In Which I Share A Little

After my vacation last month, I promised that I'd share some of my writing project with you all. I haven't had so much as an hour since then to devote towards proofreading and editing, so what I'm going to share today is pretty rough. Keep that in mind as you read and forgive any errors along the way. 

What I'm about to share is at times graphic and not at all lighthearted or funny. Please recognize that before continuing.

The back story that would make this section make a little more sense is that the character here, Russell Miller, is a bitter and jaded man in his early thirties who began a career in nursing after caring for his crippled mother. His youth and his chances at an Ivy league college education were taken away as result, which is largely the source of his bitterness. He developed a taste for murder, starting first with his mother and then to the patients at the mental hospital he works at. Keen at staging the murders as accidents or suicides, he hasn't been caught... Yet.

The story is untitled thus far. I hope you enjoy this little sample.

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Russell Miller had one bitch of a headache.

If he had ever had a sip of alcohol in his life he would have likened the pain to being hungover. All the same, this was a pain he was familiar with. He was often stricken with these headaches when he had gone too long without killing someone.

Russell was a smart man, but he was no scientist. He didn't think that a person could become addicted to something other than the wide variety of substances available for recreational consumption. Behavioral addiction was something psychologists were just beginning to discover and understand, but Russell knew he was above all of that. He was in denial about his needs, saying to himself that he could stop killing whenever he wanted to. The simple fact is that he didn't want to.

As he shuffled into the kitchen of the house he grew up in, he aimed his bleary eyes towards the calendar hanging on the wall by the telephone. Without even realizing it he counted back the number of days it had been since he had killed. Forty-seven. Way too long.

He smiled faintly as he remembered his most recent kill. At nineteen, she was one of his younger victims. She was admitted for making several attempts at taking her life but never actually succeeding. Russell took care of that for her, though, staging her murder as if it was her last (and ultimately successful) attempt at suicide. He added into her medicine cup one night a fast-acting anticoagulant, and crept in during bed check to cut her throat. He used a butter knife from the cafeteria, which was dull but ultimately did the trick. Looking back on it now, it was a shame he had to kill her. She had great tits. Russell's smile deepened at the memory of how furiously he had masturbated to the image of her as she bled out in front of him later that night at home.

With trembling hands he poured himself a cup of coffee. He was in bad shape this particular morning, and he hoped the coffee would help. Two cups later, all it did was activate his bowels. He retreated back upstairs, forgoing breakfast in interest of the nausea caused by his headache, and got himself ready for work.

He drove to work in silence. His nerves were jumpy and his hands were still shaking, and he felt as if he'd burst into a ball of rage at the slightest frustration. There were a few times where he thought he was going to crash and pulled off to the side of the road until he composed himself. He couldn't remember ever feeling this way, but if his mind hadn't been addled by his withdrawal symptoms he would have remembered that he got this way in between each killing. Pulling into the long paved driveway leading up to Spring Meadow Spring Meadow Psychiatric & Long-term Care Hospital, he took a few deep breaths and willed his nerves to calm down.

As soon as he entered through the back door marked Employee Entrance Only, his nerves quieted and he no longer felt like there was a hurricane brewing inside of his head. The simple act of crossing the threshold into what he considered both his second home and his hunting ground was like the anti-venom to the poisonous malice that circulated in his veins.

He greeted warmly the few colleagues that had already clocked in for the day. His stomach grumbled amicably as he smelled something appetizing coming from the employee lounge. Someone had brought in muffins, and Russell helped himself to two, eating both with gusto.

The morning went well, a complete turn around from how his day began. His headache still lingered, but it was a minor nuisance compared to the skull-splitting pain of that morning. While making his rounds, Russell scouted the patients for his next killing. He found that his nerves were still on edge, buzzing with energy like high voltage power lines. He felt again like he was right on the edge of snapping, and he told himself that whatever he did, it was going to have to be soon if he expected to be able to make it through to the weekend. He wasn't sure he could take any more than a few more hours like this.

His rounds didn't yield any good possibilities. The current set of mental cases and cripples were all too new, their families coming to visit too often where the sudden death of their loved one would raise suspicion. Russell was beginning to lose hope, his eyes tinged with red from the need, when a commotion in the common room got his attention.

He smiled close-lipped. He grabbed a small tray and two syringes of tranquilizers, and made his way to the common room.

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As always, please leave your suggestions or comments. I appreciate any and all input.

Have a good weekend, everyone.