He stumbled into his home, his head was now buzzing with thoughts. Guilt, shame, stupidity, they all bore their marks on him. He yanked open a cupboard door and pulled out a bottle of scotch. He yanked open another cupboard and got a glass. He set the glass on the table and screwed off the cap of the scotch. He poured it messily into the glass until it was overflowing. He drank greedily, enjoying the burn that only seemed to emphasize the lump he felt in his throat. "I'm breaking down." he thought to himself. He poured himself another glass of his poison, drinking it again. Again and again he poured himself glasses, his throat felt as if it were tearing apart. Soon he was guzzling down the scotch from it's bottle, trying to escape from the reality. For so long he only lived in his little world, but suddenly that night that world almost ended. He stood up, knocking the chair he was sitting on over with a swift motion. He stumbled into the bathroom. His shaky hand flipped on the switch. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was now starting to feel a slow rage boil up inside of him. "Why do you even care!?" he shouted at his reflection. "You don't care! It's fucking death! You want it!". He was now filled with anger, his face red, his breaths heavy, in and out. "Fuck!" He shouted. His fists were clenching. He looked at his reflection and it only angered him more. With a sudden impulsive rage, he punched the mirror. Shards stuck in his knuckles. Blood trickled down his hand as they oozed from the sliced skin of his right hand. He didn't care about the pain. In the mirror was only a fragmented man looking back at him. Not bothering to remove the shards, he stormed out of the bathroom and into his room. He completely removed the drawer from his nightstand, his increasing rage making his use of force stronger and more irrational. He pulled out a pistol from the drawer and raised it to his head. "It's what I fucking want," he yelled. "Pull the trigger," he said, as if he was trying to order his finger with his words. "I fucking want this," he yelled again, but more softy. He was becoming weaker and weaker every time he tried to prove to himself he wanted death. One last time he said, "I want to die." it was almost a whisper as he choked out the words. His hand holding the gun dropped, his fingers releasing their almost nonexistent grip on the handle. He collapsed crying, his life had finally caught up to him. For so long he considered himself dead. He substituted everyone else's life for his death. He couldn't do it himself. He was insane, he knew it. No matter how he tried to escape the reality he now couldn't. He'd killed five people, and killed numerous others in those acts. He took their lives, and he couldn't even will himself to take his own. Life was something he couldn't let go of. He wanted so badly to live as long as he could. How could he have been so blind? So many thoughts bombarded him. "I want to live. I want to be normal. I want to be everyone else. I want to live.". His words faded away as his whisper grew into nothing. He had passed out on the floor. Depleted of all will to attempt escape from truth.
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125,024 Literary Works • 672,762 Reviews
Oooooooh, tension! I think its great. The raw emotion is unsettling and exciting. I want to know more about this story and what's going on in this dude's life.
But first is first, I'm not sure if this is because you submitted from your iPod, but its a new line at the beginning of a quote. As for the plot, its a bit cliche, but I'm sure with the background knowledge from the rest of your story it will fill the rest in. The begining feels a little bit akward to me, because of you describing every little detail of him pouring the drink. I know that your main character has a temper, that he's depressed and angry, but I don't get a good feel of him through his actions (Besides, of coursethe screaming and punching) I'd like to hear about him scowling, or looking of into space or his nervous twitchy fingers or something to that effect.
Anyway, I enjoyed reading it and I hope you keep working at this story.
Hi, PenNPaper here to review!
It should be a comma instead of a period. As the next word is in small letters.
You are using the wrong form of the word. 'It's' is a contraction for 'it is'. 'Its' is the possessive form of it. Don't be confused by the two.
Please break this down into paragraphs. I absolutely hate it when people post their stories as one whole big chunky paragraph. It's also extremely confusing. Overall this story was pretty good. I could feel the story kind of come alive. Keep up the good work.
Good luck and keep writing, bye!
[quote="13timmy24"]He stumbled into his home, his head was now buzzing with thoughts. Guilt, shame, stupidity, they all bore their marks on him. He yanked open a cupboard door and pulled out a bottle of scotch. He yanked open another cupboard and got a glass. He set the glass on the table and screwed off the cap of the scotch. He poured it messily into the glass until it was overflowing. He drank greedily, enjoying the burn that only seemed to emphasize the lump he felt in his throat.quote]
Okay, I believe you are using way too many short sentences. He was this... period. He was that... period. He did this. He did that. We get the picture, but you need to use more sentence variety. Combine some sentences, and use words other than "he" all the time. This part just really showed how many "he"'s there were, but I would revise this story for this too.
I don't mean to sound too... I don't know... bossy or mean, but this is just what I saw. Anyways, love the story! Keep on writing!
Its interesting so far, but it was a block of unreadable mess, a couple times I got lost.
Since I only review story this review will probably quite short.
I like the character you've created, when you find out what he has done you know that he is bad but also feel sorry for him because of his madness or whatever. You've given the reader reason to read on to find out about what he's running away from, other than the people he killed of course which seem to haunt him.
It looks like an interesting story and respect for making such a crazy character your protagonist.
Yes, I had a feeling something like that had happened. ^^
I submitted it from my itouch (where I write all my stuff) so I guess it got messed up, it wasn't a huge chunk of text in the notepad
It's looking too big to read at one go. Split it into paras..
GAAHHHHH ONE BIG BLOCK OF UNREADABLE TEXT!! +(
He stumbled into his home, his head was now buzzing with thoughts. Guilt, shame, stupidity, they all bore their marks on him. He yanked open a cupboard door and pulled out a bottle of scotch. He yanked open another cupboard and got a glass. He set the glass on the table and screwed off the cap #8040FF ">of the scotch#804040 ">Unnessacery.. He poured it messily into the #80BFBF ">glass#BF0040 ">A different word maybe? until it was overflowing. He drank greedily, enjoying the burn that only seemed to emphasize the lump he felt in his throat. "I'm breaking down." he thought to himself. He poured himself another glass of his poison, drinking it again. Again and again he poured himself glasses, his throat felt as if it were tearing apart. Soon he was guzzling down the scotch from it's bottle, trying to escape from the reality. For so long he only lived in his little world, but suddenly that night that world almost ended. He stood up, knocking the chair he was sitting on over with a swift motion. He stumbled into the bathroom. His shaky hand flipped on the switch. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was now starting to feel a slow rage boil up inside of him. "Why do you even care!?" he shouted at his reflection. "You don't care! It's fucking death! You want it!". He was now filled with anger, his face red, his breaths heavy, in and out. "Fuck!" He shouted. His fists were clenching. He looked at his reflection and it only angered him more. With a sudden impulsive rage, he punched the mirror. Shards #40BF80 ">stuck #BF0040 ">became embeddedin his knuckles. Blood trickled down his hand as they oozed from the sliced skin of his right hand. He didn't care about the pain. In the mirror was only a fragmented man looking back at him. Not bothering to remove the shards, he stormed out of the bathroom and into his room. He #40BFBF ">completely removed the drawer from his nightstand, his increasing rage making his use of force stronger and more irrational. He pulled out a pistol from the drawer and raised it to his head. "It's what I fucking want," he yelled. "Pull the trigger," he said, as if he was trying to order his finger with his words. "I fucking want this," he yelled again, but more softy. He was becoming weaker and weaker every time he tried to prove to himself he wanted death. One last time he said, "I want to die." it was almost a whisper as he choked out the words. His hand holding the gun dropped, his fingers releasing their almost nonexistent grip on the handle. He collapsed crying, his life had finally caught up to him. For so long he considered himself dead. He substituted everyone else's life for his death. He couldn't do it himself. He was insane, he knew it. No matter how he tried to escape the reality he now couldn't. He'd killed five people, and killed numerous others in those acts. He took their lives, and he couldn't even will himself to take his own. Life was something he couldn't let go of. He wanted so badly to live as long as he could. How could he have been so blind? So many thoughts bombarded him. "I want to live. I want to be normal. I want to be everyone else. I want to live.". His words faded away as his whisper grew into nothing. He had passed out on the floor. Depleted of all will to attempt escape from truth.
#BF0040 ">Don't get me wrong, I loved it! Very dramatic and touching the darker part of your thoughts. Good good.