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The Reckoning (Part 1)
The reckoning had begun.
Beckoning toward Fionnula, his finger curled; like a twisted, hysterical contortionist.
"You always have been a sick fucker, haven't you, Michael."
The walk toward him seemed to last an eternity. Each stride Fionnula took, quaked. Creating bodily shockwaves, that traversed her very being. Every single part of her anatomy shook. Every pumping organ, every rattling bone, every piece of flesh, every inch of skin, every solitary cell, every atom.
Their gloomy, adversarial figures, illuminated by the brooding candelabra, made for a shady, evil, twilight puppet show. Each animated plume of scarrow, seemed to prophesise and play out scenarios, across the floor, walls, and, furnishings. Each tenebrous, charging, anthropomorphic silhouette, revealed, the inner turmoil, both, Fionnula and Michael, felt. Whilst, preemptively, divulging, the possible outcomes, of the outlying battle, yet, to take place. Fionnula's chilled breath quickened, as though, it were, attempting to escape, her aghast chasm, of a mouth. Her pneumatic thoughts were quickening too. They anxiously jumped, jostling, for pole position and, after the starter pistol, in racing hurriedly toward a solution, her blundering thoughts, had, fumbled, and, dropped, the baton to freedom.
"I may be a sick fucker, Fionnula, but, at least, I'm not a sickly, sweet cunt, like you. Or, sick enough to fuck myself over. You managed that, all by yourself, didn't you? Did you, really, think, for one second, that I wouldn't f-find out?!"
Fionnula's wry smile crept upon her face, slowly, like a setting, summer sun. She had underestimated Michael. He, now, had her, exactly, where he wanted her. A prisoner, to her own lack of foresight, and, a prisoner, to a man she had deemed a psychopath, since his birth. She blinked frantically, hoping each, flickering eyelash, would jump start, the synaptic motor, in her overheating, radiator of a brain. Memories rolled, flashing brightly, yet, opaquely, and always humorously leaden, through her mind, like a silent keystone cop-esque film from the 1910's. Despairingly, Fionnula trawled her oceanic, grey matter for Michael's weaknesses. Any preexisting foible, or, sensitivity - anything she could darkly cast, in order for him, to take the inky bait, and, bite, dimly.
It had taken twenty-six years, for, Michael, to overcome his stammer. He was so badly bullied, because of it, during his childhood, that, in adulthood, he had moved, to the other side of the country. A move, with which, he had intended to restart his life. To start everything over again. With a clear mind, a clean slate, and, the freedom of unimpeded speech, at his disposal. The miles, travelled, away from his hometown, had been; a chevroned-shaped glottal victory, a voice emancipating march, a broad-winged flight of fluency, a loose lipped maiden voyage of liberation.
His previously, unpalatable dreams, of long-lusted, unhindered conversations, had, finally, come true. Yet, now, those dreams had been, unable to resist, handbrake-turning, into; diverted, barrier breaking car crashes, called unkept promises. All of his hard work had been undone in a single crunch. Severing the silver tongue he had meticulously and painstakingly spent every waking hour of the last twenty-six years perfecting. A vow to never, ever, take the U-turn back down the M1, to the provincial slums, of inner-city Nottingham, had been, broken, much like his speech pattern. And because of that, vengeance was afoot. Michael knew, that somebody, had to pay the ultimate price, for placing his foot back in his mouth. Pay for his re-emerged, daily orthoepic impairment. Just, pay. That bewildered, yet, unflinching, and, always, self-righteous customer, was, in fact, Fionnula.
© poormansdreams
Beckoning toward Fionnula, his finger curled; like a twisted, hysterical contortionist.
"You always have been a sick fucker, haven't you, Michael."
The walk toward him seemed to last an eternity. Each stride Fionnula took, quaked. Creating bodily shockwaves, that traversed her very being. Every single part of her anatomy shook. Every pumping organ, every rattling bone, every piece of flesh, every inch of skin, every solitary cell, every atom.
Their gloomy, adversarial figures, illuminated by the brooding candelabra, made for a shady, evil, twilight puppet show. Each animated plume of scarrow, seemed to prophesise and play out scenarios, across the floor, walls, and, furnishings. Each tenebrous, charging, anthropomorphic silhouette, revealed, the inner turmoil, both, Fionnula and Michael, felt. Whilst, preemptively, divulging, the possible outcomes, of the outlying battle, yet, to take place. Fionnula's chilled breath quickened, as though, it were, attempting to escape, her aghast chasm, of a mouth. Her pneumatic thoughts were quickening too. They anxiously jumped, jostling, for pole position and, after the starter pistol, in racing hurriedly toward a solution, her blundering thoughts, had, fumbled, and, dropped, the baton to freedom.
"I may be a sick fucker, Fionnula, but, at least, I'm not a sickly, sweet cunt, like you. Or, sick enough to fuck myself over. You managed that, all by yourself, didn't you? Did you, really, think, for one second, that I wouldn't f-find out?!"
Fionnula's wry smile crept upon her face, slowly, like a setting, summer sun. She had underestimated Michael. He, now, had her, exactly, where he wanted her. A prisoner, to her own lack of foresight, and, a prisoner, to a man she had deemed a psychopath, since his birth. She blinked frantically, hoping each, flickering eyelash, would jump start, the synaptic motor, in her overheating, radiator of a brain. Memories rolled, flashing brightly, yet, opaquely, and always humorously leaden, through her mind, like a silent keystone cop-esque film from the 1910's. Despairingly, Fionnula trawled her oceanic, grey matter for Michael's weaknesses. Any preexisting foible, or, sensitivity - anything she could darkly cast, in order for him, to take the inky bait, and, bite, dimly.
It had taken twenty-six years, for, Michael, to overcome his stammer. He was so badly bullied, because of it, during his childhood, that, in adulthood, he had moved, to the other side of the country. A move, with which, he had intended to restart his life. To start everything over again. With a clear mind, a clean slate, and, the freedom of unimpeded speech, at his disposal. The miles, travelled, away from his hometown, had been; a chevroned-shaped glottal victory, a voice emancipating march, a broad-winged flight of fluency, a loose lipped maiden voyage of liberation.
His previously, unpalatable dreams, of long-lusted, unhindered conversations, had, finally, come true. Yet, now, those dreams had been, unable to resist, handbrake-turning, into; diverted, barrier breaking car crashes, called unkept promises. All of his hard work had been undone in a single crunch. Severing the silver tongue he had meticulously and painstakingly spent every waking hour of the last twenty-six years perfecting. A vow to never, ever, take the U-turn back down the M1, to the provincial slums, of inner-city Nottingham, had been, broken, much like his speech pattern. And because of that, vengeance was afoot. Michael knew, that somebody, had to pay the ultimate price, for placing his foot back in his mouth. Pay for his re-emerged, daily orthoepic impairment. Just, pay. That bewildered, yet, unflinching, and, always, self-righteous customer, was, in fact, Fionnula.
© poormansdreams
