. While this theory has flaws, it could work. Except, would he not rip through his clothes, especially gloves, when he transformed? It also did mention alcohol, so I think it’s safe to say it was the drink that caused him to do whatever he did, not a tranformation.
True. I only thought he might be a werewolf because he was talking about eating the body
Yeah, that left me puzzled too. Logically you would think something is up, and a werewolf isn’t that farfetched of an assumption. Realistically though, it’s simply down to poor story writing. There was absolutely no need to add cannibalism. It was over the top
the writing was too pretentious i couldnt finish it lol
Minor point of confusion: what kind of mischief can a drunk person get into if they’re alone? I honestly don’t get it. The narrator extensively alludes to their drunken debauchery and crazy partying, but how much trouble can you really get into when there are no other people? haha. He THOUGHT he had been alone–no idea yet that there was a woman that he killed. So why is he so sure that he did all kinds of terrible things in his drunken state? I would assume that the average alcoholic might drink and drink until they pass out. How many people go crazy and break stuff if they’re drinking alone?
Weird, hard to read and confusing ending. Is she dead or going to be dead because he will cannibalize her? And why is she limp? If she was dead she’d be frozen solid or in rigor mortise. And where wear her clothes? Too many unanswered questions. 6/10
Hmmm…
I wonder if he played rugby…
i just couldnt look past all the grammar and spelling errors, the ending was very predictable and some of things in the story didnt add up. i appreciate you giving this a shot! writing is not easy, 7/10 for trying, next time dont over think it!
Nice try but very typical and not well written.
WOW
Just a few niggling details that don’t add up; the woman was half naked, if she came from the “popular trail”, she would have been dressed for the weather, so where did the rest of her clothes go? And if it’s cold enough to see your breath, a dead body would be frozen, not limp (unless she hadn’t been dead long, but then why was he dressed in the same clothes from yesterday?, he had her blood under his gloves, so he took them off at some point, and then put them back on and passed out?). Unless she wasn’t actually dead, just unconscious as he described when he first saw her, but then he checks for a pulse and realized he killed her, so she must be dead….unless he means that he knows he’s going to eat her, so she’s dead either way….
I think the problem is only assumptions here; the rest of her clothes could have easily been removed during the time he cannot remember since, during that time, a woman entered his home and some struggle clearly occurred, resulting her her being bludgeoned. The dead body would only be frozen if she had been outside and dead the whole night (assuming it is cold enough to freeze an entire cadaver), given that her blood left a clear print upon his hand when he touched her, after removing his glove to check her pulse, I would say she probably hadnt been dead all night. On top of that, for you to see your breath outside, it just has to be cold enough to freeze the moisture in your breath, which doesnt take as much as you might think. He would be dressed in the same clothes as yesterday because most people who pass out from a hard drunk arent going to take the time to get undressed first.