Confession

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Confession
By Melanie E.

A dark, disturbing little something that popped into my head this morning while I was thinking about Pearl Jam's "Alive."

Anyone familiar with the actual connotations of that song should have plenty of warning: others, this is very, very disturbing. Read at your own risk.

-==-

Father, forgive me. It's been twelve years since my last confession.

Twelve years. Wow. I was thirteen then. It's surprising how quickly one can lose one's faith when you wake up and witness the betrayal of everything you are in the mirror every morning. That was the year I decided god was either deaf, dead, or had never existed in the first place, because there was no way any caring spirit would have done what He had done to me. I can pinpoint the day for you, even: it was the first day I'd woken up with soiled sheets, a racing heart, and that ache in the pit of my stomach and in my groin. The day I became a man.

"Became a man." Hah! Like some biological process you have no control over decides who you are for you. I knew it was wrong then, and I know it's just as wrong now. I wasn't a man, I never have been, as much as others may have told me otherwise. Do you know what that's like? Being looked down on by everyone you thought loved you, who YOU loved? Your own mother, your own sister and brothers. Having them look at you with those wild, angry, hate-filled eyes...

It was the eyes that attracted me to Linda. We'd talked a few times at the laundromat, just idle chatter really, two people wiling away the time while they wait for the spin cycle to finish. She was a little dumpy, and her hair was always a mess. She said it was because she didn't have time to take care of herself anymore, not with the kids keeping her busy, but through it all she still had those amazing blue eyes, the kind of eyes that told you she could forgive anything.

The eyes lied, though. I told her, father. I shared who I was with her, and watched in agony as those beautiful, friendly eyes changed. I saw it, father, I saw the hate, the disgust, began to build, and I couldn't stand it, not again.

I'm still not sure what happened that time. All I remember is blacking out, and when I came to there she was lying on the floor of the laundromat, the sheet around her neck and her beautiful eyes glassing over as her flesh cooled. I knew I had to get out of there, before someone caught me, but I just couldn't leave those eyes, so I took them with me.

It was the same with Carrie, too. That night in the bar, she came up to me and talked to me. She talked to me, father! I'm always left alone when I go places, but she came up and sat next to me, in her little dress and fishnets, and we talked. Her eyes weren't kind like Linda's, but they were full of life and a hunger for something. I thought it might have been companionship, or maybe just casual sex, something I learned long ago to ignore the pain and violation of and simply accept for the release it gave.

No. It was money. Sure, she told me, the companionship could come later, or the sex, whatever I wanted. All I had to do was fork over five hundred dollars and she'd be there for anything at all.

It was disgusting! How could someone with eyes like that be so callous? She was no different than the others, was she? So I gave her her money, and in exchange I took her eyes, too.

I think that's the first time they I remember seeing my name in the paper. "The Oedipus Killer." Idiots, not even understanding what they were saying or how incorrect it was. But it was a catchy name, nonetheless.

They were the first, but they weren't the last. I wanted to stop, I tried to stop, but what else could I do? I couldn't bear the thought of showing myself to the world again, being rejected again, and money's just always so tight, father, you know how it is. I couldn't afford the help I needed to make my life my own, to escape it all.

But I could find eyes. Such beautiful eyes, father. Brown ones, blue ones, green and grey. There was something about them that calmed me, that made the pain go away.

That's how I met Tommy, too. When his exhibit opened at the gallery, "In Your Eyes," I just knew I had to meet him. I found out quickly he was gay. I'd never been with a man, father, not before Tommy, but isn't that what women do? Man and woman, husband and wife, it just made sense! His actual eyes didn't touch me like the others had, or like the ones he painted, but I could look past that for how he made me feel.

Until last night. See, I decided to tell him last night, father. I invited him over to my home for the first time ever, and told him I had a surprise for him. While he waited in the living room I went up to my room and put on my prettiest dress, did my hair as best I could and put on my makeup before heading back down. Surely HE would accept the me inside, the me I'd hid from everyone, right?

When I came back down he was stood in the middle of the room, admiring my eyes. I kept them on a shelf above the television, in their own jars, each one labeled with the lady's name. I knew he'd appreciate them, and I wasn't disappointed, his eyes wide as he sat there entranced, until I walked into the room. He'd jumped father, and when he looked at me it broke my heart. There in his eyes, in my Tommy's eyes, was that same hatred, that same fear and disgust as everyone else.

I didn't wait for him to say anything; there was nothing to say. I simply did what I had to do, and sat his jar on the shelf with the others, as a reminder of why I can't ever open up to anyone.

Except you, father. I've been watching you for a couple of months now, I even started attending services again because I wanted to hear you speak your message of love and acceptance, to feel you look at me the way you do the children and congregation you love so much. You've changed so much since mother died and you found God again, father. Maybe now you can accept me, can embrace the daughter you always had but never wanted to acknowledge.

But you can't, can you father? There's no reason to lie. You see, I can see it in your eyes.

Forgive me father....

-==-

NOTES:

Weird, right? Sorry for this, I've just been working on a collection of non-TG horror stories here and there so when a little pseudo-TG plot presented itself I figured why not? Anyway, lemme know what you thought in the comments, good, bad, or whatever. I was unsure what all tags to use here.

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Comments

Superb

Nicely done.

A welcome response in an otherwise cold reception.

Thank you. I know it isn't everyone's cup of tea -- heck, it isn't even mine -- but I was expecting a bit more response than what I've gotten nevertheless.

Melanie E.

aah

so freaked out now
excellent
ed


ed

Did its job then :)

And thankew for my second comment: I was starting to fear nobody would want to say anything!

It isn't a comfortable piece, nor is it meant to be. There aren't a lot of actual horror pieces on the site, and given the general reception this piece has gotten, I'm seeing why.

Melanie E.

Did a double take

I glanced over this once then reread it and saw a whole new level of detail. You have a lot of courage going for a different style but it worked here.

This made me think of the Bikini Beach story "The Black Widow" in that it was such a change of pace than normal TG stories. Nicely done!

I'm told STFU more times in a day than most people get told in a lifetime

I try to mix things up when I can.

My favorite type of story is pretty obvious from the majority of my output, sweetly romantic pieces and the like, but every now and then it does the soul good to do a little mental cleansing with something darker.

Hopefully I don't start to develop a reputation as the Psycho Writer Chick, though; between this, Right Hand of the Devil, Beautiful, and A Darker Shade of Red, I've got a surprisingly large number of somewhat sick stories in my library here....

Melanie E.

Wow interesting!!!

to say the least, I think you captured the mind of a serial killer very well. I have to wonder if the priest is his/her next victim.

Well written, of course not the type of story you normally find here but a great piece none the less. Once I started reading I could not stop until the end and then wished for more.

We the willing, led by the unsure. Have been doing so much with so little for so long,
We are now qualified to do anything with nothing.

Probably best this ISN'T the usual.

Let's face it, it's not the most flattering light to cast a trans character in in a story, and some would say plays right into the fears so many people have about our mental states.

Melanie E.

Torn

waif's picture

This story was a hard read for me. I have a very low 'creep factor' and this one pushed me so deep into creepiness that I almost stopped reading. I gave it a kudo because it was well-written, imaginative, and unusual. With that said, I do not think I would recommend it to anyone that isn't into SAW, or similar films.

:-P

waif

Be kind to those who are unkind, tolerant toward those who treat you with intolerance, loving to those who withhold their love, and always smile through the pains of life.

It's got the cautions and horror markers for a reason :)

I appreciate the read, but I of all people can't complain about someone feeling out of their comfort zone, since my own is so narrow. Honestly, if this were someone else's story I probably wouldn't read it myself, so no hard feelings at all.

Melanie E.

1st person psycho killer story

laika's picture

There's not much scarier than one of these when they're done right, and this one was done very well. (After I read Jim Thompson's THE KILLER INSIDE ME 20-something years ago I tried my hand at one, it came out more like macabre slapstick; and it's posted at Fictioneer). This, being far more serious must have been very unpleasant to write, getting into the head of someone like this. And sadly it's not actually inconceivable that there could be a serial killer with trans feelings, especially if they were plagued by guilt and self-hate, like that asshole in Orlando who wanted to purge the gay in himself by shooting a bunch of gay people. This was good, but I'm glad it was short.....The only thing more disturbing than this would be if it had an "autobiographical" tag...

Thank goodness not!

I don't THINK I'm a psycho killer. I'm pretty sure I'd remember that kinda thing after all :)

No, it wasn't fun to write, but it was an interesting exercise at least. I tried to put in enough to make the killer somewhat sympathetic, at least from a distance, but at the same time I wanted to show that by the time of the story their psychosis has progressed to the point there isn't much relatable or empathetic left there at all, just on the edge of gibbering madness, just about to go over that edge.

I'm glad you thought it was well-done, and thanks for taking the time to say so! The initial delay on comments was a little worrisome, but I'm glad I've gotten a decent response to it.

Melanie E.

Astounding!

Holy fsking god, Melanie! OoO That was amazing! A perfect example of psych-suspense horror. Nothing at all like Saw or its torture porn ilk. Except for how hard this sort of thing is to 1. write, and 2. not corrode inside from writing, I'd beg for more. ^^

-Liz

Successor to the LToC
Formerly known as "momonoimoto"

Glad you enjoyed it :)

It really ISN'T the type of thing I want to write too often, or think I could even if I DID. I'm glad it seems to be effective though.

Melanie E.

A good read

Yes, it's weird though a good one. We love those who share love while getting pain. Protagonist isn't the most loved person but she is true and she has right to share what she gets the most.

Protagonist

Enemyoffun's picture

I think she's nuts lol.

nicely written

reminds me of an episode of a crime series where the perpetrator had a novel use for an ice cream scoop!!!!! but this so much more haunting.

Thank you!

Ice cream scoop huh? I doubt I'll ever write anything where the violence is THAT creative!

Melanie E.

The Eyes Have It

I'm glad I've got about fourteen hours to get my mind right before going to bed. Haunting.

Jill

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

That means a great deal coming from you.

When I was writing it the voice in my head speaking the words was very much a John Malkovich or Peter Sarsgaard type, including the physical inflections you get from the two, so a lot of the vocal rhythm was affected by that, though there was a healthy dose of Norman Bates in there too.

Melanie E.

"The Eyes have it"

as they say in the House of Commons.

"The Eyes have it"

as they say in the House of Commons.

Excellent.

I do enjoy a short story that is well written and creative. This is very good.

Claire Stafford