Hi everyone! I posted the first drafts of this series a year ago, and now I'm finally posting the 4th edits of my dark romance, The Art Murderers. I plan on posting the chapters once a over the next week - seven chapters in all. It's a ~60 page read in all. Please, if you review this chapter, consider reviewing the others. I will PM you when a new chapter is posted.
If you see any grammar or spelling errors, please mention them. I know it's frustrating dealing with unedited posts, but I've already edited this work twice over, so there should be very few errors! I really want to hear your opinions! Like, don't like, your feelings about the characters, etc.
Thanks a ton for the reviews and feedback in advance!
PS: If you enjoy this, please take a second to check out my site http://joeduncko.com/ . Just the visit helps motivate me!
Chapter 1
Dexter ran down the stairs, fully aware of the fact that he was late for school. As he passed the living room TV, he couldn't help but stop and admire the gore flashing on the screen.
“Yet another victim of the 'art murderers' has been discovered, the thousandth this year. From these photos you can see that these self-dubbed 'Arterers' have only increased in gruesomeness and heartlessness and are growing even more so by the month. They are expanding their influence and increasing in numbers constantly. Unlike cults and gangs who gain members via word of mouth, the Arterers have taken to the internet, constantly posting photos of their dismembered victims on popular image boards, both anonymously and under pseudonyms. Many citizens feel trapped in their own homes as they hear about their neighbors being murdered by-” click.
Dexter's father stood up from his big red Lay-Z-Boy chair, turning around. He stood several inches shorter than his six foot tall son and smiled heartwarmingly. His deep black shirt and pair of pants, was completed by pistol and a taser. His uniform almost made him blend into the early morning shadows. “Why, good morning. Shouldn't you be at the bus stop?”
Dexter swiftly slipped his cellphone out of his pocket, checking the time. “Shit!”
Dexter's father chuckled to himself as he watched his son hastily grab a cereal bar from a cabinet and barrel out the door at full speed, slamming it behind himself. He couldn't help notice how old his son was now. How good of a person he had become. He sat back down, letting the surge of pride evaporate.
Dexter's long legs propelled him down the street and up the stairs into the bus seamlessly, but he puffed from exhaustion as he walked down the isle. Attempting to to adjust the strap of his bag on his shoulder, he lifted his arm up, accidentally bumping someone with his dully spiked wrist band. Dexter fell into his seat in the far back of the bus, "Fuck off, freak" ringing in his ears.
The ride to school was short lived, as Dexter was not only the last stop but also resided within walking distance of the school. But walking to school required waking up fifteen minutes early, which was just not worth losing the sleep in Dexter's eyes.
As the bus screeched to a stop dust bunnies and empty bottles tumbled to the front of the vehicle, and soon the students followed.
Though he had already been in high school a month and a half, the humongous doors of the building still intimidated Dexter. However, it no longer stopped him in his tracks and made him consider ditching. Instead, he shoved through the entranceway, diving into the shining abyss of florescent lights, reflective linoleum floors, and greyish-purple lockers lining every wall.
Dexter tried his damnedest to keep his head held high as he walked the halls. He learned quickly that upperclassmen would only bother you if you bother them, and other first-years will only hound on those they saw as vulnerable. It was better people think he was a douche than to relive his middle school years as “that emo pussy”.
Dodging a few glares, he made his way down the hall until he came across Lucas digging through his locker. The boy of average height boy looked puny in comparison to Dexter. "Hey Luke."
Lucas turned around, change jangling in his baggy blue carpenter jeans. Luke had a mechanic look to him. He always wore skin-tight shirts and loose jeans that were usually stained, torn, or both. Even his hair was a gritty dirty blonde. By just looking at him one would think he worked on cars all day, but Dexter knew better; the stains were from his home made liquid computer cooling system, the tears and frays were from carelessness, and instead of working on engines he wove code into websites in his free time. "Hey, 'sup Dex?"
"Nothing really.” Dexter smirked. “You see the new wave of works from yesterday? They were even on the news."
"Yeah, they're everywhere on the 'net, even on my small image boards. It's amazing how fast those pics spread," Luscas said, doing some math in his head to calculate how much bandwidth the images stole from his server.
"Yeah, it is." Dexter's voice suddenly grew energetic. "It's amazing what the Arterers have been doing lately. It's no wonder everyone's been posting them."
Lucas grumbled under his breath. "Amazing's right. Amazingly disgusting."
"Hm?" Dexter angled his head.
"Nothing, I just don't like all those images on my boards. If it wasn't for all the traffic they bring in I'd delete them." Lucas carefully chose his words, not wanting to offend his image editor who was an admirer of the gruesome “artists”.
"I guess I understand. Some of the visitors they bring are complete trolls. But the pictures themselves add a... beauty to the site that's hard to recreate."
"Not only that. Sometimes I feel like I'm partly responsible for the murders by just hosting images of them..." Lucas watched Dexter's features for changes,then quickly decided to change subjects. "Anyway, how are those new buttons coming along?"
Dexter's one track mind worked to Lucas' advantage. "Not bad. I'm almost done. You have so many that need redone that it's more time consuming than anything."
"I know. Sorry for trying to rush you."
"It's no problem.” Dexter said. Then he bent his neck, pointing his eyebrows down the hall. “I should get going, though. I haven't even hit my locker yet."
Lucas dived deeper into his cubby, raising his free hand as a signal. “'Kay, see ya',” replied his echoing voice.
Dexter made his way to his own locker, taking various books, binders, and folders and stuffing them into his bag, then walked in to his homeroom, slumping in his seat in the corner, away from his peers, whom swarmed together like bees, buzzing about freshman sports and drama. No one acknowledged his presence.
Simply put, school was a drag for Dexter. He found that sitting before a teacher who pretended to be a know it all in their respective subjects with twenty people who either treated him badly or completely ignored him was not a pleasant position to be in. He would often doodle within his notebooks, watch the world through a window pane, or fantasize of doing something - something cool and exciting, something that people would admire or would effect their lives or made them think - instead if paying attention to his instructors. He wanted to leave so badly, but he felt there was no place for him, at least that he knew of. The internet was the closest thing he could find to a getaway; at least there were people who understood him there.
Despite this, Dexter maintained above average grades, and even managed to remember several facts he learned in class that could help him in the future, though he was never sure how he managed it. As long as his sponging of knowledge kept his grades at his parents' standards, it didn't matter what strategy he used or how much effort he put in.
Admittedly, there was one exception to the student body that otherwise tormented Dexter. Her name was Darcie, the girl that sat in front of him the last period of the day.
Darcie, who was often called "Darkcie" or just "Dark" by several people Dexter didn't know, was about a foot shorter than Dexter. In all ways other than height, though, she was very similar to Dexter. She dressed almost constantly in black and white and had dyed her hair the colour of the midnight sky. Her hair style changed from gothic outfit to gothic outfit, as did her makeup. The little girl's body was even just as skinny and her skin just as sun deprived as Dexter's.
Nobody knew, or at least nobody admitted to Dexter to know, what she did in her free time or what her hobbies or interests were. They all, though, recognized her constant smile and addictive good mood. Even when she was made fun of the first few weeks of high school she never stopped smiling, which threw off bullies and upperclassmen. She was now never, or at least rarely, made fun of. This positive attitude was something that negative and depressing - not to mention still bullied - Dexter admired.
The final bell rang and everyone began putting their books away. For not the first time Dexter considered talking to the girl he hadn't quite admitted to himself he had a crush on. He knew it wouldn't take much; she had began various conversations with him in the hall before and he didn't have much of an issue talking to her. However, beginning the conversation with a simple "Hi" knowing that your goal was to build up to "Would you please go out with me?" was a whole other story.
He glanced at her again as he packed away his school materials, watching her walking out the door. Another day, he told himself, It could always wait until tomorrow.
Dexter decided that it would be better to walk home. Not only did he avoid any possible confrontation on the bus, but there was no real reason to not. Dexter never had appointments, or large sums of things to do, so the fifteen minutes were just a few of the many he had to spare. As for the weather, it was a blustery fall afternoon. No sun, not too warm, not too cold; just perfect for someone who rarely went outside on his own accord.
Dexter arrived home t be greeted by the aroma of his mother's cooking. Most would agree that three or so was too early to start dinner, but Dexter's mother believed that slow cooking meals was the key to great taste. Every day she would come home from work a little before three - one of the benefits of being an elementary school teacher - and throw together a meal and pop it in the oven at low heat. By the time six rolled around the meal would achieve its maximum taste and be served. Even Dexter had to admit that his mother's creations were amazing.
"Hey honey, how was school?" Dexter's mother pulled off her oven mitts and stored them away in a drawer.
Dexter pulled the hood off his head and took the bangs out of his eyes. "Same as always. Nothing really happened that's worth mentioning.” Dexter turned his attention to the various pots and plates, attempting to piece together the answer of the age old question: “What's for dinner?"
"Ribs,” his mother answered, “I used a few different sauces this time so we can choose the best. I just have to remember which is which."
"Sounds good.” Dexter adjusted the strap of his bag, wanting to shed his burden as soon as possible. “Well, I'll be in my room. Just yell if you need anything."
"Okay sweetie. I'll be reading in the living room until your dad comes home," she called after him, her smile never faltering.
As an only child, Dexter had become somewhat attached to his parents. He recognized them as caring and open minded; much more than the average mother or father. They respected him, and for that he respected them in return. To them, it didn't matter how Dexter dressed. He was still their son, and they knew that he was simply expressing himself, the same way people express themselves through painting or writing. Expression through one's own visual appearance.
When Dexter was little he was often bullied for being different. His parents were the only people he really talked to, and they talked to him freely. They gave him support and told him he was a good son while his peers tore him down and told him that he was, for some alien reason, a terrible person; a freak. For that, he was very grateful.
Since Dexter aged into a teenager his parents tried to keep a respectable distance from his school life, but they still were aware of his social situation, so they gave him as much support as possible. Truthfully, they didn't understand him. Dexter, his mom, and his dad all knew this, but they let him be himself, and for that he loved them.
Dexter was growing bored of creating images for Lucas. His site, which was like a cross between a forum and an anonymous message board, required new navigation bar buttons, new emoticons, and more. His work was becoming as tedious as reading his to do list when he glanced over at the time at the bottom right of his screen. It was six o'clock. Relieved, Dexter saved his progress then journeyed to the kitchen.
Dinner itself was a quaint experience for Dexter. Every day the three person family would sit at the small dining room table and enjoy their meals while discussing their respective days, plans for the future, and past accomplishments. For most teenagers this would be torture, but it was different for Dexter. He found talking with his parents interesting, and enjoyed the accolades he was given when he told of a good grade he had received or of an artwork he had completed.
When dinner was completed and everyone finished sharing what they wanted Dexter aided his parents in washing, drying, and shelved the dishes before returning to his room, awakening his custom-built desktop computer with a tap of the space bar.
Even though both his parents worked money was not something that Dexter's family had an exess of. His father was a police officer and his mother a public school teacher; two local government jobs hit hard by the recession. Funds were becoming tighter and tighter as the months went by.
Priorities were needed, so instead of wasting his allowance on trivial events and outings, Dexter purchased his own clothes, accessories, and art supplies. Those three categories were the center of his existence. Through his triad of expression, Dexter released bits and pieces of his soul into the world. Well, at least the internet. He spent countless hours digitalizing and perfecting his works. However, if left to his own devices, his technology wouldn't even be there.
He was lucky Lucas made a decent amount from his websites, so all the work Dexter did was repaid for in hardware for his desktop. Usually they were parts Lucas did not want or need anymore, but that was more than enough for what Dexter did on his machine. Lucas was also the one who purchased all the image editing software that Dexter used for his hobby, which was awfully expensive.
On a whim, Dexter minimized the sketch he was adding color to and launched his internet browser. He opened up several image boards in different tabs and began scrolling through. He stopped at one exceptionally bloody picture, reading the attached text.
"He was the first and, if my rival artists don't leave our territory, he won't be the last."
Everyone knew it was just a matter of time until one arterer killed another, but Dexter never expected it to be so close to home. The man in the picture, who was beyond being recognizable as a human, let alone a man, had a sharp crystal embedded in his forehead, the “signature” of a famous art murderer known as "Crystal". His or her territory was the hundred miles surrounding Dexter's town. Crystal rarely murdered, but with the recent tension of all the artists joining up together in various "guilds" and threatening each other constantly she cracked.
The only thing that came out of these rivalries that mattered to Dexter was the art. Oh, how he loved the art. The medium's blood splattered masterfully around the scene, organs strewn about, limbs cut off and sewn back on in different places, intestines weaved together in spider web like designs; for some reason unknown to the boy, he loved it.
Of course, in his defense, Dexter enjoyed all forms of expression. But it was always the darker stuff that got him, and there was nothing darker than an art-murder. No, he didn't want to be an arterer. He hated hurting people, both mentally and physically; killing was far out of the question to him. His consciousness screamed as he admired the corpses, but he had become immune to it long ago. Looking at the gore was his guilty pleasure, one that he lost himself in into the late hours of the night.
Dexter was too enticed to hear the door close behind his father as he left the house, alone, at two o'clock in the morning. The door didn't budge again that night.
To chapter 2 -->
I don't think they even have their own hopes and desires or places to go in the novel -- they just seem like paper thin characters that are far too patient and understanding to be believable, and this is another place for conflict, as I'll mention later. UNLESS, and it's hard to know because I haven't read the other chapters. UNLESS they turn out to be Arterers themselves, I see no reason to make them appear like the perfect family. UNLESS it's a big sham (in which case, make them creepily perfect!) then please roughen them round the edges at least?
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