#the boy cried murder | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

deadpuppetboi · 8 months

Text

Goretober Day 7: Twist

The flames licked the taxi cab upon collision, forcing both driver and passenger forward, just their seatbelts keeping them from crashing through the window.

As the passenger coughed, the driver slumped down, fully limp, and his head bowed unnaturally. The fire seemed to creep through the seams, with smoke billowing into the passenger's cabin, causing him to struggle. He didn't seem to comprehend how much pain he was in because the shock of the impact compelled him to move on instinctively. He yanked on the driver's shoulder as if trying to shake him awake from his stupor.

The driver's rubbish face was covered in broken glass, his slack look unaltered as the flames flared and caught on his clothes. while he tore through his seatbelt, the passenger began to scream, pleading with the driver to move while he eagerly searched for one object that may assist. The passenger coughed heavily as the smoke clouded his vision, his eyes watering as his hands fumbled to find that one object as the flames increased.

He eventually rolled over to gaze out the broken glass, recognizing that he had dropped it when the taxi crashed. He pushed the damaged door aside, inhaling fresh air as he stepped out and began to run. He jumped from his seat after the door was shoved open enough for him to exit, only to scream when he landed on the ground below. His right ankle crumbled beneath his weight, breaking out of place as he attempted to run.

He clutched his wound, sobbing in agony as he examined it. He held his breath, gulping down the bile accumulating at the back of his throat to keep from vomiting. As the driver burned, the passenger limped on, preferring to crawl over to the thing as quickly as he could.

As he crawled, more areas of his body began to ache.

Aside from his foot, his lungs ached with each breath he drew, his arms jerked from the broken glass lodged in his skin, and his face burned from previously being too close to the fire. Nonetheless, he crawled, desperately seeking not only to escape the raging flames, but also to obtain the object.

The small child lifted himself up to sit on the ground after grabbing it. Despite his discomfort, he directed the controller at the car and pressed a few buttons.

“Dad!”

A burst of white exploded from the car, broken objects flew with extraordinary force, and the child fell back, collapsing over himself as he dropped the controller in his grasp. He was by his side, his ears ringing and his eyes burning from the blast. Blinking away the brightness, he covered his eyes with his hands, sobbing in pain as he sought to restore his eyesight. He stroked them furiously, feeling the warmth of the fire beside him, and looked over to see what had happened.

One eye was closed, overflowing with pain, while the other was wide open, iris small and shaking as he observed the carnage before him.

The car—the taxi—his dad’s taxi.

It exploded.

The child stared in surprise, one eye fully closed while the other bled profusely. He just sat there, futilely watching the flames consume his father's taxi, his father's corpse burning within it. He could smell the burning rotting flesh, and although he was used to the scent, it had reached a new low with the flames.

He began to heave, his throat swelling as he began to shake, his brain exploding with pain from the nausea. The child threw up, and portions of the food he had eaten hours before fell right out of his mouth. His throat stung as the sour taste of his vomit washed over him.

As he neared the end, he began to cry, his vision clouded by tears. His chest heaved violently as hiccups tortured his body, his scorching lungs burning him from within as he continued to cry. As he came to a revelation, his mind was overrun with dark thoughts, dreadful thoughts, and terrifying thoughts.

He had lost the contest.

His only mode of transportation, the car owned by his father, had been entirely destroyed. And it was all because he made the incorrect move, a too-quick turn, his fingers fumbling with the controls as a missile was about to strike him and his father. The taxi collided with the side of a flaming building, piercing the reinforced wall and revealing the elements that had produced the damage he was witnessing.

He raised his hands and began to hit his head as he wept. As he screamed louder and longer, he pulled at his hair, thoroughly tearing his scalp. He cursed himself and his stupidity, his naivety in thinking he could win this contest, or even wish he could ever see his father walk and talk again.

All because he made the wrong turn.

He hadn't bothered to check behind him as he heard the distorted music resounding throughout the now-destroyed town.

He sniffed out the snot that had dripped down his upper lip, tears streaming down his cheeks as he heard the familiar sound of tires rolling across the gravel ground. He chose to look at the flames instead, slowly hugging himself as the sound of rolling tires ceased and a heavy door was opened. He began to shiver as big boots approached him, the gravel beneath parting with each hard stride.

His small hands seized his father's jacket and yanked it around him as if it were a protective barrier.

A tall and wide figure stepped beside him in his peripheral view. He recognized the man but made no attempt to look at him, preferring to focus on the flames. He couldn't speak, either because of the dreadful taste of his vomit or because he was afraid of the man next him. But he did know that here was the site where he would die.

The sound of metal and plastic being crushed caused the toddler to suddenly recoil, and he twisted his head to look at the source.

His gaze was drawn to a bloodied brown boot resting on top of his controller, crushing what remained of what he used to control his father. He moved his gaze up to the individual's pants, observing several blood splotches among the pink polka dots on the white fabric. A brown harness was fastened to the man's chest, wrapping around his body and holding his pants up.

The child then looked up at the man’s face.

A white and red-nosed visage returned the child's gaze, his head decked with the scorching fires of Hell itself. A wide grin stretched from cheek to cheek, and two puffs of orange hair emerged from the sides of the filthy mask. Only one red-eyed peered deep into the child's soul, the other broken and hidden beneath an eye patch engraved into the mask.

The man said nothing as well as the boy.

They just stared at each other in complete quiet, letting the sounds of the flames destroying the taxi fill in the gaps.

The child then noticed the man's gloved hands without the characteristic bloodied knife he typically carried. He returned his gaze to the flames, his gaze detecting the form of his father's corpse burning from within his taxi. If he looked closely, he could see the bandage he had placed over his bullet wound burn away like paper.

"Just make it quick," the boy pleaded, tears streaming down his cheeks.

He had already accepted his fate, though he would have accepted death at the hands of any other contestant.

For instance, the man that had killed his father? The one that drives that station wagon on the tank? Warthog, was it?

Yeah, he’d rather be killed by him.

The boy wouldn't mind being killed by a bullet, a knife, or his own hands; it would be immensely better than this.

He held his breath when he heard the gravel shift, and when he sensed the man's presence approaching, he closed his eye tightly. He silently prayed, hoping that he would be at the Golden Gates with his father to welcome him. If not, he hoped the flames wouldn't be as painful as he had anticipated.

What he didn't expect was for two powerful arms to stretch out, wrap around his small body, and encircle him in a distant embrace.

In disbelief, the child opened his eye and looked across at his older brother, wondering if this was a cruel trick or a sincere attempt to be as consoling as possible. Blinded by the flames on top of his head, the child ran his slender arms carefully over the man's chest, guiding himself with his sense of touch. He could feel one arm wrap around his back and the other on his head, the gloved hand holding him in place as best he could.

New tears streamed down the boy's cheeks as he buried himself in his brother's grip as the seconds passed. His mind raced with the possibilities of what any of this could mean, but it was the naive side of him that opted to speak out loud.

"Marcus," he wept, his grip tightening, "why did you leave us?" Why did you leave me?"

Had his brother come to his senses?

Had he resisted the darkest parts of his mind?

Had he realized his murderous rampage was all for nothing?

Had he realized his bloodlust had not only hurt innocent lives but destroyed the reputation of his own flesh and blood?

The child appeared to believe so, allowing his questions to overwhelm him as he felt the man's hands begin to move. Before he knew it, black-gloved hands had grasped his little head, forcing him to return to the man's genuine face. His one red eye locked onto the boy's blue eye, and they merely gazed at one other while his grip tightened.

The boy soon began to appear afraid, his concerns becoming a reality as his hands grasped onto his brother's, weakly attempting to peel them off. But his efforts were ineffective, his migraine intensifying as the clown closed in on him, as if to crush his head with brutal force.

"Marcus," the boy began to scream, "Marcus don-"

His head wrenched to the side, his neck twisting awkwardly as the sound of his bones breaking on impact. Immediately, the boy's body became limp in the clown's grasp, and his previously terrified expression turned slack, a poor replica of what he had felt earlier.

Sweet Tooth abruptly stood up and began to walk over to his ice cream truck, cradling the boy's limp corpse in his strong arms.

He proceeded towards the back, one hand opening the huge doors and the other arm holding the body close. He jumped in and sought for the freezer, unlocking it with a hatch and carefully placing the body inside. The head of their mother lay next to the numerous plastic tubs of ice cream, her face frozen in fright the instant he plunged the blade into her heart. He moved his younger brother's unruly hair away from his face, studying him for a minute longer before directing him to a certain tub of ice cream.

Vanilla; his favorite.

He then stepped back, locked the hatch, and walked back outside to check the damage to his father's cab.

If he's lucky, he'll be able to save his head before it entirely burns away.

11 notes · View notes

imperiuswrecked · 4 months

Text

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian babies that were left to starve to death then rot in their beds by the IOF.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian doctors surrounded by bodies of dead children begging the world to stop the slaughter.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian children who held a press conference in English to beg the world to stop murdering them because they want to live.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian Priest who said "We will not accept your apology after the genocide" to the world.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian Imam who used the speakers of the Mosque, not to call people to prayer but to call out to God while the world around them was burning from American supplied Israeli bombs.

I'm never forgetting the grandfather who held his dead grandchild in his arms. Or the father carrying the remains of his two children in plastic shopping bags. Or the mother holding her dead child in a shroud. Or the father sitting among the rubble after he lost his whole family. Or the girl trapped under a broken building begging for people to save her family first. Or the boy who cried when he saw his brother alive. Or the girl who asked if she was still alive after being pulled from the rubble. Or the boy who carried the remains of his brother in his backpack. Or the old man the IOF used for a photoshoot before they shot him dead after getting pictures. Or the little boy wearing plastic gloves to pick up the remains of his family. Or the graves desecrated. Or the body of that small baby girl left alone in a tent because no one knew who she was or if her family was alive, small and alone and not one person who knew her name to bury her. Or the young boy who was shot in the street while his sister watched from the window. Or the men and boys who were stripped naked in winter. Or those tortured. Or those made to stand in open graves. Or the people who were raped by IOF soldiers. Or Palestinian workers kidnapped by the IOF and then labeled with wristbands, each one reduced to a number, then made to walk back to Gaza to be killed in the world's largest open air concentration camp. Or the people of Gaza starving because Israeli Zionists are blocking aid trucks. Or the Israelis dancing and celebrating the death of Palestinians. Or the lies spread by Zionists and their supporters. Or the people profiting off the oppression and deaths of Palestinians. Or the people of the West Bank being killed or kidnapped by the IOF. Or old woman who was older than the creation of the terror state of "Israel" who was shot by snipers for saying that. Or the Israelis dressed up as Palestinians to enter a hospital and kill three Palestinians in their beds. Or every single Palestinian currently kept in an Israeli prison. Or the journalists, doctors, poets, men, women, children, and the unborn all massacred. Or the fact that WCNSF exists now. Or the woman who refused to wash the blood from her hands. Or the dead, unburied and unmourned.

I'm never forgetting those who chose silence in the face of a genocide.

I may not know all their names but I will not forget the over 30,000 Palestinians dead. Or the over 60, 000 people hurt. Or the unknown number of people missing, still lost under the rubble. Or the 12,000 children slaughtered. An entire generation crippled or murdered.

I will never forget these things when Palestine is free.

#palestine #tw: genocide #i will not forget

37K notes · View notes