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Unless the machine you're feeding them into also consumes souls...

 

Does it? Either way, this was a pretty suspenseful segment with a nice plot twist at the end.

 

No, it doesn't consume souls. And if you haven't figured out what the prototype of the machine was in the previous segments, then I don't know what to say.

 

Also, I can also write short stories about other things too, you know. Make a request, go ahead!

I wish I had meaningful criticism.

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Also, I can also write short stories about other things too, you know. Make a request, go ahead!

Im just gonna assume that if I make a request, that It'll involve extraordinary amounts of murder and sewing.

 

What can I ask for in particular?

 

I wish I had meaningful criticism.

Ok, well I felt that you gave enough of a backstory to the woman that was just killed. The backstories probably shouldn't be very complicated if the characters they belong to are not going to be a part of the story for very long. The backstory was, however, long enough to give some logical sense to certain scenes of the segment such as how Susanne was able to escape her cuffs to attack Percival.

 

Did the colored guns have any real reason to be colored? The only reason I could come up with is to clearly identify between weapons despite them all being more or less the same. What would have happened if Susanne just went with it, though? Would Percival have just brought one of the fake guns, used it, and then pulled out the loaded gun? There was a good bit of prediction going on on Percival's end if he was just expecting Susanne to break out and attack him. There also seems to be quite a bit of unnecessary toying with people going on which seems to add a lot to Percival's personality, as he could have easily killed Susanne as soon as he got her out of her house.

 

The pacing of the segment was well done as you could feel the suspense throughout the whole piece with the thought of "Percival's coming, this person is gonna be dead, and how will she end up dead?". Well the way she died certainly was worth the build-up, even if it can be viewed as slightly cliched as Percival just had a secret hidden gun when she escaped. I mean, I wouldn't doubt that as Percival has a bunch of weapons hidden on his person, so really it could be anticipated by that knowledge.

 

I hope this was meaningful enough for you.

 

Do I get a prize?

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Im just gonna assume that if I make a request, that It'll involve extraordinary amounts of murder and sewing.

 

What can I ask for in particular? prize?

 

Anything.

 

You can have extra gorey, gorey, or normal sauce on your request.

 

-criticism-?

 

Thank you for your feedback. At least I know that I'm going in the right direction.

 

Edit; Reason why the guns were colored is because Percival wants to make your journey into the divided state cheerful. So the most logical thing was to paint the guns with bright pastels. No red, of course, because red induces rage, fear, and looks like, uncoincidentally, blood.

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I don't understand why you don't get more likes and feedback. You're an awesome writer I love the ambiance of the hidden room, with the blood everywhere and the hanged corpses. The suspense is really well done, with the addition of the plot twist in the end. And, finally, the fact that that Percival plays with his preys adds a psychopath side into his psychology.

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Now I know that this appeals to you, since you normally don't make custom gifs.

 

you don't even know how much i like your thinking, Pecy. It was so unclear in you usual posts, but here. Muahahha...

Ahem, Good writing! All that atmosphere and dark stuff. Plus the amount you post at once is wonderful!

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you don't even know how much i like your thinking, Pecy. It was so unclear in you usual posts, but here. Muahahha...

Ahem, Good writing! All that atmosphere and dark stuff. Plus the amount you post at once is wonderful!

 

It feels weird to be praised.

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Chapter Seven

PAIN, HATE, TORTURE, FEAR, FAILURE, SAD PART, OBLIVION

 

Her.

 

<------------------------------------------>

 

As the desomorphine eats away at Susannes flesh, slowly causing bits of bones to poke out of the raw flesh, Percival walks over to the levers that sat near the homunculus' cage, holding the crabapple-sized candle that once left. Reaching into the dark, he pulled a third lever, and the hooks fell from the ceiling, stopping a short distance above the ground. Moving towards the hooks, he grabbed all of them and proceeded to pin them into the flesh of our newly deceased friend. He pulls on them not so unlike to ringing a bell, and the entire body is lifted up into the ceiling, lost in the twilight.

 

Seeing the body drift into the darkness made something shift into his mind. It was a strange, prickly feeling, the same feeling you get when you know you have forgotten something, but can't quite pinpoint what you forgotten. He didn't know what it was about until he walked over to the sewage pipe did he realize what was nagging on the back of his mind; that Susanne was the first female victim he had ever assaulted for the creation and sustenance of the homunculus.

 

Correction. Second female.

 

It's been a long time since he thought about her, but he once again pushes the matter to the back of his mind. He rarely thinks of the past if it does not involve planning of the future. Dwelling on former times is unwise..

 

<------------------------------------------>

 

Smelling slightly of stale feces, Percival replaces the board in the hallway, fitting the plank back into place. Grabbing a towel from the marbled kitchen and wiping some unknown residue that caught onto his cloak, he walked outside, the sun now rising once more over the tops of the towering buildings. That's two nights he spent without sleep. If he didn't sleep, he would pass out in the streets and raise the hopes of people seeing him crumpled over on the curb..

 

He walks past all the buildings; the post office, the still empty butcher shop, the taffy store, and all the other shops you would see in a populated town, but he unconcsiously stops in front of the floral store. Put on display are brilliant snapdragons and victoria dahlias, ranging from the freshly picked to as old as Percival's mother. The vibrant flowers looked appealing whether alive as a colorful centerpiece or as a dried, skull-looking clump.

 

She would've liked them. She would've set them up on a mantel above the fireplace. Now that Percival has begun thinking about her, he can't stop. With a stony look on his face, he turns around and walks with a heavy stride towards his apartment. He doesn't even stop to acknowledge the buildings that border his path along the way.

 

Arriving at his property, he walked inside and slammed the door unceremoniously, accidently bashing the nose of some poor beggars nose in. While inside, he walks upstairs automatically, stopping only to pick up a bundle of dead roses left in a vase to throw it down the stairs. It was only a short walk, but to Percival, it felt like a long, arduous journey across the world, a painful reprise..

 

He needs to remember, he needs to relive, he needs to live.

 

 

<------------------------------------------>

 

Short segment this time.

 

 

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Sorry if this was a bit late, but I have life to tend to.

 

 

Chapter Eight

Burn The Memories To Forget The Pain

 

<------------------------------------------>

 

Percival was lying on his back, his face blank of emotion, resting in a rickety, worn out bed, the springs in the mattress poking into his back. The legs that once supported the bed already collapsed, and were piled in a corner, one of the legs charred. Light shone in from a shattered window on Percival's left side, the shine slightly tanted red from the dried blood on the broken glass. He was loosely holding onto a small, faded leather book, the book swinging slightly from the swinging of Percival's hands over the edge of the bed. The momento was a mundane, plain sketchbook, and the only indication of who it belonged to was a pressed, red-brown flower, the stem of which is neatly taped to the leather hide cover. Strangely, the whithered plant smelled of a pleasant, faded aroma of vanilla and chocolate.

 

The light that once shone the city was now a dull ambiance as the sun went in behind a particularily large cloud, the outside a shady, dark taupe. It matched how he felt right now; unsure, void of any emotion, and inactive. He didn't know what to make of it. The only thing he can think of are memories, recollections of events that have now long faded into his mind, events that have now become blurry images scratched on the inside of Percival's skull.

 

He can't remember, he cannot think, and it's all because of the hazel tanned diary he holds in his palms. The only memento that survived, the only thing that both gave him comfort and remorse. He found it after his little outbreak of emotions he felt during his walk that was abrubtly cut short. It was lying on the top shelf of Percival's small library, shoved in between a book labeled Sacrifice And Murder DIY and Flora Of The World, the unlabeled dull book quite conspicuous compared to the decorated and vibrant volumes.

 

A chair placed in front of the bookshelf later, and the journal was once more in his hands. Even so, however, he hasn't opened it. The leather strip on the cover was still latched onto the cover, holding fast despite all these years. Slightly dogeared, and as old as Percival's mother, but still preserved.

 

Percival sits up on the bed, staring at the book with a mingled look of disdain and longing, the sun now shining out of the clouds. He spins the book like a wheel between his two fingers, and toys with the leather strap. On the latter action, he paused, staring at the ribbon with a sadness blooming in his eyes. A name was scratched into the hide in a painfully familiar cursive.

 

Clarisse Floria Butonn

 

Percival hung his head down low. his face once more blank of emotion. The sun was shining, but to him, the sun had obliterated, meaningless compared to this relic. He can't think, he can't live. And yet, despite the remorse he felt and silently exstinguished in an emotional vacuum, his fingers move towards the latch. Perhaps the name reminded him of what he has forgotten, or maybe it gave him a reason to remember, but nonetheless, his fingers pulled gently on the band. The strap fell from the cover, and he opened the cover, turning to the first page.

 

He was greeted with scribbly writing, nothing like the neat cursive on the leather he saw on the cover. The scripture was childish, carefree, disregarding the normal guidelines that one would see in a normal diary. Apart from the information probably not being important, Percival couldn't decipher the scribbly writing, and, slightly exasperated, he flipped forward several dozen pages.

 

Again, he was greeted with scratchy writing, though the words were certainly more intelligible this time. Percival read off words mentioning "friends with", "graduation", and even a few snatches of his own name. He instantly knew that this was relating to a high school year, or of the like, though he definitely can't remember what school. Slightly frustrated, he flips several pages further.

 

Nothing of interest. He skims the leaves of the book, stopping once or twice on the mention of his name, only to have a look of disappointment fall over his face. At last, he stops near the ends of the book, a few pages left in the book. At this point, the writing was in the familiar, loopy cursive that adorned the strap on the cover. He reads the pages, swallowing his emotions in a place where feelings are void and they don't matter, the same place he goes to when he performs his acts of murder.

 

 June 15th

 

    The day has come. The gown was already tailored for my size, though I must say I did feel quite offended when they sent me a gown two sizes too big. Why are weddings so white? Sure, other people think that the brightness of the scene represents future virtues, but to me they represent an eyesore; the bright colors puts a bit of a strain on the eyes, though the colors are quite nice. Besides, today is a happy day, and the sun is a little bit brighter. I never thought I would've gotten married to the sophomore in our old classes, who aparrently fancied me. I never thought I would've gotten married after all; who would ever see me interesting or eye-catching? Apparently, one person. I never knew that he sought me; I guess I was too dense to see the sublte hints he gave me during our dates. Strange, because that normally applies to the other sex.

 

They're calling for me. It's nearly -

 

The rest of the page was ripped off, the uneven edge curling like writhing tongues; what tore it off, Percival didn't know. He felt disappointed, knowing that the rest of the story was lost to his past, but he felt enlightened as well, his heart once made of crumbling jade now mended. Even so, he flipped through the last pages, and he noticed that the rest of the pages were empty.

 

Well, most of the pages. The last one had a photo clipped into the back cover, a black and white polaroid. At first, Percival couldn't figure out the scene, but, after a few moments of staring at the array of dots and ink, his heart leapt; an unusual feeling he has never felt for a long time.

 

It was a wedding photo, Percival and Clarisse standing on the chapel. He looked odd wearing a formal tuxedo, but Clarisse looked amazing in the white wedding gown, or at least to Percival.

 

This photo should make him happy, perhaps even elated. He certainly felt better after reading the diary in the beginning, but the photo, the picture of a smiling wife unknowing of her fate made his heart ached twice as much then before. Now that he saw the polaroid, he felt like the diary was like a cursed relic from his past. Even seeing the writing reminds him of the dark times that followed.

 

Percival's face still blank, he stood up off the bed, clutching the diary. Stumbling a bit over the collapsed legs of the bed, he walked towards the kitchen, and laid the book down on the counter. Walking over towards the sink, he opened a kitchen cabinet directly above the tap, and pulled out what appears to be a slip of cardboard.

 

He ripped the cardboard open, and a single match, with a rough surface to strike against, was revealed. Striking the match, he looked at the flame for a single instant, and he dropped the curling tongue of fire onto the diary, and the fire fed on the paper, issuing the smell of burnt paper. He tossed the polaroid into the now blooming fire, adding the smell of ink to the mix.

 

He was alone in this world, the only one to traverse this path, and the only consolation he had to go through it was now a mere puppet in the creation, the bare bones of the creature.

 

Literally.

 

<------------------------------------------>

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The feels, they are too strong.

This segment makes me feel kind of saddened to see what Percival seems to have lost, yet I don't quite know whether or not to feel pity for him. If he brought this upon himself, then why should I pity him for his own decision? For the loss of someone who he seems to have loved? The memories are locked away inside of him again either way, so it doesn't really matter. Burned away like the parchments consumed by flames.

It is apparent that Percival has things to do, and that the feels drew him away momentarily, even if only for a second. I hope what he's doing is worth it to him. So that everything was not pointless---For that is the tale of a tragedy.

And then I would be forced to pity him.

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Well this was posted late.

 

Chapter Nine

Gone (More) Loopy

 

<------------------------------------------>

 

Glass shards scattered the floor, clear cups and jars alike scattered onto the floor. The glass containers stacked so neatly before in the cupboards were now misplaced, some rolling on the ground as Percival stepped through the mess he was making, the shards cutting the soles and ball of hit bare feet. An uneven, rickety ring of glass, and a crash as a bell jar met the floor. The clatter of glass echoed in the empty kitchen, mingling with the small crackling of the now dying fire on the counter. Jams, juices, and other liquids that don't begin with 'j' were spattered onto the ground, stained a fleshy pink from Percival's bloody cuts on the soles of his feet. The sunlight that would fill the kitchen with radiance was now blocked by the few usable blinds on the window. He did not need to be seen; he did not need a whisper of his actions turning into a gossip in the town.

 

All the shelves and cupboards unceremoniously opened in the kitchen were now empty, their contents spilled everywhere in the form of shards and liquids. He was looking for an object, which was quite obvious by the mess he was making among the shards of tumblers and glassware. The longer his search took, the faster his arms swept the kitchen, the more glasses adorned the floor in pieces. Then, quite suddenly, the clatter of glass sliding past glass stopped. The eerie silence that followed seemed quite magnified compared to the echoed, albeit small din made only before, broken only by Percival's wincing  and shuffling as he moved around on his feet, a mason jar with a brass lid in his hand.

 

The silence was short lived, though; a small mutter of frustration issued from Percival's mouth, growing louder and louder as Percival's realization of the disappointment presented reached him, loud enough for him to vent his vexation, but quiet enough for outsiders to pass off as figments that all foolish mortals do. His hands shaking with semi-silent anger, he raised his hand that held the jar, the gelatinous fluid inside of the bottle quivering. Then the bottle flew through the air at the flower design wall of the kitchen, forcefully thrown from Percival's hand, shattering into fragments and falling to the floor, adding to the mess that was the kitchen. He himself has fell on his knees, his entire shin now

 

The sound of the jar breaking was loud enough for anyone near his apartment to hear, but to him, it didn't matter. It did not matter if anyone came up to check on what has caused the ruckus. Those thoughts have become clouded and the only thing coursing through his mind was the disappointment and anger. It was here. It was here, floating in a glass jar, as far as his weary memory serves. It had to be here, it had to be here; perhaps hidden away in a different room.

 

His ragged breathing slowed down, his tense shoulders now relaxing. Yes, that was it. It was still safe, just stored in a forgotten deposit in the building. The question was where. While the flat isn't that large compared to the surrounding building, he knew that the halls were maze-like, curling around into his brain, twisting and writhing in rigid movements. Like a parasite.

 

He stood up from the glass mess, the area between her knee and ankle studded with small bits of glass, Percival wincing slightly as the fragments dug into his flesh. He needs to find that object, just as much as he needed to find that journal. The first room to check? Clarisse's own.

 

He walked out of the kitchen, scooping up the ashes of the picture and diary as he went. He dropped the pile of burnt residue into an inconspicuous drawer on the bottom of a flight of stairs. He had a feeling this would take up most of the day..

 

<------------------------------------------>

 

The light of the moon shone in through the shattered window of the man's bedroom. This time, however, Percival wasn't lying on the bed as before. He was curled in the corner of the room, closest to the entrance way. He was clutching a pair of scratch awls, the boards in that corner obliterated into bits, decimated into mere splinters. Next to the curled body of Percival was a bell jar, the glass itself surprisingly dusty, the contents inside swirling in murky, cloudy water.

 

"Darling. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it." Percival whispered, a ray of moonlight moving over his eyes, the pale light making the crazed look in his eyes more pronounced.

 

He lifted the lid of the bell jar slowly, repeating the words over and over. Peering into the cloudy water, he stared at it for a moment or two. Then he plunged the two awls into the water, moving them around for whatever is bobbing in the fluid. He brought the needle-like rods together, then further apart, together, then further apart.

 

Then he brought the two rod together abruptly, and a flower of red bloomed in the cloudy water. A quivering smile on his face, he pulled the rods out of the mixture, slowly, deliberately.

 

On the end of the two rods, held still by both rods holding it like chopsticks, was a small, pulsating mass of white, red lines resembling branches coursing throughout the sphere. Tendrils of red were poking out of one side, some of them stopping at a flat end. He turned the orb over with the rods, looking at the sphere with unusual interest. He flipped the sphere, still repeating the same words from before, then he stopped his mantra. A perfect disk of red mingling with brown stared at him, the darkness of it seeming infinite like.

 

He stared at the eyeball, his entire being, spirit and body feeling hollow, the empty space slowly being filled up with icy water. He knew these red irises all too well, but those memories were always forced back into a vacuum where none of it mattered.

 

He dropped the eyeball, and caught it in his hand, some of the lines of red pulsing from the pressure. He loosened his grip on the soft mass of flesh, and dropped it back into the bell jar. Percival grasped the bell jar, hugging it as if it was a person. As if the glassware was an actual being, the eye belonging in a socket instead of a bottle of liquid.

 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it." Like a child, he was rocking slightly in the corner, clutching the bell jar like a lifeline. His vision was becoming cloudy as the jar rocked in his arms. He raised his palms to clear his eyes, and his hands were filled with moisture, the crease lines in his hands burning.

 

He was crying. His face was still impassive, but his eyes were watering madly. It felt like his existence was being ripped into bits, his being thrown into a pool of ice. Percival didn't know what this feeling was; it was alien-like, unusual but strangely familiar, but it only made him cry more, his silent grief heard by no one.

 

Of course he wouldn't know what this feeling is. He has never felt it through his entire life. Not even once. Until now.

 

He was feeling remorse.

 

<------------------------------------------>

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You do an interesting job of making us want to hate Pecival and pity him at the same time.  You want to see him suffer for everything he's done, but simultaneously you want to see him reform, to overcome his insanity.  (Unlikely as that is.)

 

Unfortunately, I'm finding it difficult to feel sorry for him, considering he apparently took the time to tear his wife's eye out of her face.

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Unfortunately, I'm finding it difficult to feel sorry for him, considering he apparently took the time to tear his wife's eye out of her face.

 

I was originally going to call the chapter "Flesh Reminiscence".

Let me explain. Even if Percival was a semi-heartless bastard, he would still want something to remember someone of that importance to his life. He didn't need the entirety of her to be removed from his memory, so he took two things to make him, force him to remember; an eyeball, and a pinky bone.

Think on that for a moment.

 

Edit: AND IT'S PERCIVAL.

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Shameless bump.  I was wondering what the homonuculous has to do with the doll you.  I mean, what purpose does it serve?  When does the actual voodoo come in?

 

He didn't know why the creature didn't form a thin layer of human skin, but he thought the error would be corrected as he proceeded with the year long wait.

 

Oh dear god, the doll just serves as its skin, doesn't it.

 

WELP, there's my nightmares for the next few months.

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