Please login or signup to add a comment to this paragraph.


Add comment   Close
Kerrie Thomson Kerrie Thomson
Recommendations: 7

Oh you could call me mad...


Share this writing


Link to this writing



Start Writing

More from Kerrie Thomson

Hearts of Pirates
Who am I?
Elements
As the man walked...
Bitter taste

More Short Stories

Rebekah King Rebekah King
Recommendations: 21
Darkness
Jason Dookeran Jason Dookeran
Recommendations: 12
Nell
Elizabeth Tan Elizabeth Tan
Recommendations: 29
I Cannot Resist
Stephen Stribbell Stephen Stribbell
Recommendations: 10
Four Fundamentals of Making Acquaintances
Kaitlyne Beaudin Kaitlyne Beaudin
Recommendations: 25
She had a friend.

Hello, some of you users may not remember me or even know me but I was a writer on here who left two years ago. Anyway, this story was insired by The Christmas Carol and Alice in Wonderland, I was also hyper as well from drinking lots of energy drinks so there will be some madness in here. Enjoy.


Oh you could call me mad.
Or insane.
Or 'L'homme fou' as the French call myself.
To be quite fair, many different words that ever mean insane, crazy or mad have been used to describe the fellow known as myself. 'Mad as a hatter,' they always say. 'A madman! A psycho! A maniac!'
Yet do these very words describe my very soul? As mad as I may be, I am not as mad as you thought I would be. Allow me to explain my tale, relax and enjoy.


Life and death is like a pocket watch you see. Tick tick tick it goes! Look at the little fellow go! Moving its little and large hands with hints of life. However, slowly our dear little clock loses that life, its gears rust like metal left in the rain for many years, the ticking slowly slows down and down and down until... BAM! The watch is dead and the life is gone! The poor thing is dead! Who killed it? Who was the murderer? Was it you? Was it YOU?
Yet do you wish to hear a story? One that haunts the mind of the bravest of men and can make a fearless lion tremble with fear like a mouse cornered by a horde of cats. You see, it was a cold winter's morning with frost painted on the windows and Jack Frost himself was blowing shivers down your very spine. It was cold enough for even gods and goddesses above to freeze and shiver.


I, myself, was working with ease, despite the chill in the morning air. I work as an Undertaker's apprentice, one who arranges funerals. I also create coffins as well although mine are not as good as the work of my boss.
My boss was a tall and talented man called Dawson Kenway, he was a handsome chap yet one complete and spoilt prat. Although his coffins were grander than Buckham palace, they cost more than a whole ocean filled with pure gold. He craved for gold, you know? Coins! Silvers! He hordes it all! He craves it more than anything else in the world. I reckon he wouldn't even spare a single piece of his vast amount of treasure for his life. Mind you, he was the rudest of men you'll ever meet, he gored down his three course meal like a starving pig, forgetting his manners and sending bits of meat and flesh flying. He would tore through his manor like a mad highway man with no control over his horse. Never once did he spare a coin for the poor, young or old. Although well-known for his work, nevermore was he liked for his disgusting behavior.


Think of me a liar you can but dear Dawson died many years ago, his life came to a quick stop. BAM! Just like the little pocket watch. His time ran out surprisingly quickly.
Here's a little secret between you and I, yet can you keep it a secret? Can you? Can you? CAN YOU?
You see my dear friend, Dawson's death was no accident. It was a murder and it was jolly ol' me who caused his death to begin with. I may be mad but I am clever, clever like a clever hatter who is cleverer than a mad hatter who is madder than a hatter. Clever I am yet mad as well.
Yet, aren't we all?


Although I worked with Dawson for three years, I hated the man known as Dawson the Baker Street Undertaker. I despised him, my eyes burned with fury whenever I laid eyes on him. My very soul within my very self screamed for his very death! Never once did he praise me for my work, never once did he give me the amount of gold I was meant to have. A single coin for over 16 hours of solid work! In the end, I decided it was time to rid dear Dawson and claim all the gold for myself! Surely no-one would notice the man they hate disappear into thin air?


I began my work once the moon reached its peak, the smallest of snowflakes laying to rest as I cleverly sneaked my way to his manor. While he was working a few hours ago, I cleverly took his spare key and hid it within my chest pocket. I may seem like a thief but this was for a very good cause so no harm was done. As soon as I reached the wooden oak doors of his over sized manor, I carefully opened the doors without making a single sound and I slid inside.
Slowly, I tip-toed up the carpeted stairs, wielding a simple woodcutting axe in my skeletal hand. I was grinning to myself about my lovely plan, I imagined all of that gold running through my very fingertips like crystal water. Oh how I wanted that gold! I stopped in front of the door to the master bedroom and peeked through the keyhole, my golden eye flickering from one place to another. Then, ever so slowly, I pulled the handle down and opened the door silently. I crept inside and slowly closed the door behind me.


Lying on that four-post bed was Dawson. He slept peacefully like a lamb that night, perhaps dreaming of the gold he had inside one of his rooms. He looked quite cosy within that bed, yet how could he sleep with the thought of knowing there were people sleeping in the harsh December cold? Slowly, I tip-toed to his bedside and loomed over him, casting my shadow over him like a vampire prepared to take his next victim. My free hand crept up to his neck while I raised the axe above my head. Nevermore did my heart beat as fast than it did that night, my blood pumped through me quicker and quicker while my widen eyes felt as though they would surely fall out.


My fingers locked around his neck, quite tightly, and with one great powerful throw, I chucked him out of bed and onto the floor.
Dawson woke up and released one piercing cry as I brought the axe down at him! Oh you should have seen it! It was amazing! Fantastic! A true show. Blood splattered against my hands and shoes as I brought the axe down on him. It pierced through his skull like a knife in butter. I yanked the axe out and I struck him again and again and again! Blood splattered everywhere where it could reach! On the carpet, on the walls, on the furniture and on the windows! Oh the glory I felt as I repeatedly sliced his body with that axe. I tore his flesh with a hack, ripped out his organs and hacked them as well. Tearing, ripping, clawing, slicing, cleaving, severing, slitting every flesh and muscle I see! Even his bones became small white powders once I was finished with them. The excitement and the madness, oh the MADNESS, pumped through me like my own blood. Oh the beauty of killing of another man with my very hands! Oh lord, I was laughing madder than the hatter himself. I feel like an unstrung spring, as light as a feather! Oh I feel as though I am the very exsistance, the very defination, of the feeling we all call madness! After a few more minutes of hacking and endless laughter, I was done and Dawson was nothing more than a pile of mashed flesh, muscle, bones and organs. You wouldn't even recognize him if I took a picture of what he ended up as now. With my clever scheme finished, I took out some spare clothes I brought with me and changed, washed the blood from my fingers and face before leaving the room to claim my gold.


I never did. You see, Dawson has servants and one of those pesky little grassers had heard Dawson's scream and my endless, lunatic laughing and went to call the jolly ol' police. I didn't hear them but as soon as I opened the master bedroom door, two of those bulky men in blue picked me up and whisked me off to the jail.
Now, I might be clever and mad but I didn't have charm as I thought I did. I was put on trial a week after and I tried using my graceful charm to try and convince the judge it was not I who killed him. However, the judge resisted, as did everyone else who attended my trial. Guilty I was and in the end, I ended up getting executed by the French and their lovely guillotine.
POP! Off came my head and that was the end of that. I died just like the watch that died when its gears stopped working.


My dear friend, please understand me. Although I killed a man who was vile and cruel and spared not a single coin for the poor. Does the words meaning mad, insane and crazy still describe my very soul that lurks within my very body? As mad as I am and dead I may be, you wasn't very clever my very dear yet not-so-bright friend. You see, I now see all people as vile and cruel as Dawson and you see... you should have paid more attention to your surroundings instead of me. While you were listening to my story, I cleverly, oh-so cleverly, snuck behind you with my dear woodcutting axe raised.


Oh you could call me mad.
Or insane.
Or 'L'homme fou' as the French call myself.
However what you, my dear little ticking pocket watch, shall call me shall have the honor of being the final words you call me!


Link to this writing

Share this writing


Next: Succubus