“Miserable.” Chapter I

20 Jan

December 24, 2009

I drive my car to my friend, Wesley’s, house. I’m going a bit slower because of the ice. As I make a turn, though, I hit a particularly treacherous patch of ice and veer off the road. My car flips sideways up the road, then onto its back, then up a tree, then back down a tree, then into a river, then out of a river, then to a giant car shaped towel, then into a rock wall. I’m knocked unconscious.

I wake up being drug by a large, matronly-looking human, wrapped from head to toe in layers of winter clothing. It’s like that time my laundry got so dirty that it gained sentience and drug me to the laundromat to put it out of its misery. Concussed and nearing delirium, I close my eyes and fall to nothing once again.

I am taken to an old farm house in the middle of a snow-covered forest. I lay, bound, in what looks to have the falsely lived-in look of a guest bedroom. The inside of the house smells of antique furniture and the stiff, musky smell of an aged home.

“What smells like this much poop and this much doily?” I ask, moving my hands from a position far apart, then to one closer together.

“Oh! You’re awake!” A voice calls from down the corridor. A series of approaching footsteps soon follow. Momentarily, a large, moon-faced woman with a build like a refrigerator and the hair of a sixties house wife stands at the door. “Iron Kyle! I’m so glad you’re here!”

I attempt to rise up to make sex to this woman (as is my customary greeting when someone calls me by my internet name), but I’m strapped to the bed by a series of leather straps.

“What is this?!” I yell, struggling against my restraints.

“That’s just to keep you still while you’re healing. You got some pretty nasty injuries, Iron Kyle.” The woman has not moved from the doorway, as if she’s afraid of getting to close. She has a strange look on her face–a smile laced with a kind of bashful fear–she’s star struck.

I once again try to get out of the bed to pour my sex all over this mysterious maiden (as is my customary response when I star-strike someone), but the restraints halt my advance. “…I just need to find a w…I need to free my wiener…” I mumble to myself, surveying the straps.

“Iron Kyle,” the woman says, stepping into the room for the first time, “My name is Sandra Cullen.”

“Are you Edward’s mom?” I turn and wink at the camera. [Editor’s Note: Wait, is this a blog or a screenplay? What camera? Please specify.]

Sandra looks confused. “No, I’m afraid I’ve never been married. Never really been with a man, either.”

I give this woman a strange look. I struggle to get my hands close enough together to do a penetrating motion with my right finger and my left fist, then ask “‘Been with’ like this?”

She blushes. “Iron Kyle, you embarrass me!”

“I embarrass a lot of people,” I say, winking smugly at the camera. [Editor’s Note: Stop it.] A bit of dribble runs down my chin.

She’s walks to a small desk by the room’s only window, her back to me. She begins fiddling with something, then says “Iron Kyle, I have a confession to make. I am your biggest fan. I’ve read all of your blogs four or five times at least, I’ve read all your short stories, I went to see your play performed, and I have on my iPod all the music you ever wrote. Remember all those mornings when you came out to find your car mysteriously washed clean? That was me!”

“That was you?”

“Yea–,” she says, turning bright red and swaying girlishly.

“You know it’s breaking and entering when you smash the window of my garage to do that, right?”

She stands silent.

“I’m actually going to need some contact information for you. Those windows are really expensive and I–”

“SHUT UP!” She yells. “You shut your mouth!” Her demeanor is a mix of anger and severe disappointment. “I’ve heard that you artist/writer types can be egotistical little divas, but I never expected you to be like this!”

“Really? I kind of feel like that’s my most prominent personality trait.”

“I said shut up!” She steps forward and reveals what she’d been fiddling with at the desk: a syringe. She drives the needle into my neck and after a biting moment of pain, I fall asleep.

When I wake up, she’s craned my bed up so I’m in a sitting position. Sandra has also put a tray across my lap, which my hands are strapped to. There is a laptop on the tray, positioned just so my hands can reach the keyboard. My WordPress account is on the homepage.

“I brought you a computer so you could write! You can write more of your blogs!” Sandra says from the foot of my bad. She’s clasping her hands tightly together. She looks like a gigantic child on fair day.

I’m still struggling into the waking world, my words still garbled.

“No, no, Iron Kyle. It’s all forgiven,” she interrupts. “I’m not mad at you anymore. I want you to do me a favor, though.”

“What is it?” I ask. Sandra then steps forward and places a clammy, chubby hand on my arm.

“Well,” she’s now smiling with a nervous and expectant grin. “I’d like you to write a blog for me. I want you to do one with your friend Stephen King in it. I just love his character.”

“Character?” I ask. “Stephen King isn’t a character, Sandra. He’s a real human being.

She looks at me, confused, then stomps out of the room. I hear a childish, fitting scream from the hallway. A few seconds of silence follow, and when she enters again, red rings of moisture around her eyes.

“Put Stephen King in another blog.” She seems stolid and cold for a moment, then melts and returns to her false, bubbly self. “I miss him so much! He’s my favorite character!”

“HE ISN’T A CHARACTER!” I yell back. Sandra’s smile disappears and from her apron, she removes a copy of Bloodrayne.

“What uh…what are you going to do with that?” I ask. A pit of nerves opens in my stomach and a flash, somehow both hot and cold, runs over my body.

“We’re going to watch a movie. We’re going to watch a movie until you appreciate all I’ve done for you!” Sandra unplugs the laptop and moves it to a table across the room.

The TV is located at the foot of the bed on small chest of drawers. The DVD player sits atop the set like some foreboding king or seer.

“Don’t put that DVD in there, Sandra,” I say. “Don’t you do it!”

“OHHHHH yea!” She says.

“Why don’t you–” I start, but then she does a few pelvic thrusts, then something with her hands, and my protests are completely derailed. I stutter a few times then just stop talking.

Bloodrayne begins.

To be continued.

(Source Material)

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