A School Boy's Example of a GCSE A+ in English Creative Writing

"These last few weeks have been hell. Speaking to no one, not knowing where to go...you don't really think it's possible to feel like a worm constantly struggling blindly through a compost heap that will be its prison until the day when it is finally plucked out of its own world into the bright truth that it is worthless. That it was born to a world that had no meaning to anyone. It is then, that a worm would learn that he is one of millions upon millions that are toyed with to be harvested into those within the world that is above them. It makes me realise we are all pathetic germs; and I have you to thank for opening my blinded eyes."

"I'm truly touched by your little speech. Really. But I must say that I have no reason to appreciate your pathetic feelings...get me a drink will you? I'm dying of thirst."

"Two beers, for me and my friend here... thank you."

"It is interesting that you seem to think that I have opened your eyes. You are still blind, you are still walking through certain walls because they are invisible to you, and you have bought me a drink after all that has happened to you; you should be disembowelling me as we speak."

"If I were to get angry with you now before you gave me the answer I'd have to disembowel myself..."

"...that's true."

"Why won't you tell me? I wish to learn about these walls that I am still blind of if they do exist. But I still struggle to see if your eyes are as open as I think they are."

"I don't need your trust, or your reassurance that I am not insane. However, you may not be aware of this but I have been keeping an eye on you for a reason, now don't go thinking a creature like you is special because if that was the case you wouldn't be here. But I need your eyes. I need to suck the sight from your sockets, to drain out what you have seen and burn it into ashes. Do you understand?"

"...Are you going to kill me?"

"So now you mock me with this idiocy do you? Use your brain you weak maggot!"

"...Sorry do you wish for me to tell you what I think I know?"

"That would be nice. From the beginning, I'm sure that the scenery will remind you."

"How could I forget such a feeding to my negative emotions?"

"I don't care. Start now before I lose my patience."

"...okay"

* * *

It's hard to know where to start, as a blur of the memories involved can still not be traced to anything whatsoever. We all work each day: we get up, maybe wash, eat, live for our labour that we work to give and earn, live our lives in the world where we socialize; then sleep. The cycle is the exact same regardless of what you do: it stays at a constant; not a circle but a triangle. A circle would involve everyone going in a clear and easy to understand pattern that is guaranteed to win or lose. A triangle is unpredictable because of the sharp edges that will only be revealed to you when you can't turn around.

I think I was in a diner. The awkward sign flashing at me attracted me with its invisibly transparent flash and the word flickering saying "Roc Ale". The sky was hurling down acid rain, eating away at a statue in the centre of a deserted park slowly peeling away to form a new powerful and somewhat obscene face. All traces of time seem to disappear after that moment. I then wake up from an insomniac's sleep in the stall of the bathroom. I had...a steak knife in my hand and had blood on the marks where I must have carved up the raw flesh that had inhabited my arm.

I jerked upright off the toilet I had been sitting on and unwillingly opened the stall door. I expected that I was in a drunken daze, but it didn't have the same feel; I had no thoughts passing or going through my head.

I was dead.

I was dead enough to walk and have no control over myself, like a puppet whose strings are tangled up in a passing rodent.

There was a bald man urinating in one of the urinals wearing those big pairs of glasses you would see that would make an angry crowd eat you alive; you could say he was an inferior. I felt some interest in the man, however much he smelt like a wet dog, the strings that were pulling me were dragging me closer to the foul stench as I felt the power tugging at the arm that had the knife. The arm that could kill. It feels awkwardly easy to go into detail of what happened as the knife was slowly brought down by a force stronger than gravity into the man's flabby pink flesh. I think that I heard a grunt from the man's mouth: a piggish, animal grunt that seemed like I was performing a circus death. One that was comical and meaningless; there was no sound after the second impale, only the slight raising of the arms reaching out for help either to me, or the little sparrow witnessing the entire murder.

The third blow was the end. The death of his pain and all the other emotions that probably made that man's life the most miserable one he knew; and yet...I felt neutral. That is the only word I can use to describe what I felt, as nothing would suggest that I felt blank; but I just felt something that was nothing. It is then that the killer gets his remorse. My emotions and control suddenly came flooding back to me like a rush of vomit coming from person still asleep, I felt it but wasn't aware that it would come like this. It is then; a far more real nightmare began.

Now aware of what I had done I released my grip on the blade, which looked like it was bleeding more than the corpse on the floor. It is then I say the cliché of all clichés when I splutter out the words

"What have I done?" the four words that always point to a negative action that shouldn't have been so. And there it was. Lying on the spoilt, tiled floor, its agnostic gaze still unsure of its fate was still staring at the only witness in the room: the sparrow. There was a split second when I considered killing the flying rodent but the thoughts didn't feel like my own and the voice was very quickly silenced. In the end I decided to hide the body's secrets as I dragged the lifeless lard across the floor and into one of the neighbouring stalls, mopped up the lethal spill on the floor, and hid the knife in the inside of a toilet where the object that kills could find a home in the object of rejected waste. Once my hands were washed clean of the suffering of the corpse I walked out the bathroom door into the diner.

* * *

Have you ever wondered what goes though a man's head when he does that final walk through the corridors of death row? Would he think of his friends, or his family? These thoughts are more likely to be in the back of his head. The most likely reason is that the man will think about the lusts that he never got to fulfil in his life: never being famous, never growing old and some may even wish they could have committed suicide. The only difference between death row and the long walk from the back of the diner to the front door was that I had no lusts in my head. I knew that this death would lead to me being killed but there was something slowly eating away at my subconscious and at that moment there was only one other lust; to die. I had pin-pointed every fatal object in my way as I walked by: there was a scolding hot cup of coffee, a chipped piece of glass, and what looked like a man with a gun. I had thought up an entire scenario at which I insulted the man's sexuality and he in his drunken state would beat me up. Then I'd grab him from behind and without thinking he would shoot me squarely in the forehead. Then I would become engulfed within bliss, where I would never have to think again and live a death of artificial happiness. However, as those thoughts collided with others they were very quickly pushed to the back of my head and ignored like an unwanted parasite. As the door gets closer to me with every step and the handle to my palm-

"Sir!" the bartender called out with a scratchy tone and averagely New York accent. For a minute again I thought I was dead again; then I realised that my heartbeat had just increased at such a rate that you would think your heart had remained dormant until that point. I knew that if I didn't talk the suspicion of my scared child eyes would be enough to make them run to the toilets without hesitation. I just had to be calm and answer.

"Yes?"

"Your bill sir. It's on the table"

"Oh...I'm sorry of course. I'll pay"

All of that was for a bill I didn't care about and was unlikely to affect anyone. I walked over to the table and paid it without regard to how much it was and just placing a twenty dollar bill in the middle of the pointless scripture and begun to walk towards the door. Again reaching for the handle and opening the door into the cold outside world of the boundaries of reality that the diner seemed to create. I felt like I was no longer in existence anymore. I entered my car and left the hell that I had created.

"And then I found you. Waiting in my car. Like a psychopath you were just sitting there smiling and talking with an awkward sophistication in your voice."

"Your point?"

"I didn't understand most of the things you were saying. You said some things to me, about how we are all irrelevant and that I should speak to you again in a month. But why are you known as the Oracle?"

"Because to be named makes me a creature and all creatures are weak. If I am an Oracle I am an object that is emotionless and invincible."

"Well whatever you said it has stuck in my mind and can't get rid of it. I constantly feel like my mind is at battle with something and it is starting to kill me inside...I'm sorry to bore you. Would you like another drink?"

"I'm afraid that's going to be difficult now because we're not in the bar anymore. We're in one of the bathroom stalls."

"What? B-but how? Why?"

"I have a confession to make. But it would be more fun if you worked it out."

"Are you some sort of evil wizard?"

"This isn't Harry Potter you fool! I made you kill that man."

"...that doesn't surprise me much."

"Really?"

"Yes. Ever since I realised the name of the place Roc Ale was an anagram for Oracle I knew something was wrong. I don't know how but I-"

"Let me ask you a question. What is your name?"

"...I don't know. I have forgotten after the death of a close relative...who I have also forgotten-"

"I am the voice. I am the voice inside your head that is telling you to kill. The one that is telling you to die."

"But how? How did you get into my head?"

"Don't you understand? I always was there. Except now I am awake. I am you."

"...I have multiple personalities? But why were the letters forming Roc Ale?"

"All a figment of your imagination. Just as the same way you are talking to your self on the toilet as we speak. And that's not all. You may have noticed that you have been going to sleep a lot earlier lately. Well during that time I have been most active, and there should be a surprise coming up. Do you hear that knock on the door?"

"Yes. Who's there?"

"Come out of the stall please Oracle, I wish to have a word with you."

"...Oracle? Oh right that's me. What do you want?"

"I have something to give you. What you requested."

"What's that in your hand? Is that a gun?"

"You have paid me to kill you in these very toilets, regardless of what you say. The way you explained it to me, it seems that suicide is the best option for you. You lust nothing but death. Goodbye Oracle."