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New Stage
חיפוש בבמה

שם משתמש או מספר
סיסמתך
[ אני רוצה משתמש! ]
[ איבדתי סיסמה ): ]


מדורי במה








What makes me a psychopath? A psychopath is someone who
feels no empathy towards his or her victims, and has no
general feelings or remorse. That's me. I felt no sympathy
or empathy when I killed those children. I just wanted to
fulfill my own personal lust. The thought of empowering a
helpless victim and seeing their last moments of life gave
me too much pleasure. I HAD to experience it.

The trill of the alarm woke me. My eyes slowly opened to a
calm and rather sunny day. The sun shone brightly through
the thin curtains. I've been meaning to get some new ones.
Why do I keep putting it off?

I stepped into the shower, the cool water nourishing my body
on this lazy morning. Today was the day I fulfilled my
lifetime ambition and final got to experience what it feels
like to control someone to their death. They told me it felt
good. Once a quick shower was out of the way, I had a shave.
As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, foam covering my
face, I looked at the reflection. This face will, by
tomorrow, be in every newspaper in every city in the
country. There will also be mug shots of this face in police
stations throughout the country. And you know what the best
thing is? Only I know about it.

Once I had gotten dressed and had some breakfast (that
reminds me, why do those Rice Krispies make that irritating
noise?), I went back upstairs. I walked up a second flight
of stairs, into the attic. There, I kept a little safe in
the corner of the room. A safe full of money? Jewellery?
Important documents? No. This safe was full of the very
tools that would help me to achieve my glorious deed. Two
AK-47 guns, and seven rounds of bullets. After all, they
told me this was the best weapon one could use.

After packing my tools into an innocent enough looking
Thermalite briefcase, I began my journey. I was dressed so
smartly that other 'suits' walking by failed to spot the
fact that I was walking in a complete opposite direction to
the office blocks that dominate this area. I was heading for
the local primary school.

Upon arriving at the school, all that could be heard was the
cheerful playing sound from the children. The little boys
trying to get a game of football going for the last ten
minutes before school starts, whilst the little girls busily
playing hopscotch. There was no conformity, no obedience,
and no rules. Just innocent, helpless, obedient children.
Lots of them.

I knew now that it was time. All those years when I was a
child, constantly being picked on because I was fat. Fatty
they called me. They used to take my lunch money. They would
hit me. I felt like crying, but I never did. I never did
release my emotions. Well, until now, that is.

My briefcase unlocked, and I dropped it to the ground. Out
came the first gun I could grip. The icy cold feel sent a
judder through my body. I pointed it in the direction of
whomever my eyes first glared upon. It was a little boy.
Probably about nine years of age, with blond parted hair. He
was standing in goal for his football team.

Suddenly, his hair was not blond. It became gray. Everything
became a mixture of black and white. No longer could I see
colorful school uniforms and different hair colors.
Everything had become gray. But not for long.

I unleashed the first round of bullets. All I could hear now
were screams of the children. Not even the sound of the gun
firing could be heard. All that could be heard was one wild,
long, loud scream. Suddenly my gun stopped firing. There was
almost a silence that seemed to last for eternity. But not
for that long.

The second gun came out and the firing began again. In an
almost random fashion, bullets were being sprayed all over
the playground. This playground, once a fortress of
innocence, now turned into nothing more than a battlefield.
A bloody reminder that they still exist. We can't see them
anymore, but they're still around us. Everywhere.

After the second round, there seemed to be an eerie silence.
Almost as though I was only person in the world that was
alive. No ambulance sirens, no police sirens, no teachers
coming screaming out of the school. Just a sudden emptiness
in the abyss of time.

Carefully, I walked further into the playground, trying not
to get my new shoes wet with innocent blood. All I could see
were bodies. Bloody bodies. What had these children done?
Their crisp white cotton shirts impugned with the crimson
reminders of my madness. Their blond hair sprinkled with
droplets of blood. The hopscotch grid chalked out on the
surface had become reddened. The numbers almost impossible
to make out. The football, once black and white, was now
covered with the bloody reminders of the day I got my own
back.

Suddenly, I felt something. It was the feeling. The feeling
I had long yearned to experience. The feeling of
empowerment. I had control of these children. I could do
what I wanted, with whomever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
This was for every time you stole my orange juice. This is
for every time you took my lunch money and I went hungry.
This is for every time I was called 'Fatty'. This is for all
the times I wanted to cry, but resisted. This is my crying.
This is my payback. This is my revenge. These are your
children lying here. Your children.







loading...
חוות דעת על היצירה באופן פומבי ויתכן שגם ישירות ליוצר

לשלוח את היצירה למישהו להדפיס את היצירה
היצירה לעיל הנה בדיונית וכל קשר בינה ובין
המציאות הנו מקרי בהחלט. אין צוות האתר ו/או
הנהלת האתר אחראים לנזק, אבדן, אי נוחות, עגמת
נפש וכיו''ב תוצאות, ישירות או עקיפות, שייגרמו
לך או לכל צד שלישי בשל מסרים שיפורסמו
ביצירות, שהנם באחריות היוצר בלבד.
פלצנות.





ביג מק בסלוגן
מינימליסטי.

נ.ב.
הוא מודע לעובדה
שבהוספת החתימה,
ועל אחת כמה
וכמה כיתוב הסבר
זה, הוא שוחט את
מה שנותר
מהמינימליזם
בסלוגן הזה.


תרומה לבמה




בבמה מאז 9/1/02 9:13
האתר מכיל תכנים שיתכנו כבלתי הולמים או בלתי חינוכיים לאנשים מסויימים.
אין הנהלת האתר אחראית לכל נזק העלול להגרם כתוצאה מחשיפה לתכנים אלו.
אחריות זו מוטלת על יוצרי התכנים. הגיל המומלץ לגלישה באתר הינו מעל ל-18.
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