Post by readilygrey on Jul 29, 2012 23:00:32 GMT -5
A submission from my class. This was the first time I ever wrote with a female narrator, which is odd since I'm female 
This story would have disturbed me had it been written by someone else (I can't even kill spiders), so if you are easily disturbed feel free to skip this one.
There are nine screws on Devon’s mask.
It’s my job to tighten them. I do so meticulously, using just the right amount of tension to avoid stripping the threads. It’s critical to do it both before and after use to make sure there are no mishaps.
Devon is particular about these things.
His last lover, Veronica, only tightened them afterward. It took just one time that she forgot for the whole thing to come apart.
Devon didn’t handle that well.
Our love reminds me of a story I was told as a child. About this boy that finds an animal that’s been orphaned. I don’t remember what kind it was, only that it wasn’t innately dangerous and so he keeps it. He cares for it and loves it as if it’s his best friend, his brother.
But when his friend—his brother—gets older he gets big and the bigger he gets the more he eats. The boy’s parents are farmers and they barely make enough to feed their many children, let alone the latest addition. The boy knows trouble is coming and so he gathers up all the food he can carry and takes his brother deep into the woods. They go as far as they can walk before they stop to rest. Once his brother has fallen asleep, the boy gets up. He leaves the food he brought on the ground before he runs back home.
But the next morning his brother’s back and not only did he leave the food that was taken behind, but he’s gotten into the garden. The mother’s wailing that they’re going to starve and so the dad takes the boy to the barn. He takes his brother, the animal, too. Shows the boy the mallet they use for braining calves and says the food they lost must be replaced. The boy knows it’s his responsibility. He wants to be strong, wants to do what’s right. So he picks up the mallet. He pets his friend, his brother, and places a kiss on top of his head. When he cracks the hammer down he can feel his brother’s pain as if it’s his own, as if it’s his heart that’s shattered from the blow. He hurts more than he’s ever hurt before, but he consoles himself that it had to be done. He thinks this is what it means to be a man.
But he’s not a man. He’s a boy and he doesn’t have the strength to make the kill quick. He’s only wounded him. Pain, confusion, and betrayal are in his brother’s eyes as he stares at him, as he whimpers for help. But the boy does nothing. He stands paralyzed as his father finishes his brother off.
The moral of the story has always eluded me. If I was given an explanation then I chose not to retain it. Maybe there were no values to be imparted, only an intention to frighten. Like the fairytales of cannibals and mutilations that are whispered into children’s ears until they’re too afraid to disobey, too afraid to sneak out of their beds. But the one thing I’ve never been able to get out of my head was the betrayal. That wasn’t love. When you love something you find a way to make it work even if the object of your love is a danger to you. The boy should have planted his own garden to feed his brother, or worked extra hours to make up for the loss. They could have run away and made a living somewhere else—even if it meant stealing and begging to do so.
But maybe it was more of a species thing and “brother” was just an empty word. After all, no one killed the human boy, even though he was the one that pilfered the larder.
Maybe I don’t understand them as well as I feel I should. Neither Devon nor I are human, although I’ve always thought I was close enough. My kind has been woven among them for so long and so frequently that we’re practically indistinguishable. But Devon is something rare. There isn’t even a name for what he is, or if Devon knows of one he hasn’t told me. Their numbers have dwindled to near extinction. This is because of their reluctance to breed, because of what they have to do to reproduce. But even despite our differences, there is nothing I wouldn’t do to prove my loyalty to Devon.
Veronica was brave for a human. The mask makes intimacy possible, makes it safe, and for years it was good between her and Devon. But then one little mishap, a few bits of loosened metal, and now Devon has a son.
And there is nothing left of Veronica.
I love Devon and he likes me well enough, as much as he can. He wants me, but he doesn’t trust himself. Not after he killed his last lover. But I’ve changed that, slowly built up the trust. He sees my dedication to the task and it’s helped. I’ve become the only one he trusts. Now that he’s finally willing, it’s good when we make love. It’s passionate. There’s something intense about knowing my partner wants to do something to me he mustn’t, in watching his fingers claw at the straps. In knowing death is thrusting its way into me, its breath ghosting over my skin.
But the thing is—I want to satisfy him fully. And I don’t want his only offspring to be hers. The hybrid from our genes would be better than anything that could come from human sludge. If he knew of my desires Devon would consider them a type of betrayal. But he doesn’t understand what that word means. He doesn’t realize what it’s like to love someone and know they’re remembering someone else.
But I’ve heard the guilt in his voice when he speaks her name, when he whispers it in his sleep, and I want my name to be just as sacred.
But that’s easy to fix. It wasn’t hard to loosen the screws once to remove Veronica—it won’t be hard to loosen them again.
This story would have disturbed me had it been written by someone else (I can't even kill spiders), so if you are easily disturbed feel free to skip this one.
There are nine screws on Devon’s mask.
It’s my job to tighten them. I do so meticulously, using just the right amount of tension to avoid stripping the threads. It’s critical to do it both before and after use to make sure there are no mishaps.
Devon is particular about these things.
His last lover, Veronica, only tightened them afterward. It took just one time that she forgot for the whole thing to come apart.
Devon didn’t handle that well.
Our love reminds me of a story I was told as a child. About this boy that finds an animal that’s been orphaned. I don’t remember what kind it was, only that it wasn’t innately dangerous and so he keeps it. He cares for it and loves it as if it’s his best friend, his brother.
But when his friend—his brother—gets older he gets big and the bigger he gets the more he eats. The boy’s parents are farmers and they barely make enough to feed their many children, let alone the latest addition. The boy knows trouble is coming and so he gathers up all the food he can carry and takes his brother deep into the woods. They go as far as they can walk before they stop to rest. Once his brother has fallen asleep, the boy gets up. He leaves the food he brought on the ground before he runs back home.
But the next morning his brother’s back and not only did he leave the food that was taken behind, but he’s gotten into the garden. The mother’s wailing that they’re going to starve and so the dad takes the boy to the barn. He takes his brother, the animal, too. Shows the boy the mallet they use for braining calves and says the food they lost must be replaced. The boy knows it’s his responsibility. He wants to be strong, wants to do what’s right. So he picks up the mallet. He pets his friend, his brother, and places a kiss on top of his head. When he cracks the hammer down he can feel his brother’s pain as if it’s his own, as if it’s his heart that’s shattered from the blow. He hurts more than he’s ever hurt before, but he consoles himself that it had to be done. He thinks this is what it means to be a man.
But he’s not a man. He’s a boy and he doesn’t have the strength to make the kill quick. He’s only wounded him. Pain, confusion, and betrayal are in his brother’s eyes as he stares at him, as he whimpers for help. But the boy does nothing. He stands paralyzed as his father finishes his brother off.
The moral of the story has always eluded me. If I was given an explanation then I chose not to retain it. Maybe there were no values to be imparted, only an intention to frighten. Like the fairytales of cannibals and mutilations that are whispered into children’s ears until they’re too afraid to disobey, too afraid to sneak out of their beds. But the one thing I’ve never been able to get out of my head was the betrayal. That wasn’t love. When you love something you find a way to make it work even if the object of your love is a danger to you. The boy should have planted his own garden to feed his brother, or worked extra hours to make up for the loss. They could have run away and made a living somewhere else—even if it meant stealing and begging to do so.
But maybe it was more of a species thing and “brother” was just an empty word. After all, no one killed the human boy, even though he was the one that pilfered the larder.
Maybe I don’t understand them as well as I feel I should. Neither Devon nor I are human, although I’ve always thought I was close enough. My kind has been woven among them for so long and so frequently that we’re practically indistinguishable. But Devon is something rare. There isn’t even a name for what he is, or if Devon knows of one he hasn’t told me. Their numbers have dwindled to near extinction. This is because of their reluctance to breed, because of what they have to do to reproduce. But even despite our differences, there is nothing I wouldn’t do to prove my loyalty to Devon.
Veronica was brave for a human. The mask makes intimacy possible, makes it safe, and for years it was good between her and Devon. But then one little mishap, a few bits of loosened metal, and now Devon has a son.
And there is nothing left of Veronica.
I love Devon and he likes me well enough, as much as he can. He wants me, but he doesn’t trust himself. Not after he killed his last lover. But I’ve changed that, slowly built up the trust. He sees my dedication to the task and it’s helped. I’ve become the only one he trusts. Now that he’s finally willing, it’s good when we make love. It’s passionate. There’s something intense about knowing my partner wants to do something to me he mustn’t, in watching his fingers claw at the straps. In knowing death is thrusting its way into me, its breath ghosting over my skin.
But the thing is—I want to satisfy him fully. And I don’t want his only offspring to be hers. The hybrid from our genes would be better than anything that could come from human sludge. If he knew of my desires Devon would consider them a type of betrayal. But he doesn’t understand what that word means. He doesn’t realize what it’s like to love someone and know they’re remembering someone else.
But I’ve heard the guilt in his voice when he speaks her name, when he whispers it in his sleep, and I want my name to be just as sacred.
But that’s easy to fix. It wasn’t hard to loosen the screws once to remove Veronica—it won’t be hard to loosen them again.
Thank you for reading, and no hurry about feedback. 
) and it's an intense experience, and good excercise -- when I submitted for the first time I was just beside myself: my poor little story! out there all alone! I hope they're being nice to it!
