Contemporary story
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Till Death Do Us Part

I scream my pain out from my gut as the last shrouds of sunlight fall from the earth and darkness wraps me in her embrace. My voice echoes off the canyon walls, coming back to me. I raise my arms, spread wide, and moonlight reflects off the sword in my right hand, setting a fairy of light to dance at my feet. Once more I release my ragged cry, letting it drag across my throat like a diamond on glass. I scarcely notice the pain, it is just one more wound among the many already on my body.

I am shirtless, and blood oozes from the numerous cuts that stripe my well muscled and well scarred chest. I spin, swinging the long blade of the sword out to gut an enemy who isn't there. As the curve of steel finishes its arc and stretches my arm back, I flash my left hand across my stomach. The blade of the short, strait razor bites deep and clean. There is no pain, but my howls break the surface of the night. I can hear the agony in the bouncing echoes of my voice.

I ache for the tears to come, but they stubbornly refuse. In three years I have been here three times. This is where I come to punish myself. This is the place I shed my blood in lieu of tears that my eyes won't cry. When the emotional heartache is too much to sustain, when I can no longer balance the world on my shoulders, this is where I come for release. The scars from my previous trips bear witness to the deeper and more painful scars on my heart.

Two years nine months and twenty-one days ago, that was when my first trip here was made. The night she was diagnosed. The doctors had said they would do everything in their power, but she was already in stage three cancer and the outcome didn't look good. After she fell asleep that night I got up and started driving, trying to make some sense out of the recent events. Somehow I had found myself here, screaming out to God at the injustices of this life. The only thing I had with me then was my old throwing knife. The blade was dull, and it ripped through my flesh more than it cut, but the blood that flowed from those wounds seemed to wash my anguish away.

The second time was three months ago. She had been loosing the battle from the beginning and after a while she slipped into a coma. I left the hospital that night knowing that I would end up here. I remember stopping at the house just long enough to retrieve the strait razor that I had here with me now.

The scars from that night had still been red and jagged when I arrived here an hour ago. I've lost a lot of blood this time though, enough so that the dusty ground seems permanently stained. I know, however, that within a week it will all have disappeared. Blood or no blood it was just dust on the wind. I try to scream again as the razor winds down my side, bouncing off my ribs, but there is no sound. My voice is gone. It's time to go.

Before I climb into the '72 Vette she got me as a Christmas present our second year together, I look around at the canyon one more time and, with barely a thought, draw even red lines on my cheek bones with the razor. Inspiration hits me suddenly and, after opening the car door, I take the long blade of the sword and sink it almost to the hilt in the hard earth. That done, I climb back into the car and start the drive out. The engine growls as I step on the gas pedal, and tires squeal in protest as I continue to accelerate despite the ever sharpening curves. The open gas cans in the back slosh their remaining contents all over the seats and floorboards. Burning the house hadn't been as difficult as I would have imagined. It had caught quickly, and I was sure it would burn to the ground before anyone arrived to try and extinguish the blaze.

I glance down at the accelerator as I hit the only strait section of the old canyon road. It reads 75mph and I frown painfully, causing my cheeks to start oozing fresh blood over the crust of the older gore. I set my foot on the accelerator and push it as far toward the floor as I can. There is a brief pause before the car leaps forward like a large cat after prey. By the time the 90 degree curve comes into view the powerful engine is hurtling the car's steel frame to a mind numbing 130mph.

'I told you I couldn't live without you.' I say as the car leaps off the road.

As I sail airborne down the embankment I have just enough time to wonder if the gas in the back will ignite before I see the ground rushing up at me.

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Average: 5 (1 vote)

Comments

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This was a chilling and somewhat disturbing account of the emotional state of a man in the throes of dispair. Technically, the story was very good and employed many rhetorical techniques which added to the sense of wonder and amazement at this man. However, to me it could have done with more development of character. I know this was a particularly short story, but I think the adding of length and some detail would have made the ending even more stunning and real when it did come.

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great story

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I would have to say that this story is really really good. I just happened upon it and it was touching because its something Ive been through and thought about just never had the guts to take the final "plunge" (no pun intended)

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Writers are told to write about things they know. Mr. Kramer must know this pain to be so deeply descriptive right down to the soul. An excellent extreme story with many original and very disturbing qualities.

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Great story. I enjoyed the lack of detail in an artistic manner, it leaves an impression of someone who doesnt care enough to notice "small talk". If I were a publisher, however, I would not get past the first sentence before filing it in the trash bin. It seems somewhat like a first draft to me, too many references to your chest and gut. Also, I dont really get why there is a sword and a straight-razor, but it could add a nice zing to the story.

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I felt that it was rather poorly written with too much of the narrator stopping to almost tell about why he was mutilating himself. In an attempt to sound deep and meaningful the author just said she when he was talking about the women that that man was with and it really through off the whole story because of how phony it was.

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I understand the point of the sward. He is fighting and enemy that is not there. HE is fighting his womans illness. I know what this writer means because I am the woman with the lover that hurts. Not cuase I am dieing but we went through a seperation and that is how he responded. Cutting is not to hurt but to let the hurt out. To bad the cutters never think of who they are hurting when they cut.

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This story seemed very pretencious and over-the-top. Not only is it cliche (I told you i couldnt live without you, please) but its just not believeable or sincere, (before i climb into the 72 vette blah blah blah). This story sounds like pulp rhetoric crafted towards bored housewives.

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For all its graphic detail, I dont think the story really penetrates the feeling of true grief and despair. Its a rather bombastically superficial exercise in gratuitousness. Were never really let in past the actions of the narrator--never let into his mind in any significant way.

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Why did someone write a comment to say I have not read it? Now THATS weird. This one I really hate. If youve known grief youll know this isnt it. Also, one minute he screams out in pain then he tells us there is no pain? And so it goes on and just gets worse.

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truly a great story. I believe such elements such as the description of character are not as needed as others approach. The story deals with the authors view upon suicide. During quick irrational decisions like such it is not as neccessary to describe the basic elements but to get the authors message across using quick, and touching description. "a well muscled chest"=weakness SjP

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Did nothing for me. Tired and easy writing, a half-dozen syntactical or spelling errors, and, frankly, whats the point? A man loses his wife, he wants to commit suicide. Super original. Really. Overly bloody, repetitive, and dull.

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I dont understand how this rates a 5. You know what makes me feel like screaming? The spelling -- yes, it does make a difference. Its "losing" not "loosing," and "straight" not "strait." Aside from that, the whole narcissistic self-pity thing really grates.

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Yikes. This isnt good. Is this really a line?: "Blood or no blood it was just dust on the wind." Its as if that line were stolen simultaneously from "Bill & Teds Excellent Adventure" and any of the Deathwish movies. The story gets an A for effort, since the character is clearly trying to communicate a difficult set of feelings, but I would caution this author to develop his ear a bit and to avoid cliches, and thats for a start. How is this a "featured" story? Does this site have no editors?

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This story can be best described as David Eddings meets misunderstood teenage goth with self-mutilation fantasies, inspired by watching Thelma and Louise whilst listening to Sisters of Mercy albums backwards. "The only thing I had with me then was my old throwing knife" ? Where did the guy get a throwing knife from? Did he invent a time machine? Sorry, but this is poor.

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Very interesting, I was intreged from the beginning to the end. Very powerful ending left me wondering the symbolism for quite some time. Im currently writing a Literary Analysis on it. More background is my only critique. Great story.

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Too many suddenlys and similar wordings. Irritating personification of the car, worked to hard trying to create an image which had no texture, depth or intrigue. The main aim here is to make one care for the character, that I did not.

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The key character in this story seems convinced that masochistic torture will relieve him of his inability’s to move on after his tragic loss which has left him perpetually traumatised. When mere tears do not suffice he cuts himself with a knife to release his tension but that is still not enough so he kills himself, yet the problem remains unsolved. They are still departed. A well told story with plenty of self-pity to boot. Keep up the good work.

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the thing about the 72 Vette mumbo jumbo really gets on my nerves but other than that i think this story deserved the rating it got, its really hard for a writer to express what they are feeling especislly on this subject:-)

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I can feel the anguish of this character. I can see the hurt and I get a great picture in my mind of his actions and the end result. I have no problems with any of your me cliché’s. I thoroughly felt the deep hurt and pain of the characters loss. A truly admirable story. Very well written. My compliments.
And to whomever said this:
“[For all its graphic detail, I dont think the story really penetrates the feeling of true grief and despair.]” ß What then would you call it? – Excitable enjoyment? Sheeesh

^Rob

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I think this story is good one reason is because the detail is extremley good and the writing is aslo not that hard to read.This book would probally be suitable for someone of the ages from 12+,its a very detailed book,and describes what actually happens in a good way.

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