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Rating: PG-13 for violence

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“We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.” – Oscar Wilde

…

He walked out of the house wiping his hands with a handtowel, blood staining the white fabric. He nonchalantly crossed the dry, barren desert to his dusty pick-up, squinting in attempt to keep sunshine out of his eyes. The powerful, dry winds flung tiny pieces of dirt at his skin, feeling as though they were piercing and cutting into his flesh. As he opened the door it whined, and he briskly slid into the car. The tainted towel was thrown into the backseat and the man slowly rubbed his stinging, sand-whipped face, leaving behind a trail of blood on his stubble-covered jawline. From under his belt he pulled out a crimson-splattered .38, which he carefully set down on the passenger seat. After a deep, cleansing sigh, he lifted the lever on the side of his seat, reclined, and fell asleep.

…

“How much?”
The two men mumbled back and forth in a corner of a poorly-lit, smoke-filled bar, the Red Lion, near the pay phones, the cigarette pack dispenser, and the paint-chipped emergency exit.
“$9,000,” said the man sporting a faded jean jacket and black jeans. He hid his hands within his pockets to conceal his bruised and bandaged hands. “Extra for the long drive.”
“Fine,” said the other man, his mangled leg concealed by a long, black trenchcoat. He pulled an envelope out of his inside pocket and handed it to the taller and younger of the two. “When will it be finished?”
“Within the week. I’ll contact you at the pay phone at this address.” He handed the other man a small white piece of paper folded in half and it was slipped into the inside pocket of the black coat. The short man gave a grunt of approval, glanced around nervously and left the bar, slouched over, leaving the other man smiling, chuckling and slowly shaking his head at his father’s behavior.
The rugged man sighed and straightened his back, then slowly walked to the bar where he took a seat and reminisced about the past week. He softly smiled to himself when he remembered how, following his act of matricide, he poured hydrochloric acid on his father’s leg then shot him in the kneecap with his .38. He made sure to hit his father on his head with the butt of the gun with enough power to cause memory loss. When he returned to his father after his leisurely nap in the reclined seat of his truck, he claimed to have seen the murderer flee from the house and promised to avenge his wife’s death. For a price.
The man sitting at the bar returned to reality and leaned back in the chair, stretching. He left his seat, grabbing a handful from the peanut-filled glass bowl as he rose, and casually strolled out of the bar. As he opened the heavy wooden door, chewing on his snack, he ran his dark fingers through his charcoal black hair, the blinding bright sun a jolting reminder of who he was in this new life he created for himself. He traveled along the sidewalk, his boots pounding on the cement. He opened the door of his truck, the familiar whine ringing in his ears. As he began to drive away he turned on the radio and whistled along to “Spirit in the Sky” with the intention of never returning to the town again.

Thanks so much! I'm glad you like it. :3
If it were in Word, it would be indented, but since the formatting on Gaia is different, I was too lazy to do it. xD But I'll fix that now. :3

Edit: Gaia won't let me indent it. o_o; I made spaces but it doesn't work. o_o; Oh well. xD

Eh, that bothers me. xD Stupid Gaia. xD

This is the Horror AND Macabre section. This is more macabre.
I think I tried reading your story earlier. It was hard to understand by the way you type. >_>;

Ah, I've never heard of that game. xD

Haha, thanks!

¤::::: Beneath this mask there is an idea, Mr. Creedy... :::::¤

Haha. xD
Not nearly as much as another girl's story in my class...Hers was like a scene from one of the Saw movies! o__O

¤::::: ...and ideas are bulletproof. :::::¤