Work Text:
“Dammit!”
Charlie aggressively flung the barely touched papers off his desk. He gripped his hair and stood up. He needed a break. His fingers hurt and his head was throbbing. Yet he barely wrote a word. This was his job, his money, his health, his life. He didn’t have this much trouble last time, what’s going on now?
Charlie looked out the window from his study. The town was quiet, as usual, until it wasn’t.
The neighbor across the street. The new neighbor across the street, Bill. Bill was your basic southern redneck that, to Charlie, seems like he grew up in a barn. Charlie snarled at the sight of him, he was loud, rude, and obnoxious. This wasn’t Florida, it wasn’t Alabama or Georgia, it certainly wasn’t the Carolinas. This was Missouri, and Missouri folk liked their peace and quiet. This town was poor, small, and quiet. Bill didn’t seem to understand that.
No matter, Charlie rolled his eyes and straightened his tie. He’ll ignore his awful, despicable loud voice. He already does, but it seems Bill cannot accept that he is unliked.
Imbecile.
Charlie sighed and decided to subside his anger into his bad attempts at being perfect. What, what, what to write about? It’s fiction, you can make anything happen. What do people want these days?
The pony tailed man grabbed the papers off the floor and placed them back, gently on the desk. He stared at what he had written.
‘4/13/1923’
Pathetic.
Charlie grimaced at his failure. He sat back down and grabbed the newspaper next to him. He needed a break. And a break he got, for about three seconds.
Billy’s incredibly loud voice made its way into Charlie’s house and into his ears. He won’t shut up. Charlie was not having it that day, he threw down the newspaper and went back to the window to stare at the man. Menacingly.
There he was, chatting away to absolutely no one about absolutely nothing. Charlie couldn’t believe how unintelligent people can be sometimes. Beer? Tractors? This man sounds like a character Charlie would kill off in one of his stories.
…
…
…
Kill off.
Charlie’s annoyance and pure hatred washed away slowly as his grimace slowly went into a neutral face. Kill off. Bill would be someone who Charlie would’ve killed off. And then the main character would have the dilemma of getting away with murder. The antagonists would be police, detectives. It has everything a writer needs to start. Everything.
Charlie smiled. He hasn’t felt this much joy in years. A story about getting away with murder! It’s brilliant! He stared at Bill’s friend say goodbyes and walk away, Bill goes back into his house. The sun’s going down, everything is perfect. Absolutely perfect. That’s exactly what Charlie needed it to be, perfect.
What’s a better way to write a “How To” without doing it yourself?
Charlie opened his window to see if anyone else was out at this hour. Not a soul. Charlie was practically hopping out of his seat. Everything was going his way already. But he can’t celebrate yet. He needed materials.
Charlie looked down at his hands, gloves clean besides the few bits of ink from the writing. Material one done. He looked back at Bill’s house, bringing out his small mental notes from over the days. Bill’s a hunter so he’s got weapons. Proudly displayed weapons in his house. Charlie needed to get in there. Bill’s an idiot so that wouldn’t be a problem.
Charlie walked out of his study, downstairs to his fireplace, which had no fire.
Charlie’s smile grew so much it became wrong.
He placed some logs down, lit a match, and the fresh new fire came brewing. He turned off all the lights downstairs, readjusted his glasses, and walked out the front door.
He checked around for any other potential characters in the story. When there wasn’t any, he straddled right up across the street to Bill’s door.
Three knocks.
It took a second, but Bill opened the door. Now, Charlie was about 6’1, Bill matched his height. But what he didn’t match was his intelligence. Why would you not ask who it was at this time of day? Bill smiled and Charlie was already annoyed. But he kept this composure.
“Howdy, Charles!” Bill greeted the author and gave him unappreciated pats on the back. Charlie faked a smile back.
“Greetings, Bill. I was thinking about your offer the other day and I... would like to share a beer with you. If you’ll have me, of course.”
Bill was excited. He welcomed Charlie inside and closed the door behind him. Bill’s house (In Charlie’s view) was absolutely disgusting. But what was worst of all were the mounted heads on the wall of innocent animals, proudly displayed. Charlie never understood why someone takes the life of an innocent.
But what really caught Charlie’s eye was the displayed axe. It looked surprisingly well crafted. Charlie pointed at the axe, quickly putting the unwanted beer down when Bill turned to look.
“That there be my dad’s right there,” Bill smirked proudly and carefully took the axe off the wall. He turned to Charlie, “Wanna hold it? It be a bit heavy but I’m sure ya can manage.”
Charlie is going to ignore that slight comment and take the axe. It was heavy, but it wasn’t like he was weak; he just wasn’t used to things like this. It doesn’t matter.
Being in this house is torture. It’s time to speed this up. Charlie, while still holding the axe, points to another thing on the wall. He didn’t even care enough to pay attention to what it was. He was too excited. To his blessing, Bill turned around to see what it was and explained loudly. Thank God he had this idea.
Charlie decided to be unfair. He took the axe back as far as he could and swung.
Now, Charlie hasn’t chopped a piece of wood in his life. So, to his dismay, he missed the shot he was going for. Which was Bill’s head. The axe had gone into the middle of his back. Bill yelled, which made Charlie a bit annoyed; he was always yelling, wasn’t he?
Bill attempted to turn around and get the axe from his attacker, but he had a beer too many. Charlie was able to step away from his grasp and swing the axe again. This time, it went into Bill’s shoulder.
‘So close.’ Charlie thought as he pushed the screaming man off the blade. Bill fell to the ground, tears unwillingly escaping his face. Charlie scoffed at the crying men.
“Wipe your tears, Bill.” Charlie snarled as he gripped the axe. “Men do not weep in the face of death.”
Bill responded with something incomprehensible. He held up his hands, vigorously shaking his head. Something about Bill’s fear made Charlie shiver.
Charlie held up the axe. That’s when he heard Bill’s last words.
“Please no- GOD PLEASE N- “
The axe went into Bill’s face. There was a gross squishing noise. The writer yanked the axe out and swung it into Bill again. Blood splattered onto his face. Charlie sighed with such pleasure. Finally, some peace and quiet around here. He stared at the corpse through his blood-stained glasses and spat at it. He was so loud.
No time to celebrate. This had to be perfect.
Charlie successfully dragged his perfection across the street back to his beloved home. He covered any bloody tracks he made outside and in Bill’s house. Making sure not a single hair was left. Once the scene of the crime was perfect, he went back to his house and stared at the corpse again. A shiver went down his spine. His gaze drifted to the roaring, hungry fire. It was feeding time.
Bill’s head came off harder than he expected, but he could manage. The fire took its meal with no trouble. Head, legs, torso, feet. It took a few hours, but the neighbor across the street became nothing more than ashes at the bottom of Charlie’s fireplace.
Charlie cleaned his house thoroughly; he opened the window to air the place out and placed quite a few scented candles around. It was sunrise when he was done, but he was too excited to go to sleep. He went upstairs to his study, sat down at his desk, and began writing.
‘4/14/1923’...