Real close to something else as those who know, or those clever enough to figure it out will notice, but it's not the same; I was just inspired to write something similar. Oh, one thing: I know these contain a word that I would NEVER usually use but I couldn't think of anything else that'd fit.
Victims
'Out of the way faggot,' a condescending voice jeered and a metallic crash resounded as a shortish kid, wearing only black was shoved aside. Sniggers
came from a large group of tough looking guys, all wearing similar clothing of coloured jackets and jeans. The group pushed through the hallways,
shoving random bunches of kid aside; not caring who they were or showing any kinds of manners. Yet they always seemed to focus on him; he'd done
nothing to annoy them but they always seemed to pick on him more than anyone else. 'Worthless piece of crap,' the voice made no effort to hide the
comment and threw an empty drink can at the boy they shoved.
The boy's back hit the lockers when he was pushed and forced himself not to wince as the can hit him but he bit his lip in anger and pain; he knew
less than anyone else why this group always picked on him. Wearing baggy black combat trousers and t-shirts he looked no different to a third of
the rest of the school, his dark brown hair cropped close to his head and dark eyes glowered angrily under a furrowed brow; there was nothing that
distinguished between him and all the rest like him so why was he always the one who got the brunt of it all?
He willed himself to stand up to them, to make a stand for all the other kids they but what had they ever done for him? Kids sniggered behind his back,
called him names and ignored him in lessons, not caring that he was always getting picked on but just glad it wasn't them. Unaware of his suffering.
They'd never cared when he sat by himself at lunch or in lessons, never made an effort to get to know him so it wouldn't be for them that he'd ever do
anything but for himself. Most of all he wanted to show all those around him, those who'd never cared before, who he was really, what he could do. But
there was no one to back him up, if he even attempted to stand up to them they'd beat him up for sure, it'd be worse than it was now just because he
was different to them, but all he wanted was for the tormenting to stop.
In the evenings at home he'd dream of ways to avoid the boys, try to think of ways to make them stop but none of the ideas were practical, none could
really be carried out. The boy sighed, despairing at what to do; to him there seemed no way out, no way to get away. In his hand he gripped a knife,
one from the collection he had in his drawers and watched the light reflect in the metal blade, there was only one way to stop the torment now.
�Kiandra Riley 2004
Continuation from the above- how well do you know what I think and how like that is this? Yes, it's 'violent' but that's the whole frelling point- I wanted to see how violent I could write, I'll have to be more imaginative next time...
Revenge
This'll show 'em, he thought as he pulled his black car into a space, it'll show them once and for all. The boy got out of the car and
casually strode into the building, calm even though he knew what was going to happen. The school was a large building but he knew the layout exactly
and where he was going; lessons were going on so he was almost the only person prowling the halls, looking slightly out of place in the long coat he
wore. The boy stalked through the wide hallway, lockers framing each wall to the side, until he reached his planned destination and slipped silently
through the door and waited.
Around him were benches and clothes hooks, the boys changing rooms; deciding against sitting down he paced back and forth across the room, the room was
deathly silent.
'Hey, what are you doing in here fag?' A voice snarled as a jacketed figure entered the changing room, 'this isn't your place loser, get out of here before...'
'Before what?' The boy interrupted, I'm not scared of you anymore or your jock friends.' He knew that practice would be starting soon and all the rest of the
team would be entering the room. Patting his jacket where he'd put the knife he felt reassured and knew it was too late to turn back no; they deserved it anyway,
they all deserved it. It was either stand up to them now or be a victim all his life, he'd already made the decision.
The more muscular boy stepped forward jauntily, clenching his fists. 'A smart-arse are we? I'll teach you to show some respect.' He threw a fist forward,
aiming at the boy's face but the boy was ready for it and swiftly stepped aside so the fist crashed into the wall behind him. The 'jock' cursed in pain and
punched again. The younger boy slid the knife out of the sheath and brandished it in front of him threateningly, continuously stepping out of the way of the
punches. 'You wouldn't dare wimp.' Sounding confident the jock kept approaching as the boy took a couple of steps back, and again threw a punch. This time
he flicked out with the knife, the blade catching the arm that came towards him; ripping the clothing and drawing blood.
More confident he stepped forward, a tight grip on the knife's handle, and lunged, plunging the blade into the other boy's chest using all his strength. The
jock stopped, mouth dropping open in a surprised gasp and struggling to breathe. The boy pulled the knife out, glancing at the red liquid on the blade but
not caring, feeling a surge of adrenaline he stabbed again and again, ripping through the flesh of the hated boy in sharp desperate cuts. Cutting muscle, skin;
ripping the clothes to shreds, the brightly coloured jacket quickly becoming tatters as he continued to slash. Blood leaked from the wounds as the jock fell to
the floor, unable to defend himself; the redness ran over his clothes, drenching and staining them a deep crimson to slowly pool on the solid floor.
The boy lost control of himself as he laughed to himself, still stabbing the body, indiscriminately slashing arms, chest, stomach; piercing flesh all the time.
He didn't care that the blood that ran from the body splashed over his clothes, staining him a bright red as well as the boy he stabbed; didn't care that anyone
could walk in at any minute and find him there, all he knew was that no one would mess with him now, no one would bully him incessantly and call him names.
Hearing voices outside it suddenly hit him that he should leave and he raised the knife again, wanting to make sure that the boy was dead for sure and pressed
the blade fiercely against the throat, cutting a wide gash right across their neck. Blood instantly seeped out the cut, running in lines down the white flesh
and to the ground; blood had already soaked most of the body, pouring out of the cuts and running in red lines down to the floor where thick puddles slowly
grew larger around the body.
The boy stopped, rising to his feet. He glanced back up to their face and sneered; the mouth was slightly open, eyes fixed in an unblinking stare, a shocked
expression lighting up the whole face. He chuckled to himself scornfully before pulling his coat about him and arrogantly striding out of the changing room.
�Kiandra Riley 2004