(HSSC) Bailey's Story

Please note that this story may be a little disturbing for some readers. If I could put one of those parental advice warning stickers on it, I would.

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There is a knock at the door. Through the spy-hole I see a woman with a clipboard. She could be safe, but I can't be sure. Another knock - this time more persistent - harder, more forceful. What should I do? I pace for a couple of seconds then toss a coin: heads I answer, tails I don't... the 10p falls to the floor with the Queen in profile. I open the door.

"Hello?" I say.

"Hello, Mr. Bailey. I'm from the agency," she says looking at her clipboard. She presents me with an ID card. "May I come in please? It's about...."

She falls to the ground, her head ripped apart by the bullet, its pathetic remains spurt with blood. I look to the warm pistol in my right hand and grip the gun tighter. My arm aches with the joy of recoil and splattered blood covers my torso and face. Blood, glorious blood everywhere.

"Mr. Bailey? Are you listening? I said that I've come about your repayments. May I come in, please?"

"Yeah, sure. Sorry about the mess." She has a slender body for a woman her age. What is she, thirty? I can tell that she works out and she’s never had a baby - her tummy is too flat, her breasts too plump. And she was in my house! Joy of joys! I eagerly shut the front door.

She now sits on my sofa; her beautiful curved bottom on my upholstery, rubbing from side to side, across and around trying to get comfortable, always shifting her thighs ever so slightly. Her legs are crossed in such a professional, crisp manner that I can see her shins and no higher. Maybe her clothes are too tight for her (a size 10 in a size 8 dress?) but her body’s hard and bursting through. She’s begging me to rip open that jacket and get into the unseen, unsoiled skin behind her blouse. To linger in the darkness, searching for her light...

"Are you listening Mr. Bailey?"

"Yeah, sure. Look do you want a cup of coffee or something?"

"No thank you." Her voice is smooth like silk - honed with training and education and yet she lures me closer in, wrapping me in her cold, prudent voice. Fidget, always fidgeting. She’s nervous. I lick my lips.

"Mr. Bailey, do you understand that if you do not repay your debts within the next week, your possessions will be forcibly re-taken? There is nothing that the agency can do to stop the debt collectors any more."

"Perfectly understood, miss..."

"MRS. Fletcher..." Ah... married. And with a husband who can’t provide the lack and affection she so desperately wants. Needs.

"Now I understand you have resigned from your job at the factory. Are you receiving government support?" I sit on the sofa next to her. Fidget, fidget.

"Yeah...um. I mean no."

"You're not receiving benefit or you didn't resign."

"No I’m not receiving benefit and no I didn’t resign. Look, what are you doing tonight?"

"Excuse me?"

"I said, what are you doing tonight. It's a fair question I think. You've been asking all the questions so far. I think it's time that you answered a question for me."

"Maybe I should come back another time. You clearly need to think this over." She stands up and starts for the front door. Too slow. Far too slow. I grab her by the waist. She is so perfectly, wonderfully slim. I haven't felt a body as taunt and toned as this in years.

"Please take your hands off me..."

"I repeat. I only want to know what you're doing tonight."

"And if I tell you, then you'll let me go?" She squirms. What delicious wriggling in my arms.

"I promise." My right hand is riding up her skirt up her left thigh - up and up, higher and higher to the tip of her lacy, frilly underwear. I think it's white. It certainly feels like white. My hand grows damp from sweat at the top of her smooth, legs.

"Please let me go. I've got a meal to go to.” Crying. Lovely, delicate tears running down her cheeks. “It's my daughter’s 16th birthday tonight…” I put my hand over her mouth.

"Could you please let me go I promise..."

My fist knocks her down to the floor. How could she do that? How could she be so corrupt and impure? Jesus, to think she had eggs and sperm wandering inside her. I lift up her blouse so I can see for myself the sagginess in the breasts, the ugly scars around her stomach and the evil stain upon her soul. Repulsive, ugly whore.

She's still groggy so I hit her some more. How could she do this to me? She lead me on, pulling me in like a fish trapped on a rod, and then, this? If she'd only told me from the start that she was a common slut then I wouldn't have bothered. I wouldn't have even let her into the house. Why did she had to have a child and spoil it all?

Christ, I'll never understand women. Anyway, she isn't awake so I've got to decide what to do with her. For the moment, I'll tie her up and put a gag around her mouth.

I nearly vomit as I think of this old slapper dropping her pants down at every opportunity so some fat bastard can plant a nasty little foetus inside her belly. I'll have to find someone else. I'll have to.

There's her handbag on the floor. Well she's called Patricia and she's 33. Look's like she was pretty slutty as a teenager because Jennifer (and pretty damned ugly Jennifer from her photo) is going to have an unhappy sweet sixteen. Oh well, she'll have to live with it. Life is pain and misery.

Maybe I could tell her about mommy and all the nasty things I’m going to do to her. Let's see, a good girl like Jenny should be in school. With a face like hers, Jenny’s got to be a virgin. She’s too damned ugly to be laid. I bet she’s little miss unpopular too, having to party with her loser mom and dad to compensate for her lack of friends. Poor little lonely Jenny. Stop playing with your dolls, little girl. That's right, come and play with me...

[edit on 16-10-2005 by kedfr]

Hi Kedfr

Another great story. Although I must say - quite controversial as well. Are you familiar with the terms 'blank fiction' or 'dirty realism'? Nihialistic fiction of the late 90s, which uses violence to make a point about society: usually told by a very removed 1st person narrator. Books like Joyce Carol Oats' paean on serial killing - 'Zombie' (not about zombies but serial killers) and Brett Easton Ellis' - 'American Psycho', are just two examples.

In the whole scary/not scary mix-up, I forgot to say that our society's fears have changed much from the fears of say 100 or even 20 years ago - Stories like this, while disturbing and grotesque would qualify for scary.

Anyway, I liked this. Strange and physically unpleasant. The dialogue is very clean, slick and ‘almost’ humorous – flows really well. Baily is creepy and a twisted sicko to boot. I hope this is what you were aiming for.

I was intrigued by the child hatred thing - Is there another story/chapter to Bailey? Or are you just making us wonder?

Remind me never to go trick or treating by your house.


edit: When I say 'almost' humorous, I don't mean you failed to be funny but that it was funny despite being sick and twisted.

[edit on 17-10-2005 by nikelbee]

Hi kedfr,

This is a wonderfuly disturbing story. Of course being in the mind of a psycopath always tends to be disturbing ( ). I felt as if I were mr Bailey's long discarded conscience standing on the sideline helplessly watching. This passage made me feel as if I actually understood how his twisted mind worked:

She now sits on my sofa; her beautiful curved bottom on my upholstery, rubbing from side to side, across and around trying to get comfortable, always shifting her thighs ever so slightly. Her legs are crossed in such a professional, crisp manner that I can see her shins and no higher. Maybe her clothes are too tight for her (a size 10 in a size 8 dress?) but her body’s hard and bursting through. She’s begging me to rip open that jacket and get into the unseen, unsoiled skin behind her blouse. To linger in the darkness, searching for her light...

That is some great descriptive imagery there! In this sentence:

Look's like she was pretty slutty as a teenager because Jennifer (and pretty damned ugly Jennifer from her photo) is going to have an unhappy sweet sixteen.

I got confused as to what Mr Bailey meant by Patricia looking like she was slutty as a teenager, because I got the impression he was looking at a photo of her daughter. This story has great flow to it, and makes for a wild ride for the reader. I wish you good luck in the contest!

Thank you sylvrshadow for your kind words on my story. Incidently, editing - is probably the root cause for the minor slip-ups and inaccuracies in my sentences. The line you indicated should have made it clearer that the mother was a slutty teen as she had her daughter when she was only 16/17 but this was probably made vague and fuzzy during the editing process.

Nikelbee, I am aware of blank fiction but unfortunately I wasn't making any deep & meaningful comments on consumerism etc like American Psycho - I just thought it would be fun to write from the perspective of a sick little man. Incidently, this was originally slated as one chapter of an incomplete novel. I was never that happy with the other chapters (especially the ones that followed) but this one seemed to work pretty well on its own.

[edit on 27-10-2005 by kedfr]