Decisions I Should Have Made. Rachel. <violence, adult l
 

Decisions I Should Have Made
Part one

I'm kinda trying out this writing thing. So if you're going to read it, don't expect a while lot because I don't claim to be great at it. I'm going to write a few of these stories. They are choices I sometimes wish I had made. Some of them I didn't because it's wrong, or I was too scared.. Different reasons.

I tried to write these stories in the first person, as thought I were telling you, the reader, my story. They won't be extremely descriptive. It's ment to be lacking in details. It will have more to do with thoughts going through the main characters mind as things are going on.

I reserved all the posts on the first page, so feel free to comment if you like. I'll update the posts as the story gets typed up. I wrote them all out on paper, and they aren't complete.

Decisions I Should Have Made
Rachel.
Part one.

Blood. It never looks the way it does in the movies. After twenty-one years of seeing it splatter, drop and spread across hard wood floors in the on tv, I can't help but feel completely let down by the way it's soaking into the bedsheets right now. There isn't even smoke coming out of my gun's barrel.

Cut. Andrew's Death Scene, take two, I think to myself. But he doesn't get up. He's still dead. The bitch in the room with us, yeah, she's still screaming. That's the trouble with real life. No retakes, or do overs, or give-backsies, or script rewrites. One shot. Hit or miss. Succeed or fail.

Have you ever shot someone? If you have, just skip ahead a page or so because you'll already know what I'm talking about. It's not 'As seen on Tv', okay? When you watch a movie, and someone is about to get shot, you look at their face. When you hear the shot, you look for the bullet hole. In reality, it's the exact opposite. You look where you're shooting. Bang. Then you watch their expression.

Another big let down about this situation, and not all 'as seen on Tv', is that it all happens really fast. No slow motion. No seeing the bullet enter the victim. Zoooom.

Click. Bang. And he's already bleeding. Unfortunetly, it's nearly impossible for anyone to avoid blinking when they fire a gun. You miss all the best parts when you're the murderer. You miss the bullet going in, and you miss the first expression. All because you had to blink.

As I think about all this, I say to myself... 'I should have shot him in the forehead, so I wouldn't have to look from the bullet hole in his chest to his face and back and forth three or four times. Because both are equally entertaining to me.

Cut! Andrew's death scene, take three, I think to myself. Whoever wrote the script to my life sucked. They never think about the first person perspective. Only video games do that.

He's bleeding. She's screaming. I'm bored. I'd shoot her too if I had another bullet. This is lame. Let's go back to the beginning.

Decisions I Should Have Made
Rachel.
Part two.

I'm at work. I'm sweating. I think, it's fucking hot out here. It's the middle of July, and humid as fuck. I'm getting sunburn on my shoulders and back, but I can't stand wearing a shirt in heat like this. Not because it makes it feel hotter, but because when the sweat soaks into your shirt, you smell times worse. I think, I can't wait to go home.

I think, I can't wait to see her.

That's something really different, between males and females. Guys think about going home after a long day and just being there. Girls are at home worrying about having to go to work the next day. Weird, eh?

"You're so fucking whipped, Nikki.' says Owen to me. Owen is my bestfriend. He slaps his hand hard against my chest. It makes a disgusting pop sound. I think, fuck. I think, that hurt. Damn sun burn.

"Maybe," I reply with a smile. I don't want to get into the arguement again, so I try to let it slide. A few months ago, I got my second tattoo. It's a heart, with a key hole in the center of it. It's on my chest, where you place your hand when you say the pledge of allegence. I remember when I got the tattoo, the woman inking me explaing that your heart isn't on the left side of your chest.

It's actually in the center. When it pumps blood, it beats to the left slightly. Which is why you put your hand there to sing the national anthem.

"I still can't believe you got that gay ass tattoo,' he says to me. He's not going to let it go, I can tell already. "It's fucking lame." He helping me lift a large concrete block now. We carry it to the backyard of the house we're working at.

"Does it really bother you that much, man? It's not even on your body."

"Yes." He's lifting the concrete clock and setting it ontop of another one. We're creating an artifical waterfall for another rich family in Bay Village. We're charing them $14,000 for something they will only look at once a year, during some stupid company BBQ so they can look richer than they did last year.

"Did Rachel ever get hers?" he asks. He already knows the answer to this, and he's trying to piss me off. He's asked me this same question every three days since I got the tattoo. I tell him no.

Rachel got this bright idea that we should get tattoos to symbolize our commitment to each other. A type of permanent engagement ring. I got the heart shaped lock on my chest. She was supposed to get a necklace with a key tattooed on her.

She never did it.

I think, she should have told me sooner that she was afraid of needles. I think, it does kinda look lame. I think, I should have just bought her a ring.

"How do you let her talk you into shit like that?"

"She didn't." I lie. "I wanted to get it done."

"Like the shitty one on your arm? You wanted that one too?" He means my first tattoo, her name, on my right arm.

"This is coming from a guy with the Predator inked on his leg? Spare me the lectures/" I turned to leave. That was the last block. We'll finish tomorrow in the morning.

"Hey," he calls out. I don't turn. "Predator was a great movie!" I get into my truck. I want to go home.

Decisions I Should Have Made
Rachel.
Part three.

I'm driving home. I'm still hot. I'm still sweating when I pull up to my house. I park in the street because she's parked in the driveway. She hates when I park behind her. She said she doesn't like to drive my truck, and she doesn't like having to wait for me to move it when she needs to leave.

I open the door and feel my nipples get hard. She's had the AC running all day. I think, thank God. I think, fuck. The electric bill is going to be through the roof this month.

"Hey babe." I say to her. I step into the living room. I see her sitting on the couch, with her books open on the table. I wait to be acknowledged, and it takes a few moments. She looks up at me, peering over the rim of her black emo glasses. Then she looks down at my work boots, covered in mud. I think.. Fuck.. I messed up already.

I walk backwards and unlace my boots. I kick them off and try again. "How was your day?" I ask her. I lean down and try to kiss her cheek. God, she looks fucking beautiful today.

"Come on Nikki, don't" she says to me. "You're filthy from work and you smell terrible." She's leaning away from my kiss. She shakes her head. She acts like I'm not there. It's moments like these I wish I had a better job. Something in a nice clean office so I wouldn't smell bad when I came home. I think about when we were younger.

Before I got my truck, a few summers ago, I remember when I used to run home from work everyday. It would be hot. I would be pouring sweat and dying from the heat, but I'd still run home because I couldn't wait to see her. 16 hours out in the fucking burning sun and I still ran. She used to say 'Hey baby." She used to kiss me. She used to lay on the kitchen floor with me, so I could feel the coolness of the tile on my back. She used to say "I like your sweat."

I think, I'll just leave her be. I go upstairs to take a shower. She barely speaks to me the rest of the night.

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