u/Pinguinkllr31

This is a short story i submitted for a contest: It was written in Spanish and I used a translator, it takes place in Mexico so there going to be some Mexican words in it.

It's a constant ticking sound. Tick, tick, tick. Every time I pull at the corner of my toenail while watching television. Little by little, when I start to feel that pain in my toe is when I know I'm getting close to my goal. But I don't look at it; I keep watching TV until I can feel how my nail lifts from the skin of my smallest toe. That's when I pay attention and the real pleasure begins. I keep pulling the nail, little by little it separates more; the pain starts in small doses that I enjoy very much, but I don't stop until I'm done. One more pull and it's almost completely detached; another pull and my toenail has come off entirely. I enjoy the shiver that runs from my foot up to my neck when the last thread of tissue connecting them breaks. At first the blood only peeked out, but now it flows, forming a bubble that begins to drip onto my bedroom floor. That's what I wanted; even if I pretend it wasn't my intention when I rush to the bathroom, clean it with rubbing alcohol and cover it with a band-aid. I always keep both on hand; at the same time I clean the floor so the crimson drop of blood I left won't be seen. I don't want my mom to know I did it again; my toes are my only witnesses. Tomorrow I have to go to school and it's already late. I'll go to bed.

This time the good thing was that I didn't leave a bloodstain on my sheets; that's something that tends to happen every time I pull off a nail. But on this warm morning I only worried about taking a quick shower and coming downstairs for breakfast. I changed the band-aid on my foot and put on my shoe. Every step can be felt in my little toe since it's the one that rubs most against the inside of my shoe. The hallway on the way to the kitchen is clean, as is the rest of the house; the decor is tasteful and pleasant to the eye, the fake flowers are excellent for setting a good atmosphere, and the kitchen table in the middle where I eat is always clean.

Ham with egg and avocado is a very healthy breakfast for a fat guy like me — tasty all the same.

—Wash your plate when you're done.

—Yes, Mom, I have to leave soon so I'm not late.

—Wash it anyway.

I have to avoid limping — I don't want it to be too obvious when I walk out the front door. Already in my truck, I plug in my iPod through the aux with the album I've been listening to lately. There's always a ton of traffic around my house in the mornings and people drive like idiots. I can't stand it, but I've made it to school; now all I have to do is put up with everyone else. I can see their faces — they're at peace. The plaza looks like a sea of kids when it's time to go in, and over time they scatter to their classrooms, to their classes. Classes start flowing; today feels more blurred than others, I can barely find enough interest to listen to my teacher. I hold out long enough until the break.

—Two flour burritos, one with chicharron and one with salsa verde.

—So in the movie, the man takes the other guy by the leg and slices off his ankle. First he hits it with a mallet to break it, then when the bone isn't whole anymore he uses a hacksaw. He made about 4 or 5 strokes before separating it. Here you go.

—Why the hell would you tell me that? You're ruining the damn movie, moron. — I still had the bite in my mouth; I hope he understood what I said.

—It's been out forever, don't get your panties in a twist.

My friends and I have started looking for as many gore films as we can find the bloodier the better, and if they involve people being mutilated, those are their favorites. I prefer when women are the ones doing the mutilating to men. Between these movies and the pornography we share with each other, I don't think we have much else in common. It's no surprise people see us as something strange, me more than him. The guy has the advantage of not being an ugly fat slob like me, and has actually gotten himself a girlfriend. So sometimes when he's with her I have no choice but to wander around school like the loser creep that many people probably think I am.

When the bell rings I get up without returning my tray and head back to class. I enjoy the pain in my toe with every step, it's sharp and quick. It distracts me from the shame of being me as I walk in front of everyone toward the classroom. Though they don't know it, they don't know the pleasure I feel in the pain in my foot. It might be a miserable place to be, but it's still better than being at home. It had to be a damn Friday; tomorrow I'll have to be there. This movie will keep me distracted and my toe will take a few days to heal enough to stop hurting. I'll be able to entertain myself until Monday. I still try to find ways to make my trip home longer;

I know the route, I'm getting closer. I try to enjoy the rest of the walk before the night finishes covering it. I can see the house and the spot where I usually park my truck.

—Pull the truck into the garage, idiot.

I hadn't even gotten out of the vehicle when my father shouted at me. I got out, walked to the gate and unlatched it, then pushed it with force. Its old, rusted rails jammed constantly. I had to put my heavy body's weight behind it to move it. The metallic crash announced that the whole gate was open. I went back to my truck; it nearly disappeared into the black of the night if not for its size and the cargo bed my father used to haul rubble, rocks, or cinder blocks at his job sites. Its size meant I had to park carefully so as not to scrape it against the garage wall or the gate. I always manage it without a problem. I closed the gate with the bolt and a padlock that wouldn't open again until Monday. I headed toward the house door.

I liked the yard, it was well kept. There was one in front connected to the garage, surrounded by a fence with ochre stone pillars and an almost solid iron gate; you couldn't easily see inside. I entered through the main wooden door into the foyer, which was spacious; my mother was in the living room to one side and my father in the kitchen at the front.

—How are you guys?

—Fine, sweetheart. How did it go for you?

—Good, Mom. How are you?

My father finished drinking his chocolate milk, got up from the table, and greeted me the way he usually does.

—How'd it go, son? Why did you get home so late?

—I was out with my friends and my girlfriend.

—Look, idiot; if you're going to lie, make it believable. His girlfriend.

He walked past me after mocking my mention of a girlfriend, he had left his plate in the sink, and headed toward the stairs. Before he started going up, he turned back to me:

—Wash the dishes, sweep the kitchen and the entrance.

I went to the kitchen to make myself something to eat before doing it: I made an egg with breadcrumbs and grabbed the soda that was left in the door of the fridge it had gone flat and tasted bad. I finished it anyway and finished my dinner. Still hungry, I ate a piece of bread with jam and got ready to go up to my room. My mom had already left the living room couch to her table in the yard where she was drinking a beer and smoking. I headed to the staircase to go up to my room. The second floor had a second living room that opened to all the bedrooms. Four of them, each with its own bathroom. I had one and another we used as storage. In my room I had my TV, video games, computer nothing else besides a poster or some simple decoration; the rest was white walls and beige floor. A window opened to the small backyard, but the only view was the wall of the next house. Time to settle into my chair and see what's happening on my laptop a whole world of its own. First things first I take off my shoes and socks, and I look at how the moisture of my foot's sweat has turned the wound white and pink in the space where my toenail should be. I need to let it breathe and dry out.

I follow a lot of forums. I love reading discussions about anime and TV series, I like many of them: action and mystery, though sometimes I have to admit I watch some shows that are almost childlike; they're sweet and make you feel calm. Occasionally I can smell cigarette smoke through my window when the wind blows inward. While I have my show running in the background I play my favorite video games, usually horror, terror, or puzzles. Always fast-paced, I like fast games. Even if I'm not. I pause my game and open one of the forums I follow.

"Ten Best Duels on Television"

Interesting, and it matches what I would say. I leave a comment and another one telling someone how stupid they are for posting that comment. That's common in forums. Some people get so aggressive in these threads that they start insulting each other, wishing bad things on each other, and even wishing each other dead. I didn't feel bothered and kept browsing more forums.

"The Bloodiest Videos That Happened in the Country"

These are shocking. Some people comment about how horrifying they find it; others insult the country where it happens. Everyone always seems to know exactly who the culprit is — they're so certain that some even celebrate it. I don't usually comment on these forums even though I watch them often. While reading the comments I listen to my favorite music. I'm still waiting before I can watch the movie my friend gave me — I want to wait until everyone is asleep. Sometimes I think I hear someone calling me from outside the room, from somewhere in the house.

"The Story of the Serial Killer with Photographs of His Victims Bodies"

These are the best — there's always a lot to look at, though little to comment on. It's one of my favorite topics; I always try to find and read about a different one, the more graphic and with more photographs the better. I get dressed — I'm close to the computer screen. I can hear someone talking to me. Someone is calling me from somewhere in the house. Calling me.

It's not that late yet — I still have time to read a little more and then I'll put on the movie. I can still hear someone calling me. The knocking on my door confirmed it. Before I could go open it, my father opened it himself with his red, stabbing stare, his lower lip so bitten it looked like he might tear it off with his own teeth.

—I told you to wash the dishes and sweep, you useless piece of garbage.

He came toward me and hit me in the face with a pipe — it didn't knock me down, but he didn't stop:

—Why won't you do what you're asked? You ungrateful little wretch!

He kept hitting me, wound up for another blow and struck me on top of my head. He pushed me to the floor and kicked me in the nerve of my leg. Then he stood in front of me waiting for me to get up. He waited as I slowly got to my feet. I could smell tobacco from the window as I walked toward the door. My father shoved me so I would fall when I was near the stairs.

—Move it, it's already nighttime.

When we got to the kitchen, he opened the fridge and then slammed it shut.

—You drank the last soda. You're a disgusting slob.

He threw the empty bottle hard at my face and went to sit at the kitchen table. Watching me clean, insulting me — sometimes he laughed. My mom walked past me and wished me goodnight on her way upstairs. My father just turned to tell her:

—Get the hell upstairs already, woman. Finish sweeping — properly! — then go to sleep.

I did what he said, poured myself a glass of water, and went back upstairs to my room. I didn't bother turning anything on. I went to sleep.

When I dream, sometimes I feel my body incredibly distanced from everyone else — standing at a midpoint inside a dark hole whose bottom I cannot see. People watching me from the edge somehow, I sense their gazes, but they're so far away I can't make them out. The dream comes and goes as I shift in my bed. I don't know what time it is and I won't know until I wake up. I return again to the dream. I feel the distance, the depth of the dark cliff where I find myself. It feels so far away. A voice reaches me from above — a familiar voice I cannot ignore. It's my father asking me to wake up. When I open my eyes he's there watching me, telling me to get out of bed right now.

—I have work for you. We'll need to get up on the roof.

Before starting to work, I had breakfast with my mom in the kitchen. She made eggs again and I paired them with avocado. This morning she sat with me at the table. While we watched the news on TV we talked about my father, as we usually do. I would consider it one of the few things we bother to talk about. The conversation always revolves around him — how she can't stand him and I hate him. I always express my conflict: he hates me for being fat, for not being like him, and constantly punishes me with work, insults, and cruel jokes. My mother doesn't do much to stop him and doesn't go to bat for me — she only watches and carries her own frustration of being his wife. She only responds to what I said with:

—Son, you are fat — I always tell you that. Your father should hit you harder so you improve. He's not wrong.

It only made me feel worse.

My father called me from the yard to come get the ladder. It was a large, heavy ladder for getting up on the roof, so it was difficult to maneuver. My father made it harder by shifting it during the process. He handed me some buckets to carry up and I started climbing. With the buckets in my hands I went up rung by rung, careful not to fall or drop the bucket I was holding. Either one would end in a beating from my father. From the top I could see the city in the distance for a moment before coming back down for more materials. At the top of the ladder, when I was about to start going back down, I felt a shake — I held on to the ladder as tightly as I could so as not to fall. My father was laughing from below as he rattled it.

—Don't fall, hahaha.

I didn't fall but I was scared. I reached the bottom of the ladder and took the other bucket — it was waterproofing sealant for the roof. This bucket was even heavier so I climbed more slowly. Suddenly I felt the ladder twist to one side and begin to slide off the edge of the roof. In my panic I let go of the bucket and it fell to the floor, exploding in a white splatter that covered the tile and the yard walls. I fell almost right after it, landing on my side, hitting my arm. It was painful, but then I felt something stronger that overshadowed it.

—You idiot!

My father hit me with the garden hose, striking my face and all over my body. He kept doing it over and over until I started to cry. He stared at me for a moment and spat on me.

—Pathetic crybaby. Now I'll have to go buy more waterproofing for the job. You stay here and clean this up. Use the hose.

With water and a broom I set to cleaning the tile.

Later that day when my father came back, we left the roof job for the next day and just finished washing the vehicles we have. I could still feel the pain in my arm, but what hurt most was the bruise the hose had left on my face. Around late afternoon I did my best to shut myself in my room and not come out for the rest of the day. My mother did the same in the yard with her wine and her cigarette. That Saturday my father went out drinking at a bar with his friends. The house fell silent. Without him, it doesn't have much life. In my room, with the lights low and my door shut. I drifted into a trance for a moment, staring at the bedroom floor, the walls, even my desk — just thinking. When I came back to myself I managed to think of something to distract me. Now that the house was empty and quiet I could watch my movie. I sat down with my laptop on my lap and plugged in the USB drive to play it.

Nothing impressive — I had seen that mutilation scene at the start of films many times before. This one took place in a family home where the inhabitants hated each other, and little by little fell into the desire to release their hatred in a physical and visceral way. The scene they described to me is there. The father is cutting the ankle off a person they've captured and slowly begins removing all the limbs, leaving them as nothing but a torso. Watching it on screen is captivating — the special effects make it look almost real. There are more victims in a chain; the story continues as they're dismantled into smaller and smaller pieces of themselves. I wish I could have that strength — to reduce my father into pieces so small of himself that I can no longer see him; even putting him through a meat grinder would be best. Watching how his flesh twists and is destroyed until it becomes a shapeless paste. In the film one of the captives breaks free, hiding throughout the house, and kills the father. He drives a knife in at the base of his jaw up to his skull, then does the same to his wife and the rest of the family with a fire. If only I were that strong:

—Tell me, movie — could I be that strong? — I say with the warmth of the laptop pressed against my face, my cheek against the screen. My head seems to be mixed in with the blood on screen.

What can I do? I hate this place, but I don't have the courage to do anything about it. What can I do, what can I do? I couldn't do that — unlikely, maybe impossible? Or possible. If I were to try to mutilate my father I'd have to be fast. Unlike me, his size doesn't come from fat but from muscle. I need to cut a part that will weaken him. I'll search online:

>Best places to cut someone to kill them.

The neck seems like the best option. How do I get close — should I wait until he's sleeping more deeply? My father went drinking tonight. He'll sleep heavily. Will I be able to do it?

I'm in the kitchen. It's night — the middle of the night, even. There's no sound. My father arrived a few hours ago and is in bed. He doesn't lock his door. I need to find a way to be discreet. This knife — the internet said something pointed and long was better than something wide. This one is good. Am I really going to do this? I'll put an end to the beatings, the shouting, the mockery. This man has provided for me, but has he done it because he loves me or to have a punching bag? I'll do it. I'll ignore my fear and my conscience. I'll free myself and free my mother. She can do whatever she wants — what matters is that I will be free. I need to go up quietly, enter his room. Lift my arm and bring it down hard on his neck. Let him bleed and die. It will be like when I pull off my nail — the pain won't last.

It's been an hour since he arrived and went to sleep. I can no longer hear him talking or moving — the moment is drawing closer.

The silence fills the spaces of the rooms and I take the opportunity. Closer and closer to the door. They're well-kept and there's no moisture — no creaking from the hinges. I take the knife from my bag. I hope it doesn't slip with the sweat of my hands. It's now or never. I need to make one single quick thrust of the knife with my arm — aim well. One thrust, just one, with force. Why am I taking so long? I have to do it. My stomach is rising up my throat. I feel like I'm going to throw up. Hold it together. My mother. She's watching me — how long has she been doing that? Why is she watching me, why isn't she saying anything?

—What the hell do you think you're doing!

A blow knocked me off balance; the knife fell from my hand. My father had gotten up and seen me — he didn't wait a second before moving and knocking me down. He was furious. He pulled out a belt and started hitting me with it; the buckle at the end marked my skin. I fell to the floor but he kept hitting me with the belt.

—What the hell did you think you were going to do, stab me? Worthless ungrateful trash, I'll kill you.

My mother was asking him to stop, saying she didn't know if that's what it was. After several minutes I was bleeding from my forehead and my back — the belt buckle had opened my skin.

On Sunday he put a padlock on my room. We didn't talk about any of what happened. My father just set me to cleaning the garden and kept me out of his sight. My mom prepared the food and didn't speak to me.

During Sunday afternoon my father had left the house for a few hours and left me locked in my room. The door only opened so that my mom could bring me food on a plate and a glass of flavored water. She left it on my desk and headed for the door. Before she left I took the opportunity to ask her.

—Are you afraid of me, Mom?

She thought over her answer for nearly a minute, gave a sigh as she turned toward me.

—I only wish you hadn't hesitated at the last moment.

I didn't speak to her again until breakfast the next morning, when she asked me to wash my plate.

When I was at school, I saw my friend and gave him his movie back. I said my injuries were from falling out of a tree. I didn't tell anyone what happened over the weekend.

So I started my first novel roughly a year and a half ago. If you're curious about it, just mix:

Logan's Run by William F. Nolan and George Clayton Johnson, The Plague by Albert Camus, and the song Race for the Prize by The Flaming Lips, and that will tell you the plot.

Now I'm doing the second draft, rewriting the whole thing again, and it's interesting seeing how, in the first chapter, I have to basically fully rewrite the whole thing. It was horrendous, and it makes me so embarrassed of how badly the story was told, so it's a full redaction, basically.

As I move forward, I notice my redaction didn't have to be as strict. In fact, I focused more on adding to the story. It's funny; I can also see the parts where I was too tired, or I was rushing the story just to finish that day. So I fixed those too by adding more, removing gibberish, and even adding a full chapter to make it better.

"The dialogue got very improved" I say to myself.

Now I'm at the last two chapters, and I see they need way less redaction. By this point, on the first writing, I had been coming to this subreddit and destructive reader and many other peer-review subreddits to exercise my writing, and I'd been reading more often than before as well. I had a beta reader read the first draft, and so I knew I was on the right way because she said, "It's entertaining," so that was enough to motivate me to do another novel draft. I put aside that second draft to finish working on this one. I also did short stories, and many.

I'm so glad I can see my improvement in writing, not only over the course of one story, but also in being able to improve my past writing.

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