Heartbreaker (M)

[Juicesir]

For my five thousandth post, I wanted to do something special. So here's my attempt at a novel. Let's see how far it gets. There's gonna be some graphic content, just a heads up.


http://oi58.tinypic.com/slqulw.jpg (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vy-QmgdUVTI)

Prologue
Her name was Prudence, and she was getting laid. Breasts flapping and hands running through her own hair, she was committed to riding this guy until she got what she wanted. Up, and down, and up, and down, Prudence lived down her name in the best way possible.

His mechanic's shirt said Michael, and his odor was foul, but she didn't care. He'd been kind and flirty, and he'd tipped over 30%. She'd said yes to him before he ever asked if she wanted to do anything after work. She knew she wasn't good looking, wasn't thin, wasn't attractive, but she liked to think she could make up for it in other ways.

This was one such way.

Placing one hand on his chest and the other behind her on his upper thigh, she decided to switch things up. Thrusting and grinding slowly, she grinned with her eyes closed. This was sensuality. This was release. She took her lays where she could find them, and it had been a long time since she'd found any. Tonight was a night to celebrate.

He'd laughed at her dumb jokes, her waitress small talk. She was awful at talking, but he'd laughed. And she'd smiled. What was her name, did she have any family, was she going to college. She seemed bright. She was flattered. This one was a charmer, and he sure as heck didn't look anything like you'd think a greasy, oily mechanic would.

His hands were like soft bark when he'd run them along her cheek. Brown curly coils had dripped with the light raindrops they shed while he'd kissed her on her apartment doorstep. Muscles like a lifter, stubble like a grifter, he was the picturesque Hollywood bad boy. He was like Bob Dylan's and Steve McQueen's long lost cousin.

Of all this features, his eyes were the most startling to her. They were pretty. Not handsome, not manly, which surprised her. They were pretty. At first, she'd seen them as this grey green, a muddy hazel. All she could think about was how it reminded her of a cover of Hansel and Gretel her mom used to read to her. German green. Lederhosen green. It reminded her of great mountains and dark forests, and it gave his face a vibrancy that was somehow otherwise lacking.

He was beautiful, and he was in her bedroom. Her Beatles poster with one limp corner hanging over them like a canopy, their piled clothes like a lush undergrowth in a secluded wood. The creak of her bed ran along the spine of her cramped apartment, sending shivers of the sound between the other two rooms.

This was passion like she had never known. He was good, as good as her. Where other guys just sort of lay there for her, he was really into her. He'd been on top to start, but she preferred it this way. This was the bliss she always wanted.

Harder and faster, his hands were around her side now, running along her rolls of fat. Self-consciousness overtook her. She grabbed his hands and moved them.

Her hands on his.

His hands on her breasts.

Her head thrown back, gentle moans escaping.

Harder.

This was going to be it.

Faster.

He was groping her, his fingers digging slightly into her chest.

Harder.

Her breathing was labored. Her bed-frame threatened collapse. Her voice cried out over the sounds of its shaking.

Faster.

Sweat poured off her, and his fingers cupped around her breasts, lacing over her sternum. Clawing at her.

Clawing at her...

"Oh Mike, not so hard," she whimpered, teasingly almost.

She didn't want this moment to be ruined, but it felt so good at the same time. A painful pleasure, his nails digging it. This was the first, and maybe last time, she would ever make love like this. She wanted it to last. She wanted it to never end.

Her skin broke.

Spasms wracked her body and she drew a sudden, sharp breath as sudden, intolerable pain rang out from the now bleeding wound. She was frozen atop him, hyperventilating and in shock. Eyelids flickering, she stared at him, mouth wide.

Grinning wildly, he had a contained look of immeasurable gratification that contorted his face in an inhuman way. With a strike that rocked her, he slammed his fist into her breastbone, a spray of her blood rising like dust as he did so. Slowly, he began to pry at her ribs. He opened her chest like a set of heavy double doors, the sinews of her skin and tissue shredded at his strength. Her bliss was gone; there were only frightened tears and an unheard scream as the snap of Prudence's ribcage reverberated through the room. Looking down, she witnessed the splintered pieces of bone dripping red fall away, and in her last moments, she saw her own heart be drawn from her chest.


With a quick zip of his jacket and a crack of his neck, he closed the door behind him. Wiping the blood from his lips, he hopped into a little puddle that had accumulated at the bottom of the apartment steps. It was an average pace he set for himself, and his baseball cap shielded his face from the misty rain that was still coming down.

Hands sheathed in his pockets, he made his way down the drenched little street, only stopping at the end to cast a glance back over his shoulder. The stop sign cast a strange shadow along his face as he gazed back at the apartment.

"Pfft, Prudence. What a fucking stupid name."

He turned, and walked around the corner, the streetlight illuminating his back until it was lost to the night.

[Woz]

I love this fucked up kind of shit dude, I need more; it's brilliant.

[BrokenDoll]

So good need more

[Bia]

ohh Love the freaky twist!

[Juicesir]

Chapter 1 - Ready
Erin Gutermuth had always been one of those kids you just had to bully. That he was a scraggly, scrawny, son of an single mother had never helped his case. From his need to wear glasses to his excelling in all things not athletic, Erin was the Christmas of nerds to bullies.

It had started with his name. School children are particular experts when it comes to making fun of any person's name. Erin's just lent itself well to the sport. "Guttermouth," they'd whisper after the morning roll call. "Guttermouth," they say on the bus while making gagging motions. "Guttermouth," they'd use as an insult not only to him but others. "You're such a Guttermouth."

In fifth grade, once reading had become more prevalent in the delinquent circles, a new avenue of torture was discovered for young Erin. "He has a girl's name," Craig Parker screamed out one day. He said it like it was the cure for cancer. "His name's written like a girl," Craig had explained, putting special emphasis on the i in girl. This revelation prompted a new resurgence of bullying for Erin, though he'd never really gotten a reprieve. Now, there was justification for calling him a girl, right there in his name. Proof that Erin Gutermuth was, in fact, a pussy.

By middle school, things had gotten more creative. Sure, there was always the offhanded four-eyes lobbed his way, along with the holy trinity of of dork, nerd, and geek. But now there was the issue of class that was being brought into it. Erin had was poor, had always been poor, and expected he would be poor for the rest of his life. Having school lunch was now no longer considered cool, and was a sign of someone who looked like they lived under a bridge. The fact that Erin did live under a bridge - though it was technically a highway overpass - did not help his case and was quickly used as further fuel in the one-sided war against him.

New grounds were still being broken on the name front at this period in his life. A few intrepid bullies had discovered his singular parentage, which gave rise to a whole new series of jokes involving his mother. "Hey, I hear Mrs. Guttermouth gives the nastiest blowjobs," they'd joke within earshot of Erin. "She'll fuck you if you've got the money." Comparisons to livestock were often the norm with this particular series of jokes, and it was one such comparison which eventually led Erin to his first run in with trouble.

In Craig's defense, the insult he had said hadn't even really been that funny or creative. What Craig lacked in humor and imagination, however, he more than made up for in vicious delivery. "Hey pussy," he had called to Erin one late spring day in the locker room, "I hear your dad fucked a pig. And that's how you were born." It did not rank in Erin's top ten insults ever slung his way. It hardly made the top twenty that he could remember. But the vitriol of it - the way Craig had laid into each consonant and syllable with all the vile hate he could muster - was what had stopped Erin in his tracks that day.

Erin could have ignored it, it's true. He could've gotten showered, gotten dressed, and gotten on with his day. It would have been another semi-miserable footnote in the book that was his life. And he did try to walk away, just like his mother had told him. "They can't harm you with words, honey, if you don't let them." Gathering his towel and his clothes, he had purposefully strode away. But then had been lobbed the the followup: "Show us your hooves!"

Whether Craig Parker had ever actually said those words is a matter of some dispute. Some kids reported later that he had merely started the chant and accompanying clapping, with some other kid having said the bit about the hooves first. Other conflicting accounts stated that it had been Erin himself who had said "I don't have hooves," which then prompted the counterpoint of "Well why don't you prove it," from Craig. Regardless, what is known is that Craig Parker would spend the rest of that semester three teeth less and with a sea of bruises that always swam about his face, and that Erin Gutermuth would spend a week out of school on his first ever academic suspension.

The second one would come much later when he was in college. He had gotten into the local university, which functioned somewhat as a secondary secondary education for the majority of his high school classmates. It was high school redux, and he had hated every minute of it. With his financial aid lessening due to failing grades, and no friends at the school to speak of, it was his mother's ailing health which eventually convinced him to drop out. School sucked anyways.

So it was that he, Erin Gutermuth, had come to live back home at his childhood home. It was a dismal sort of place, not helped along by the years. The house was like a tree that couldn't get enough light; while the buildings around the highway overpass continued to grow ever skywards, the small cadre of old world constructions underneath it wilted. These were buildings that had what Erin's mother liked to commonly refer to as character: fading brick and cracked sidewalks, separate buildings with and unique designs, and a certain callback to a decade now long passed. The highway above served as a sort of barrier between the conglomeration of houses and the rest of the city; a little nook that time forgot.

His childhood home looked perfectly ordinary in a movie about the 1960's, but clashed with all around it once you crept out overpass's microcosm. It was two stories, as that was the tallest that could be built without scraping the cement of the highway, and it somewhat had a lean to it. You couldn't feel it when you were inside it, sitting in its old, cluttered living room or making breakfast on the gas stove. But you could see it in the way the paintings didn't quite hang right on the walls, and the way it sort of sat slumped next to the sidewalk. Which way it truly leaned Erin had always wondered. His mother had never claimed the same observation of it as he. It was a private vexation that only he, apparently, had ever had about the place.

It had been six years since he left college. Six years of jumping to a new job after being fired from the former. It wasn't that he wasn't talented, they would always explain, just that he would need to be more detailed. What details he was missing and how he could improve his eye for it was never explained by any of the string of managers who had fired him. He had always just needed to do a bit more, and never done so.

Bullshit, he had thought every time. He knew he was smart. He knew they were blind to it. Bullshit, he consoled himself, as he spent the last of each paycheck on ways to keep his mind occupied. And as he aged, his bitterness grew. Where bitterness grew, a urge for distraction came about.

They had always had internet. Erin's mother had gotten it installed a little later than most kids' parents had, but still relatively with the average amount of people. To Erin, it had always been a means of doing homework, and his mother had urged him as such. "This is a tool," she lectured, "this is to help you learn." That had been during the times when Erin's mother had taken care of him, and not the other way around. Before she became sick and gradually bed-ridden. Now, she had little sway over his daily activities. His freedom had flourished. Gone were hesitations about using the internet for different means. Divesting all his off-time and energy into the various pursuits only the world wide web could offer, Erin found new ways to kill the hours. Slowly, he gained a strange sort of confidence, and slowly, the appeal of the outside world quietly vanished.

Unknown seasons passed above on the highway. Rain that did not poor on the roof instead flooded the streets below. Snow that did not accumulate in the his house's yard spun through the air in the no-man's land between the two sides of the underpass. All that seemed to be collected as the detritus of humanity's discards. Comfort was what they provided to him, and he nestled into the routine.

Wake up. Microwave some food. Any food. Go online. Check the forums. Check the blogs. Check his MySpace. Check his instant messengers. Reply. Explore. And then it was lunch. The rest of the evening was spent in the same way.

Disability checks came. So did unemployment. All were put towards keeping their dial-up consistent. All were greedily used to further Erin's retreat for the world. As Y2K came and went, Erin found a new hope for himself in the digital confines of his created realm. No longer was he the kid who was tormented for wearing overalls and had his glasses stolen. No more would people get away with calling him names or taking away his lunch. He was the god of this new world, this dial-up realm. He chose his username with care and purpose, and now reigned supreme in chatrooms and forums. He was Guttermouth, and he was in control now.

[Kris]

Wow. You gotta continue this!