Mr. Gloom
Banned
Hey, guys, I recently joined a creative writing team in my college campus. We're a little group and not oficially recognized, but that's fine, we're just a bunch of amateur writers who like to get together and share the stories they've written. Every now and then though, the head of our group will assign to us "homework".
This time, she wanted us to write a short story featuring a sociopath. There were two stipulations though; one, the character featured cannot be a mindless killing machine like Jason from Friday the 13th or Mike Myers from Halloween, who, in her words "might as well be robots for all the diffence it made", and the story has to delve, at least on some level, into the their psyche, it can't just be an account of their exploits.
We're not due to deliver it until the end of next week but I've already gotten started, and I think I'm doing pretty well, but I dunno. I need someone on the outside to give me an impartial opinion, so I'm going around into all the online communities I'm currently apart of asking for an opinion. Keep in mind this will be my first submission to the group, besides the one I made when I first joined. I'm pretty green, so be nice. Also, it's not finished, but that's kinda the point, I want to know if you think it's worth continuing with this story or if I should scrap it altogether and start from scratch. So, without further ado, the prologue to my as-of-yet untitled short story:
"Frieda awoke to the sound of loud music coming from outside her apartment. She snarled, she didn't take well to having her sleep disturbed, never did, not when she was back in Silesia and certainly not here. Still, she figured it would stop after a while and she’d be able to return to her slumber, when that didn't happen though, she decided to get up and see what the hell all the ruckus was about. She went to look out her bedroom window and saw there was a parade going on outside, decorated floats were making their way down the street, one of them had a live band performing on top of it, they were the ones responsible for her rude awakening. On the sidewalks, crowds of people cheered while waving little miniature flags of the German Federal Republic. Was it still called that? Or was it just the German Republic now? It didn't’t make much sense to keep calling it the “Federal” Republic of Germany now that the GDR wasn't around anymore, did it?
For a while, she just stood there, listening to the music. It certainly sounded different from the music in the GDR. Of course she had never been to Berlin, or any other major city, during the those days but from time to time, she still caught their parades and celebrations on the old black and white TV they had back home, before it broke. The people were also different, before they seemed broken, lifeless, like they had given up and were just going through the motions. Now it was as if they had been reinvigorated, they looked cheerful, happy, like their life had purpose again. Of course it didn't’t make a lick of difference to her. She didn't even know the GDR was gone until one day, when Carl came back from his monthly trip down town to buy supplies, rambling on about how everyone was in an uproar because the wall in Berlin had been torn down and all the Russians were retreating back across the border into Poland. She didn't’t really understand what he was saying at the time, nor did she care. Even if it was true, what did it matter? Nothing ever changed where they lived, especially not for them. They’d just be able to go on with their lives as if nothing had ever happened. At least, that’s what she thought…
Eventually the parade moved far enough away from her home that the music started to die down, but it was too late now, she couldn't’t go back to sleep. She went to the bathroom to take a piss, but stopped when she saw her reflection in the mirror. She looked dreadful, her hair was so greasy it looked like it was soaking wet, her face was completely discolored, and the bags under her eyes made it seem like she hadn't slept in months. She never paid much heed to her appearance before, and had even less reason to do it now that there’s no one to keep up appearances for. She hadn't showered or washed in months, and her last change of clothing was, what? Three, four weeks ago? Her body odor was quickly becoming overpowering, and it was wretched. Again, she could care less about how she looked, and it wasn't even as if being unclean caused her discomfort. She’d grown up and lived most of her life in filth, but she worried that it might be getting to a point where she would start drawing unwanted attention to herself. And after what happened in Silesia, she knew all too well how dangerous that could be.
She had to wash. After taking care of the business that brought her to the bathroom in the first place, she put the water running and began to undress. Once the bathtub was full, she went inside. She grabbed a bottle of washing cream and a sponge that were laying nearby, poured some of the cream over her breasts and started scrubbing. Like her brother, her true brother, not that prattling fool Carl, Frieda had an uncanny ability to completely shut out the world around her and focus entirely on the task at hand. Whether it was cooking that lamb stew the two of them so enjoyed, mending and fixing their bedsheets so they wouldn't go cold at night during Winter, or helping him get rid of their latest plaything after it inevitably broke. She would focus all her attention on it, not allowing anything to distract her and not stopping until the task was done. But try as she might, she just couldn’t get into that mindset. Being there naked in the bathtub, without the feeling of Georg’s hands tenderfully running through and washing every inch her body, just served to remind her how alone she really was. After a few half-hearted scrubs of her stomach and arms, she finally gave up.
She leaned back on the bathtub, letting her entire body be immersed underwater save for her face. Where was he now? Where was her Georg? Was he dead? No, he could not be, she’d know if he was. No, he was still out there somewhere, looking for her. Her true brother, her champion, her Sigmund…"
This time, she wanted us to write a short story featuring a sociopath. There were two stipulations though; one, the character featured cannot be a mindless killing machine like Jason from Friday the 13th or Mike Myers from Halloween, who, in her words "might as well be robots for all the diffence it made", and the story has to delve, at least on some level, into the their psyche, it can't just be an account of their exploits.
We're not due to deliver it until the end of next week but I've already gotten started, and I think I'm doing pretty well, but I dunno. I need someone on the outside to give me an impartial opinion, so I'm going around into all the online communities I'm currently apart of asking for an opinion. Keep in mind this will be my first submission to the group, besides the one I made when I first joined. I'm pretty green, so be nice. Also, it's not finished, but that's kinda the point, I want to know if you think it's worth continuing with this story or if I should scrap it altogether and start from scratch. So, without further ado, the prologue to my as-of-yet untitled short story:
"Frieda awoke to the sound of loud music coming from outside her apartment. She snarled, she didn't take well to having her sleep disturbed, never did, not when she was back in Silesia and certainly not here. Still, she figured it would stop after a while and she’d be able to return to her slumber, when that didn't happen though, she decided to get up and see what the hell all the ruckus was about. She went to look out her bedroom window and saw there was a parade going on outside, decorated floats were making their way down the street, one of them had a live band performing on top of it, they were the ones responsible for her rude awakening. On the sidewalks, crowds of people cheered while waving little miniature flags of the German Federal Republic. Was it still called that? Or was it just the German Republic now? It didn't’t make much sense to keep calling it the “Federal” Republic of Germany now that the GDR wasn't around anymore, did it?
For a while, she just stood there, listening to the music. It certainly sounded different from the music in the GDR. Of course she had never been to Berlin, or any other major city, during the those days but from time to time, she still caught their parades and celebrations on the old black and white TV they had back home, before it broke. The people were also different, before they seemed broken, lifeless, like they had given up and were just going through the motions. Now it was as if they had been reinvigorated, they looked cheerful, happy, like their life had purpose again. Of course it didn't’t make a lick of difference to her. She didn't even know the GDR was gone until one day, when Carl came back from his monthly trip down town to buy supplies, rambling on about how everyone was in an uproar because the wall in Berlin had been torn down and all the Russians were retreating back across the border into Poland. She didn't’t really understand what he was saying at the time, nor did she care. Even if it was true, what did it matter? Nothing ever changed where they lived, especially not for them. They’d just be able to go on with their lives as if nothing had ever happened. At least, that’s what she thought…
Eventually the parade moved far enough away from her home that the music started to die down, but it was too late now, she couldn't’t go back to sleep. She went to the bathroom to take a piss, but stopped when she saw her reflection in the mirror. She looked dreadful, her hair was so greasy it looked like it was soaking wet, her face was completely discolored, and the bags under her eyes made it seem like she hadn't slept in months. She never paid much heed to her appearance before, and had even less reason to do it now that there’s no one to keep up appearances for. She hadn't showered or washed in months, and her last change of clothing was, what? Three, four weeks ago? Her body odor was quickly becoming overpowering, and it was wretched. Again, she could care less about how she looked, and it wasn't even as if being unclean caused her discomfort. She’d grown up and lived most of her life in filth, but she worried that it might be getting to a point where she would start drawing unwanted attention to herself. And after what happened in Silesia, she knew all too well how dangerous that could be.
She had to wash. After taking care of the business that brought her to the bathroom in the first place, she put the water running and began to undress. Once the bathtub was full, she went inside. She grabbed a bottle of washing cream and a sponge that were laying nearby, poured some of the cream over her breasts and started scrubbing. Like her brother, her true brother, not that prattling fool Carl, Frieda had an uncanny ability to completely shut out the world around her and focus entirely on the task at hand. Whether it was cooking that lamb stew the two of them so enjoyed, mending and fixing their bedsheets so they wouldn't go cold at night during Winter, or helping him get rid of their latest plaything after it inevitably broke. She would focus all her attention on it, not allowing anything to distract her and not stopping until the task was done. But try as she might, she just couldn’t get into that mindset. Being there naked in the bathtub, without the feeling of Georg’s hands tenderfully running through and washing every inch her body, just served to remind her how alone she really was. After a few half-hearted scrubs of her stomach and arms, she finally gave up.
She leaned back on the bathtub, letting her entire body be immersed underwater save for her face. Where was he now? Where was her Georg? Was he dead? No, he could not be, she’d know if he was. No, he was still out there somewhere, looking for her. Her true brother, her champion, her Sigmund…"
