Monday, 20 September 2010
07:10:10 PM (GMT)
It's easiest to start a story most of the time, and the end is usually the hardest.
I've never been good at starting stories, but I've never ended one. I don't know how
hard it is to end something that was charished, hated, whatever. But if I ever write,
I don't want to have fans. I wouldn't publish, because fans are a thorn in the ass.
When it ends, they turn into evil sons of bitches and plead for more and make
threats. Sometimes, things just have to end. It may be for the better of the world,
the fans, or even the author. If you had ever taken five minutes to wonder what the
producer went through to give you something you like and argue over, then holla'. But
most authors have went through loads of things to plot, write, publish, and provide
and show up for you. You turn around and bitch and gripe about it ending, after a
while it gets to long and you hate it. Or it's to short and you hate it. Even if it
ends just delicately in the middle of long and short, you still bitch. "It should
last forever!" is all I hear. I was there once, too.
It's also easy to start a story off with a rant. And if that's what it takes, then
so be it.
"December 18th, 1989.
It's been a long day, work has been going horribly wrong. Mr. Philips hadn't called
me back to schedual the appointment for the house inspection, and the blessings. It
seemed that he didn't want myself to come and bless his house and to have my wife
inspect it one last extra time. Is it a possibility he just wasn't fond of us? I
might as well just pick up the kitchen phone and ring Chancellor King and Chancellor
Sharpe; Maybe that would be best.
Hindley has a birthday coming up, and Mave is but two months old. Mave is already
growing up to be a strong boy, he seems to faithful and strong willed. Although
Hindley had been refusing to say grace at the table. I understand clearly he's eight
and his peers are insisting that the lord isn't real, but why must he disobey his
The wife is making supper now, and it's best that I go" The last thing written
by the hands of Steven Weston, his murder was tragic. What I read is only what I can
make out, blood smears have depleted my reading ability with this journal page.
Along with his wife he was murdered, surprisingly his boys were left unharmed but
frightened severely. These people will forever lie in our hearts, and Hindley and
Maverick will be send to an orphanage as due. I plead of you to pray for these
people, as they had made much of my life as they did with many other citizens of our
lovely town. God bless them.
Chancellor King and Sharpe had said their dues and prayers, and lead others into
prayer for the lost father of their church and his bride. Mister and Missus Weston
had been brutally murdered by a printless man and a missing weapon. The police bureau
had already had a few suspects lined up for Hindley to decide an assassin. He hadn't
seen the man behind the glass window, and he just shrugged before he was lead out of
the room and sent back to the foster care home he and Mave were assigned.
The murderer was never found, and the case was consequently closed after ten years
Chapter One, Danger is no stranger to
One more holiday the boys won't celebrate. Maverick and Hindley never were for
holidays, they didn't have family to spend them with besides themselves and they
never had time to. Two brothers on the brinc of bankrupt, getting laid off was
something they began to brush off.
It was winter, the day before Christmas. Maverick sat in front of the television on
the golden, floral couch with a black and blue controller. This was his usual stance,
his thumbs struck the little colored buttons. His eyes were squnted in vivid
concentration, his tongue stuck out from between the crease of braced white teeth.
His concentration was broken when he heard the front door to the apartment slam and
his brother groan in disgust. The screaming of the omniscent character being shot
blared out of the television. Mave threw his controller in frustration, watching it
break off against the wall. This would be the fifth controller he'd broken in the
last four weeks. He couldn't take losing easily, considering who he was and how his
temper normally behaved. He was quite the hothead of the two.
"Dude, Mave, you have to clean the house, it looked like all hell warmed over."
Hindley remarked as he begun to pluck groceries out of the grocery bag. He opened the
fridge door, food stacked in his arms. As usual, there was no room in the trashed
fridge. Hindley had asked Mave to clean the kitchen, he'd begged him to clean the
kitchen right before he went shopping. "If you don't start cleaning your messes up
I'm going to sell your nextbox."
Mave's mouth dropped, "You wouldn't dare!"
Mave's nextbox had cost him almost three hundred dollars, and the price was racking
up pretty high with the new games and replacement controllers.
Hindley shrugged, setting the things on the floor before grabbing a garbage bag
andbeginning to go through containers and bowls in the fridge, pitching whatever
looked like a new species. He pulled out a cup of pudding, the side read dark
chocolate but the layer of green and white mold said otherwise. "What is this, you
leave food in here to long and it becomes darwinism, and all you do is shrug it off?"
He grumbled. He tossed that, too.
"You need to clean up your messes and go put out some more applications. We don't
have enough money to pay the bills, much less afford your new games and constant
controllers every week." Hindley said before he set the nearly full trashbag to the
side and begun putting the refridgerator only foods in the fridge.
"What am I? Your house wife?" Maverick asked with a cocked brow before leaving the
kitchen to go inspect what was left of his nextbox controller.
"Maybe a house wife would get more done than you would. Maybe I should go trade you
in." Hindley retorted rudely.
Mave would have grimaced at his elder brother and flipped him the bird and stomped
away, if they had been in the same room. Luckily, they weren't, and he'd bottle in
his temper. It was like the walls and doorways were barriers from the torture. The
coil of the posed snake ready to pounce would relax at the disappearing scent of a
Mave never really was the cleaning type, and he definitely wasn't exactly the
easiest to get along with. Normally he was the sillier one, always on the prowl for
some dirty fun. And so, this leads to the stereotypical jackass, in which doesn't
take orders and considers himself an Anarchist.
Hindley had finished putting the food away, cleaning out the whole kitchen and
standing in the center of the room with a satisfied grin on his lips. He walked into
the livingroom and looked about, making a disgusted face at the bowls and cups of
food and stale soda-pop. He'd make Mave clean that some time.
Hindley left the room to sit in the kitchen and lean over the counter, staring into
his palms. Deep lines were forming on his calloused palms, tiny cuts on his finger
tips from filling papers and staples. He sighed and closed his eyes, praying to God
almighty that he'd somehow get tugged out of this personal perdition and praised for
his faith. No doubt Hindley was religious, it began after his parents death that he
begun to care for what was out there.
Maverick on the other hand, he was probably the most athiest boy Hindley had ever
met. He was conceited and believed that if God was real, his parents would still be
alive. And that they didn't grow up in the trashiest orphanage and had decent
schooling. Or even better, had money, not getting laid off every week. You know, have
a normal, apple-pie life? With the big white house, the nice-economy efficient car
and a big, fluffy dog. The floral patterns would skirt the white house with the black
roof. A fence on each side of the cement path, bushes between the cement and the
start of the picket fence.
The night passed, Hindley spent it cleaning while Maverick complained about Hindley
being a thorn in the rear. Maverick thought of every dirty word in the book and
intricately worded it in the foulest way to hurt his brother. He informed his brother
of how much he hated him, how much he had wished he'd died too, so on and so forth.
Well, until Hindley threw him out onto the street like a bad dog.
Maverick walked down the street, his head aching from the arguments with his
brother. The whole thing replayed like a broken record in his head, over and over.
And little by little, he begun to feel regret. He walked on the sidewalk on the North
side, the sides of the sidewalks were piled with snow, it was frigid cold and the boy
only wore a hoodie. He would have thrown on more, except Hindley was the one who
kicked him out and gave him the jacket. The streets weren't packed, but a few people
here and there ran out of stores and into yellow cabs or oldsmobiles. They'd hold
bags of gifts for kin and friends, eagerly waiting to show off their surprise and see
the looks on their faces. The North side wasn't the best place to be, but it had some
pretty nice shops. It had craft stores, clothing stores, and other places you
wouldn't normally find in a more modern area. It seemed like it was stuck in the
sixties. But on the other side of town, people were ice-skating and caroling, riding
in horse drawn carages and finding first love.
Maverick passed a small boy sitting against a wall, cuddled up in a tattered
blanket. His face was pale and his nose was flaming red, he sneezed and asked
Maverick for some money. Maverick scoffed and raised his shoulders, ignoring the boy.
He could barely afford to live himself, how on earth was he supposed to support a
child too? In his opinion, that's why condoms were invented.
The night dragged on before Maverick finally found a stay with an old friend on the
West side. He'd walked for about an hour and a half before his friend had saw him
walking down the street. The man he'd ran into had bags and boxes piled as high as
the eifle tower in his arms. He'd picked him up and offered his couch for the night,
simply because Maverick offered help. Obviously Maverick had delightfully accepted, a
warm house was a good house. Especially when it was below freezing outside.
Meanwhile, Hindley sat curled up in a blanket on the couch away from the television.
In his hand was a cup of hot chocolate, and some pastries sat on a saucer on the
coffee table. The house was cozy, it was cleaned and febreezed. It smelled of
cinnamon, a small glade plug in spray was in the wall. It was nicer there without his
brother, but he wasn't sure where Maverick was. He wasn't even sure Mave would come
home for Christmas.
This Christmas though, Hindley went out of his way to actually get his brother a few
things. They weren't million dollar devices used strictly for entertainment and show,
but they weren't completely needed or boring.
Hindley was suddenly bothered by the idea tht he had kicked his brother out into the
nipping weather. He'd hoped that his brother was alright, and that he had found some
sort of shelter. If they hadn't have been so poor and owned cell phones, he would
have called him and asked him to return to shelter with him.
A few days passed since Christmas, and Maverick had finally came home. He'd lodged
with his friend for the time being. The apartment was clean, and Hindley wasn't
answering his voice when Maverick called it out. Maverick walked through the first
room of the house until he spotted a small blotch of red in the kitchen, it looked
like he'd spilled some red food dye. He tasted it, his eyebrow twitched in
contemplation. The iron taste made his tastebuds tingle, he stood up and walked into
the livingroom, the second room in the house. Though he wondered for a split second
why in the Heaven's he'd tasted the strange liquid. Small puddles of blood formed on
the white carpet, and right in front of the door was a smeared mark of blood, it
looked like somebody was dragged..
Maverick followed it, to his disgust his brother was hanging limp from a rope that
was tied intricately tight around the ceiling fan, the fan was screwed well into the
ceiling and held the weight of the man perfectly. He covered his mouth as his eyes
welled. There was no foot prints of any other person, no marks of forced entrance.
There was definitely struggle, and his brother's insides were practically spilled out
onto the floor where Mave's bed should be. It was undoubtably assault and murder, but
there was not so much as an incling of sign that somebody had did it. Only sign of
him being drawn into the back room by some unnatural force.
Maverick had to leave the room, hurrying into the kitchen as his stomach felt
constricted as if by a starving python. He held the cramping naval and whimpered.
Vomit snaked its way up Maverick's throat and into the tub of the sink. He heaved
until his whole body ached. He grabbed a paper towel and wiped his face, throwing it
out and hurrying to the phone.
Dialling nine one one, he begun to violently sob into the instrument. His first
thoughts where it was his fault, for not being there. For not coming back sooner. He
blamed himself for it, his elder brother's death.
"Somebody- Somebody had murdered my brother." Maverick stuttered at first before
regaining his speech to normality. "In my house, I just got back from a few days stay
at- Yes sir. My address?" Maverick gave the husky voiced man on the other end of the
phone his address and his friends address before nodding as if he could see and
It felt like Maverick's whole heart had been ripped out and shoved into a paper
shredder and then burned. His body fell to the side, and he layed on the floor
emotionlessly staring at the ceiling. His whole body felt hollow and numb, he was
sort of glad he couldn't feel anything, although he'd rather feel pain than nothing
at all. He waited there, breathing in tiny breaths until the police came.
Everything else flashed by, like a dream. He only felt half there while he was taken
into the ambulence himself and sent to the hospital. They figured Maverick was
traumatized, and that he'd need help. Maverick felt traumatized, nothing was to be
the same. That's not all he felt though, fear, hate, longing, nostalgia.. He felt
everything. Even love, but by far not happiness. Right then, he didn't think he could
feel happiness again in his life. That the whole life of him had been yanked out and
shoved into a garbage disposal.
Days had passed since Hindley's murder, Maverick had talked to many, many people.
They'd asked him all the same questions, and then some. When did you find him? What
did you feel? Who do you think would do this? Did you kill your brother?
It was starting to get irritating after a while. He didn't want anymore questions,
much less to think about his brother. His brothers funeral was obsolete, considering
nobody would go and they had no funding. He was simply buried about a month later. As
the same they did with Maverick and Hindley's parents, they had closed the case.
There was no evidence of somebody doing it, except for struggle. Not a single
fingerprint, hair folicle, or flake of dead skin. Nothing.
After his burial, Maverick stood over it. It seemed like the world knew what was
going on, and rain poured from meloncholy clouds that lingered in the air. Maverick
sat down by the grave stone, leaning his back against it and leaning his head on the
top of it. "Hindley, I'm sorry." He tells the slab of rock. His clothes are soaked,
but that's alright. He'd rather spend time with his brother, deceased or not, than
sit alone at home. He felt like Hindley was still there if he had been somewhat close
to him. He pulled the necklace he hid under his shirt out and cradled it in his palm.
He closed his eyes and gripped it, "I'll find your killer." He said, his hope was
minimal but his motivation was much bigger, roughly the size of texas.
"And I will make him suffer the way you and our parents did, that bastard will wish
he were never born."
Last edited: 9 October 2010