Forum threads for my short stories.

So this is my first piece of writing in a long time.

This story may not be to many peoples taste, but I have no plot, I am seeing where it goes, I am just writing this to help get my writing skills up a little. I struggled to even start this never mind anything else. Sad times.

So please, even if it's not your thing please read to give me so desperately needed critique.

Also, I have no title. My stories will most likely go under numbers until they are finished, so this is numero uno!

Thanks in advance! ^^v HN

So you may remember this one if you read it last time. I'm fairly certain this is the unedited one so as usual critique is most welcome. Wanted, actually. Thanks in advance for reading ^^v

---

Being Human

   In the distant background an ambulance roared. The fridge constantly murmured and the dishwasher occasionally groaned back. The paint had given up on looking pretty and had started peeling. Washed a thousand times over, the wooden laminate flooring had started to fade, each board white around the edges. Dust gathered on any available surface. Food, long past its use-by date, sat in an almost empty fridge, green with mould. Dishes sat in a limescale coated sink. The smell of rotting flesh had already violated the rest of the house. It wouldn't be long before the decaying body would be discovered. She lay in the corner of the kitchen, a sinister statue of the once-beautiful girl. Her legs were sprawled out at an awkward angle around her; her arms limp and bruised by her sides; palms caked in her own blood. Her long, autumn brown hair hung dank and greasy around her face. Her now dull blue eyes stared into nothingness. A deep festering welt, like a hungry mouth, hung open from her neck to her bosom exposing the blood-washed, crushed bone beneath the skin. The weapon, a cleaver, lay barely a foot away. The violent scene seemed frozen in time. He had charged at her like a raging bull, unable to contain his anger.

   She ran. What else could she do? There was no escape. He had blocked the door and had the key. She was stuck, alone in this place. And he was hot on her trail.
   “Where are you, you little witch! Where did you go?” he screamed at her, “I know what you've been doing!” his heavy, rhythmic footsteps
beat against the floor like a drum, like a heartbeat. Her breath came quicker, almost too quick. Sweat coated her back. She was terrified.
He wasn't meant to be in tonight. “I will find you!” his threat was clear.
   She moved into the bedroom. The wardrobe was too obvious. So too was under the bed, but they had a great chest lying at the end of the bed almost big enough for a man. She was small, and only a little overweight. It was a tight fit but one she was willing to take. She
knew anything else would be suicide.

   The bed was flipped on its side, the frame shattered. The mattress was ripped open, the springs and cotton hanging out, trailing along the floor like bleached intestines. The wardrobe door was hanging on its hinges, broken. The mirror crumbled into nothingness. Smashed drawers littered the floor, clothing ripped and spread around like pooling blood. Small trinkets and pieces of jewellery were left scattered over any remaining stable surface, and the less fortunate were left trodden on into the carpet. A large wooden chest lay on its side, lid fallen open revealing all its secrets. The signs of struggle were clear. The eeriness of the room was almost tangible. Almost.

   “I know you’re in here,” His voice was barely above a whisper, and falsely sweet. She barely breathed. The rubbing of his jeans, his
footsteps suddenly much softer. He had become a hunter, she the prey. A slam and glittering smash. He was at the other end of the room. A couple of more footsteps. There was the grating of wood against wood as the bed was heaved and crashed onto its side. He screamed.
   “Where are you, you little dirty bitch!” His temper heightened, she panicked. She didn't think he would destroy the room. She thought he would just look, and maybe not think to look in the chest. But he was destroying the place. There was no way she wouldn't
get caught. Her heart beat quicker than a hummingbird's wings. He was going to hurt her again, and there was nothing she could do. Only this time it would be worse. This time she had run.
   His breath had turned ragged, but from rage or exertion she did not know. He moved, only indicated by slight shuffling, muffled through the thick wood.
   “Was I not good enough?” he whispered, voice calm, “Did I not give you everything? Why did you do it Caz? I love you.” She hardly breathed, a little hope starting to fill her heart. He might just leave. He might storm out. He might just let her go.
   Blinded. The lid had been thrown open. He wasn't going to let her go. He bent down over her, his face covered in sweat. His hazel eyes were showing too much white; his dark – normally groomed – hair was a mess. Nothing like the man she knew. His grin set a chill down her spine. The hunter had ended the hunt. His hand, massive and claw like grabbed her wrist. He could have broken it if he had tightened his grip.
   “I found you.” He was so utterly pleased with himself. “I knew I would. And we're going to leave,” his voice turned a higher pitch. She thought he'd gone insane. She didn't know he had. He jerked her up, too roughly and wrenched her arm for her socket. She screamed unintelligibly, her shoulder on fire.
   “Shut up,” He roared, “You think that's anything compared to what you've done to me, you little whore?” His voice was laced with hatred, and it stung her like poison. Not letting go, he dragged her out of the wooden box, tipping it as he did, the edge catching the back of her knees. She fell to the floor. Hope had been ripped from her. She just wanted this over.
   He grabbed her arm tighter, and heaved her to her feet. The pain shot throughout her body, like liquid fire being poured along her nerves. He ranted, talking to himself as he dragged her, as she couldn't keep up. She didn't hear it though. It took all her concentration not to pass out – her vision was already starting to darken around the edges. She hadn't noticed where she was until the bright light of the kitchen assaulted her eyes. He had always preferred a brighter room. He threw her to the floor.
   “Now, just stay there,” he spoke as if talking to a deer, ready to bolt. She just wanted it to be over. Using what little strength she
had, she pushed on her good arm and got up. This was the time to be strong.
   “No,” She said simply.
   And that was all it took.
   He screamed, roared profanities at her, launched towards the drawer next to the sink. His temper had hit a new level. His eyes were
impossibly wide, his face flushed so much with blood it looked more purple than red. His hand wrapped around the blade, carving into his
fingers. He yelled louder. He yanked it out the drawer, took one step and sliced down. She tried to flee. She didn't feel anything at first. She was too shocked. It had seemed too surreal. She tried moving to the door but the wooziness was too strong now. She fell against the wall, and her legs could no longer hold her. She slid down, not even caring how uncomfortable the position was. Blood trailed behind her.
   Her vision faded and her breathing stopped.
   And she was left alone.