TERROR BLOGFEST

(almost) Tuesday, June 8, 2010

I stumbled upon Mary McDonald's Terror Blogfest by accident as I read Roland's entry tonight. Sounded interesting. Maybe you should mosey on over and give it a try. I know y'all like a good challenge, so here's your chance to say "Donna dared me." Better late than never, huh?

This is from the original book one; the monstrosity now entitled BECOMMING AMY. Everything in this portion of the novel is deleted. Has the potential of a disturbing scene if I'd cleaned it up and polished it. Be warned; it has strong language and sexual violence, and it won't hurt my feelings at all if you shy away from reading it. But when it comes to terror, I think this fills the criteria. If not, and its simply disgusting, be sure to let me know in the comments

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Amy sat in the cushioned, straight backed chair and selected a faded pink lipstick and blue eye shadow to match her pink and blue t-shirt and tennies. She put on rose colored blush, blotting it with a tissue as her mother taught her, and inspected her handiwork in the mirror. It was then she noticed her father's reflection behind her. Startled, she turned to face him, standing too quickly and knocking over the chair.

For a moment they silently stared at each other; Amy nervously pressing her fingers together, her father slowly stroking the palms of his hands up and down the door frame. Amy bent to retrieve the chair, and when she turned he was already half way across the room. He took long, slow steps, but quickly covered the empty space between them with the measured strides afforded a six foot tall man. He was heavy set, with a middle aged gut formed mostly by to little exercise and too much booze. His close cropped, black hair was graying at the temples, balding on top. He had a broad face that was handsome when he smiled, which was rare. The leer on his face contorted his thick lips around buck teeth.

Amy took a half step backwards, but found herself unable to move as she bumped against the vanity. She held up her hands, expecting to have her face slapped at the very least, maybe her long, straight, black hair pulled as he drug her from his room.

His voice was thick with sleep and brandy as he asked; “What are you doing in here?”

Amy was too scared to answer. She needed all her strength not to cry. He hated it when she cried, and might pull his belt off if she did. She tried to back up again, then stepped slowly to her right, hoping to run around him and be gone before he could hit her. The nap must have sobered him a little; sharpened his reflexes. He matched her step, grabbed her by her upper arms, and flung her to the bed. She bounced up, hitting the top of her head on the wall. He straddled her small limbs and shoved her shoulders back into the pillow.

“So, you want to play Mommy, huh,” he growled, as he grabbed her flailing arms and pinned them in a vice grip above her head with one hand.

He slapped her; right cheek, left cheek, then squeezed her thin neck. Her screams gurgled painfully in her throat. He fumbled with his belt buckle, then pulled at the catch on his work pants. He needed both hands to push down his pants and she nearly slithered away.

Warm, slimy spittle dropped onto her cheek as her head followed the insistent tug of her hair back onto the pillow. “Be still.”

Then punched her between the eyes. Amy tasted blood as she bit her tongue. Her eyes refused to close, so she watched helplessly as he shook his thick, hairy dick out of his underwear.

“Don’t you move, cunt.”

But she did move as he ripped the button off her jeans. Slapping the top of his head with the last of her meager strength, Amy kicked her feet and scooted up, crab crawling her back up the headboard, feeling her jeans and cotton panties slide down her hips. His work done for him, he pinched her kneecaps and hauled her back onto the bed. She screamed again as his fingers dug painfully into her wrists, her hands going instantly numb.

“Don’t fight me you little shit and I won’t have to hurt you.” His breath was wet and warm on her sore cheek. He smelled of beer and vomit.

She started to cry then, but didn’t try to move.

Ignoring the burning pain in her swollen cheeks, Amy scrunched her eyes tight. She screamed as she felt him rip into her. Her hips and thighs strained in agonized protest against his thrusting. She screamed again when she felt his hands slide under her hips, lifting her pelvis as he cursed out his final pleasure.

"Fucking whore," he rasped, his head tilted back so far it disappeared as he thrust again and again.

Then he sagged on top of her, his hot, sweat soaked chest nearly suffocating her as he rested. His breathing slowed, and she thought he had passed out, so she tried to push him off and roll over. He rose up on his elbows, still gripping her wrists painfully in his large hands.

“Keep your fucking mouth shut about this or I won’t stop at a gentle face slapping next time. You hear me, girl? Answer me.”

She sobbed a “Yes, Daddy,” and he released her wrists, rolled off the bed, and stared down at her half naked body.

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There's a bit more dialogue after that, more threats to insure her silence and further demonstrate his coldness. Hopefully this is a good place to leave off.