"Bloody Lizzie" [NSFW]

This is an extension of the original “Bloody Lizzie.” It is absolutely not safe for work. It contains graphic violence and sex. It is an adult piece written for a splatterpunk-themed contest, and splatterpunk it is! Don’t read it if you’re uncomfortable with very serious thematic elements.

“Come on! What are you–chicken?” Sarah taunted. Bonnie laughed.

Lizzie folded her arms over her chest, but she couldn’t help but feel a little twinge of fear. She swallowed to push it back down into her stomach. “Bloody Mary isn’t real.”

“So what’re you scared of then?” asked Bonnie.

“There’s real stuff to be scared of out there,” she said. Like real life criminals and robbers. Like her dad, too. She remembered the sounds of shattering glass and the thuds of flesh against flesh. She heard them all through the paper-thin walls of the trailer she used to live in. He got real mad when he had his spells. He would throw plates at Mom and at Lizzie. Sometimes, he’d come into Lizzie’s room and call her names. Then he’d leave bruises on her and leave her crying and burning inside. Things were different now: Mom was married to a nice man named Allen, and they lived in a nice house.

“Then what’s the problem?” Bonnie asked again.

“I think she’s chicken,” Sarah repeated, pursing her lips and twisting a golden lock of hair around her ring finger.

“Chicken! Chicken!” they pressed.

Lizzie rolled her eyes. She wasn’t a chicken, and she would prove it. “Fine!” With blind determination, she marched into the bathroom.

“Do you have the lighter?” asked Bonnie.

“I thought you brought one,” said Sarah.

“Gawd!” said Lizzie, trying really hard not to lose her artificial strength of will. She searched through the cabinet under the sink and found a lighter and a mostly empty box of cigarettes in the corner, hidden behind a bottle of Drano and a collection of loose tools. When Mom and Dad were together, she used to smoke out in the open. Sometimes when she got really angry and she’d been drinking a lot she would put her cigarettes out on Lizzie’s butt. Now Mom hid in the bathroom to smoke and made sure to eat a whole packet of gum before Allen got home.

Sarah eagerly reached into the bathroom and fumbled for the light switch. She flipped it, and the bathroom went dark.

Lizzie lit the candles around the sink so that the only light in the small room flickered beneath her, leaving spooky, shuddering shadows on the ceiling and turning her silhouette in the mirror into a pale, ghostly mirage. Her long brown hair looked dull and gray in the dim light. She couldn’t see her brown eyes over the shadow of her nose. She could imagine Bloody Mary staring at her through the mirror, but she reminded herself that it’d just be her own reflection, warped by the candlelight and her struggling vision. If she saw something that wasn’t there, she’d recognize it as fake. Her dad could never do that. During his spells, he saw stuff and it made him psychotic–that’s what the doctors called it. They gave him meds to take, but he said his whiskey was better anyway.

“Remember, you can’t come out until you’ve said Bloody Mary three times,” said Bonnie.

“I know the rules,” said Lizzie, and she forced the door shut while Sarah and Bonnie giggled.

Dad was in the mental institution because he saw stuff and it made him crazy. Lizzie wasn’t crazy, she wouldn’t see anything, and she’d leave this bathroom braver than she walked into it. She knew that was true. And she began, “Bloody Mary.”

Lizzie heard giggles outside, then ghost-like oohs and aahs. Sarah and Bonnie were making fun of her. Lizzie sighed and stared at her own reflection. Again: “Bloody Mary.”

Suddenly there was a loud slam at the door. Lizzie jumped. She heard a squeal and a gurgle, and then felt the door shudder and jolt a few more times. “Stop it, you guys! This isn’t funny!” Lizzie looked back at her reflection and finished. “Bloody Mary!”

Lizzie yelled proudly at the door, “I did it! Nothing happened. I wasn’t scared!” She pulled the bathroom door open triumphantly. Something leaning against the door plopped wet and warm against her legs. A barefooted man in muddy white clothes stepped over two slumped shapes and into the bathroom. He had a screwdriver in his hand, and in the candlelight, she could tell that his arms were covered in something dark red. His head was bald and glistened under the amber hallway light.

Lizzie’s breath stopped cold. “Daddy?”

The man grinned and grabbed Lizzie’s arm. “We’re going home.”

Lizzie froze and looked at Sarah and Bonnie. They hadn’t had much time to struggle with her dad. He’d caught them by surprise–first getting Bonnie in the back of the neck. The screwdriver tore into her skin and through cartilage and nerves. She collapsed into a heap without much pain. Sarah, he’d grabbed and held close. Daddy had pressed his calloused hand against her lips so hard they had been ripped open by her teeth. Then he put the screwdriver to her neck and pushed it deep, feeling it touch and then crack through her windpipe. She’d gurgled in torturous pain as he turned it to widen the hole. She’d bled out in seconds. As Lizzie stepped over their bodies in shock, her white sneakers were getting sticky and wet and red.

“Where’s Mommy?” Dad asked.

Lizzie looked up at him, still in a sleepy stupor. “She’s asleep. She took some pills.” Allen wasn’t home though, and she prayed he wouldn’t come.

Dad smiled and held Lizzie’s arm tightly, his fingers leaving bruises as they left bloody footprints all the way to the master bedroom. He opened the door slowly with his left hand. The room was dark, the carpet a light beige, and the curtains closed. A thin sliver of streetlight cut across Mom’s chest.

Daddy put his index finger to his lips and pointed at a small chair by the mirror. “Sit.”

Lizzie did as she was told. The tiny chair was where Mom sat when she was putting on her make-up. Lizzie had tried to put on some of her mom’s make-up when she was younger. She’d made a mess, and Mom had taken her belt out and beaten her red. Allen walked in on them and yelled at Mom to stop it. He made her promise she’d never hit Lizzie again, or he’d call the police. That was the last time Mom had hit her, but she still gave Lizzie glances that made her butt and back sting.

Dad crawled onto the bed and covered Mom’s mouth. Mom’s eyes jolted open, and she started to struggle groggily because of the sleeping pills. “Shh,” Daddy said. With his right hand he pulled her nightgown up around her waist. With his left hand, he held her mouth closed and the screwdriver against her face. Mom wasn’t wearing any panties, and she wasn’t shaving either. Her cunt was black with coarse hair. Dad grinned and grabbed a fistful of her pubic hair, giving it a forceful yank and making a muffled scream pour out of Mom’s mouth.

Lizzie wanted to cover her eyes, but it didn’t work. Her hands weren’t obeying. First, Dad switched hands, letting the screwdriver feel its way across her belly and thighs. Mom was crying now, but not speaking. This was too familiar, Lizzie thought. When you’re used to something, you stop screaming. It was the same way with Lizzie. She only screamed the first few times that Daddy thrust his dick into her pussy. After that, she winced and whined a lot, but she tried to stay really quiet.

Then Dad slipped the screwdriver in her cunt, letting its tip part the lips before pushing it further in. He went slow at first, and then he pushed in hard. This was new, and Mom started to scream. Dad’s grin only grew wider as he pulled and pushed the screwdriver out and in, out and in, until blood soaked the sheets between her legs. Mom tried to fight back, clawing at Dad’s face and arms. Dad ripped her nightgown off and put his teeth around her right nipple, then he bit down. The fleshy knob fell into his mouth, and he swallowed it while Mom grabbed her tit and sobbed.

Lizzie turned around to face the mirror. Her dad was now running the screwdriver up her mom’s face, pressing its sharp end against her cheek. In her quietest voice, she whispered: “Bloody Mary.”

Dad pushed the screwdriver further up her cheek and let the tip run around her eyes. Mom reached up and gripped a chunk of Dad’s long brown hair. She desperately ripped a chunk of it out.

“Bloody Mary,” Lizzie said, a little louder.

Mom begged, “Don’t, baby. Please! Mommy told you she’s sorry!”

“Bloody Mary!” Lizzie yelled as loud as she could. Daddy pushed the screwdriver deep into one eye and turned it round and round. Then he pushed the screwdriver into the other eye. And when he was done, he held the screwdriver in the air and let it fall again and again on her face until Mom could only be recognized by the bloodied tattoo of a white rose over her mutilated nipple. The bed was wet and sticky, and it made a slush sound as Dad pulled himself off of Mom.

Lizzie looked at her mom’s body and reached out with her fingers. She wanted to touch her, but her arms were sore and bruised and there were scratches. She looked at her dad, unsure of what to do. He looked at back at Lizzie with brown eyes and licked some of the gore off of the length of the screwdriver’s shank. It was an ecstatic motion, and Lizzie felt sick and wet between her legs.

The chime over the door jingled. Allen was home. Dad put his blood-and-brain-soaked index finger to his lips and said, “Shh,” as he walked quietly towards the bedroom door. Lizzie ran ahead of him. Not Allen. He couldn’t hurt Allen. “Allen! Daddy’s here! Go away!”

“Lizzie?” he asked from the foyer with some confusion.

Dad frowned. “We’re gonna go home. You and me. Allen’ll keep us apart.”

Lizzie shut her eyes and shook her head hard enough to give her a headache. “No! Don’t hurt him!”

Allen started to trek up the stairs. “Lizzie, your father isn’t here. You know that.”

Lizzie cried, “Allen! Go away! I don’t want him to hurt you!”

Allen made it all the way up the steps. “Lizzie, your daddy died. Remember? We talked about this.”

Lizzie had told on her dad to one of her teachers. Allen. He’d called the police, and they’d come for him. Daddy had a spell and attacked a police officer, and his lawyer couldn’t get him put into a hospital instead of  a jail. They called him a child fucker in prison, and someone put a filed down toothbrush into his chest seven times. Mom had been relieved. Lizzie couldn’t help missing him a little. Sometimes, when Bonnie and Sarah would talk about their dad’s buying them presents, Lizzie would think about her dad and touch herself a little, letting her finger pass between the lips and tap on the bump along the top of her pussy.

Lizzie looked at her hands. They were covered in blood and translucent eye juices and bits of brain. Allen stood at the end of the hall, frozen and examining her, trying to understand what he was seeing. Lizzie let the screwdriver roll out of her left hand. “Daddy was here. I called Bloody Mary, and he came, and he tore up Mom’s face. And he killed Bonnie and Sarah. I saw it.”

Allen put a hand over his mouth. Behind Lizzie, he could see the two bodies of her best friends. “What did you do?”

Dad stood next to Lizzie and gripped her arm tightly. It was both painful and comforting. He grinned, teeth sharp and shiny. “We’re going home.”

Oh, Happy Days

My group continues to work towards making Happy Days a reality. My fellow writers’ submissions are trickling in, and it looks like we may, in fact, make our May first deadline. And, happily, I’ve been able to submit two stories I’d been working on a while: “The End of Callum Raynes” and “Bloody Lizzie.” The latter piece is splatterpunk and, therefore, so uncomfortable to read that at least one of our group members has bowed out. “Fireflies” and “In the Queue” are still getting their final tweaks, but they’ll be in by next week. I’m beginning to feel a little more accomplished, and a lot of this has to do with the approaching deadline.

The lack of deadlines makes it very difficult to give one a sense of accountability. The fact that Adrean said, “We’re not changing the deadline,” really made it clear that this wasn’t a game. Work is work, even when it’s fun. I’m one of those extremely fortunate people who absolutely loves the field in which he works. My “day job” isn’t just a day job. It’s the first rung in dream that I’ve worked very hard towards. But it’s unmistakable as work because I have responsibilities, others depend on me, and I have expectations to meet. That’s the difference between work and hobby. You can engage in a hobby whenever you want and put it down for however long you want with little to no consequences. Work can and should be the fun that you have in doing something that others depend on and that neglecting can lead to negative consequences for one or more people. I can thrive in that kind of environment.