cleaner, or from one of the vibrators that she keeps in her bathroom cabinet (two of them modestly flesh-toned, the third a disquieting purple), amongst the bottles of lotions and pills.
For a moment he is almost seduced. But he knows that elaborate plans rarely work, and firmly dismissing the beguiling image of Mrs Electric Blue pleasuring herself into the grave with the aid of one of her own appliances, on his next visit he sets up the makings of a dull but efficient little electrical fire, and gets back home in time for a snack in front of the TV. While meanwhile, in another street, Mrs Electric gets ready for bed (with or without her purple pal), and dies there sometime during the night, probably of smoke inhalation, he thinks, although, of course, one can only hope –
The police call by the following day. He tells them how he tried to help, how every appliance in the house was some kind of accident waiting to happen, how she was always overloading the sockets with her junk, how all it might take was a little surge –
In fact, he finds them ludicrous. His guilt, he thinks, should be plain for them to see, and yet they do not; but sit on the couch and drink his mother’s tea and talk to him quite nicely, as if trying not to cause him distress, while his mother watches suspiciously, alert for any hint of blame.
‘I hope you’re not saying that was his fault. He works hard. He’s a good boy.’
He hides a smile behind his hand. He is trembling with fear, but now laughter overwhelms him, and he has to fake a panic attack before someone realizes that the pale young man with the blue eyes is actually laughing fit to split –
Later, he can pinpoint the moment. It is a thunderous sensation, something like orgasm, something like grace. The colours around him brighten, expand; words take on dazzling new shades; scents are enhanced; he shivers and sobs and the world blisters and cracks like paint, revealing the light of eternity –
The female PC (there’s always one) offers him a handkerchief. He takes it and scrubs his face, looking scared and guilty but laughing still, though she, the woman, who is twenty-four and might be pretty out of that uniform, takes his tears as a sign of distress, and puts a hand on his shoulder, feeling strangely maternal –
It’s OK, son. It’s not your fault.
And that ominous taste at the back of his throat, the taste he associates with childhood, with rotten fruit and petrol and the sickly rose-scent of bubblegum, recedes once more like a bank of cloud, leaving only blue skies in its wake, and he thinks –
At last, I’m a murderer.
Post comment :
chrysalisbaby : woot woot! blueeyedboy kicks ass
Captainbunnykiller : ‘ Mrs Electric Blue pleasuring herself into the grave . . .’ Dude. There’s a scene I’d give money to read. How about it, huh?
Jesusismycopilot : YOU’RE SICK. I HOPE YOU KNOW THAT.
blueeyedboy : I’m aware of my condition, thanks.
chrysalisbaby : well i don’t care i think ur awesome
Captainbunnykiller : Yeah, man. Ignore the troll. Those fucktards wouldn’t know good fic if it jumped up and bit them in the ass.
Jesusismycopilot : YOU ARE SICK AND YOU WILL BE JUDGED .
JennyTricks : ( post deleted ).
ClairDeLune : If these stories upset you, then please don’t come here to read them. Thank you, blueeyedboy , for sharing this. I know how hard it must be to express these darker feelings. Well done! I hope to read more of this story as it develops!
9
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy .
Posted at : 23.25 on Wednesday, January 30
Status : restricted
Mood : unrepentant
Listening to : Kansas : ‘Carry On Wayward Son’
No, I don’t take it personally. Not everyone appreciates the value of a well-written fic. According to many, I am sick and depraved and deserve to be locked up, or beaten to a pulp, or killed.
So, everyone’s a critic, right? I get a lot of death threats. Most are rants from the God squad: Jesusismycopilot and
For a moment he is almost seduced. But he knows that elaborate plans rarely work, and firmly dismissing the beguiling image of Mrs Electric Blue pleasuring herself into the grave with the aid of one of her own appliances, on his next visit he sets up the makings of a dull but efficient little electrical fire, and gets back home in time for a snack in front of the TV. While meanwhile, in another street, Mrs Electric gets ready for bed (with or without her purple pal), and dies there sometime during the night, probably of smoke inhalation, he thinks, although, of course, one can only hope –
The police call by the following day. He tells them how he tried to help, how every appliance in the house was some kind of accident waiting to happen, how she was always overloading the sockets with her junk, how all it might take was a little surge –
In fact, he finds them ludicrous. His guilt, he thinks, should be plain for them to see, and yet they do not; but sit on the couch and drink his mother’s tea and talk to him quite nicely, as if trying not to cause him distress, while his mother watches suspiciously, alert for any hint of blame.
‘I hope you’re not saying that was his fault. He works hard. He’s a good boy.’
He hides a smile behind his hand. He is trembling with fear, but now laughter overwhelms him, and he has to fake a panic attack before someone realizes that the pale young man with the blue eyes is actually laughing fit to split –
Later, he can pinpoint the moment. It is a thunderous sensation, something like orgasm, something like grace. The colours around him brighten, expand; words take on dazzling new shades; scents are enhanced; he shivers and sobs and the world blisters and cracks like paint, revealing the light of eternity –
The female PC (there’s always one) offers him a handkerchief. He takes it and scrubs his face, looking scared and guilty but laughing still, though she, the woman, who is twenty-four and might be pretty out of that uniform, takes his tears as a sign of distress, and puts a hand on his shoulder, feeling strangely maternal –
It’s OK, son. It’s not your fault.
And that ominous taste at the back of his throat, the taste he associates with childhood, with rotten fruit and petrol and the sickly rose-scent of bubblegum, recedes once more like a bank of cloud, leaving only blue skies in its wake, and he thinks –
At last, I’m a murderer.
Post comment :
chrysalisbaby : woot woot! blueeyedboy kicks ass
Captainbunnykiller : ‘ Mrs Electric Blue pleasuring herself into the grave . . .’ Dude. There’s a scene I’d give money to read. How about it, huh?
Jesusismycopilot : YOU’RE SICK. I HOPE YOU KNOW THAT.
blueeyedboy : I’m aware of my condition, thanks.
chrysalisbaby : well i don’t care i think ur awesome
Captainbunnykiller : Yeah, man. Ignore the troll. Those fucktards wouldn’t know good fic if it jumped up and bit them in the ass.
Jesusismycopilot : YOU ARE SICK AND YOU WILL BE JUDGED .
JennyTricks : ( post deleted ).
ClairDeLune : If these stories upset you, then please don’t come here to read them. Thank you, blueeyedboy , for sharing this. I know how hard it must be to express these darker feelings. Well done! I hope to read more of this story as it develops!
9
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy .
Posted at : 23.25 on Wednesday, January 30
Status : restricted
Mood : unrepentant
Listening to : Kansas : ‘Carry On Wayward Son’
No, I don’t take it personally. Not everyone appreciates the value of a well-written fic. According to many, I am sick and depraved and deserve to be locked up, or beaten to a pulp, or killed.
So, everyone’s a critic, right? I get a lot of death threats. Most are rants from the God squad: Jesusismycopilot and
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