As Paul Baker crouched in his bathtub, he ruminated how he had gotten there. His hands were shaking, dripping with sweat; one hand clutching a gun, the other, holding his left ear. The knots and the cramps were visible in the muscles of his back. His manicured nails now half the size of their beauty, and all bleeding. Body bare, vulnerable, he was like a child in this moment, scared of the outside world. Body was throbbing with invisible pain, shivers washing over his back. He pondered his actions, to the point of which his head throbbed. Questioned if he would have broken his routine to avoid this event. This was the day that Paul Baker was going to die. He knew this with such certainty, such clarity, in that he held the gun to his own temple. He began to rock. Monday, 36 hours earlier …show more content…
He then sat up in bed and cracked each first knuckle of every finger on his right hand. Then proceeded to strap on his watch; placing the buckle through the third hole, and aligning the watch so that it fell in the center of his wrist bones on his left arm. By 6:36am, coffee poured: black, breakfast being simplistic, light clean up. Toast and scrambled eggs, which was what he ate every Monday. A thump sounded at his front porch at exactly 7:00am, which meant his paper had arrived. He disliked reading the paper but enjoyed the exactness of delivery. He then dressed and brushed his teeth, careful to make sure that he did not lose count, however he never lost count. 24 up, 24 down, 16 on the left, 16 on the right, 15 on the top and bottom right and 15 on the top and bottom left, taking exactly 2 minutes to do. Paul knew this, he timed this for years, He tied his tie in 22 seconds, and took another minute and 34 seconds to take his medication and made the mental note to refill his prescription after work. Then he proceeded to check the house before he left for his 8am job, which would take 34 minutes to drive to the
Consequently, Andy’s soul withered further into hopelessness as each and every person who came to his rescue, turned their backs on him. Through a final desperate ambition, Andy broke free of the bonds that were pinning him down: “If it had not been for the jacket, he wouldn’t have been stabbed. The knife had not been plunged in hatred of Andy. The knife only hated the purple jacket. The jacket was a stupid, meaningless thing that was robbing him of his life. He lay struggling with the shiny wet jacket. Pain ripped fire across his body whenever he moved. But he squirmed and fought and twisted until one arm was free and the other. He rolled away from the jacket and layed quite still, breathing heavily, listening to the sound of his breathing and the sounds of rain and thinking: Rain is sweet, I’m Andy”. In these moments, Andy finally overcame his situation, only in a way not expected by most. Such depicted scenes are prime examples of human nature at it’s worst, as well as the horrors that lay within us. However, these events, although previously incomprehensible by his limited subconscious, led to a gradual enlightenment of the mind and heart. Furthermore, the experiences taught him
Under the orders of her husband, the narrator is moved to a house far from society in the country, where she is locked into an upstairs room. This environment serves not as an inspiration for mental health, but as an element of repression. The locked door and barred windows serve to physically restrain her: “the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.” The narrator is affected not only by the physical restraints but also by being exposed to the room’s yellow wallpaper which is dreadful and fosters only negative creativity. “It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide – plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions.”
Every movement of everyday must be functional. He timed himself buttoning his shirt to see which way was faster, top-bottom, or bottom-top. He timed himself shaving to see which way took longer, using to brushes to apply the shaving cream, or one.
Killinger’s eyes darted across the room, still recuperating from the grogginess of his swelling pain, burning with a red tint of anguish. The black and white crackle of the T.V buzzed in the corner of the room. A crooked mirror etched over the nearby wall. Clothing was spewn across the room, almost as if someone had been desperately packing for a quick getaway. It was all too quiet, but the faint murmur of cascading water could be heard behind the bathroom door.
In the short story Hands the main character, Wing Biddlebaum, is forced into isolation due to a traumatic event earlier in his life.1 William L. Phillips states, “The story was one called “Hands.” It was about a poor little man, beaten, pounded,...
While he was waiting for her to come, he opened his gray tweed jacket and pulled out his nine millimeter chrome plated gun from his – hung from the strap – inner pouch. He removed the bullets from the magazine, put the gun on the desk and stayed still for a while looking at it. It was glistening in the morning light. Soon after, he placed it along with the bullets in the first drawer, took off his well-pressed jacket, hung it on the back of his chair and sat down. He repeat-ed some ritual actions almost every single morning. He finally crossed his hands on the desk and waited for her to come.
As he stared at the ceiling, color returned to his face, numbness replaced with a warm sense of existing, the touch of the cool air against his skin. He looked at his hands. They were calloused and raw, nails gnawed to the quick, fingerprints lost among countless scars and burns. He grimaced. They didn't let him care for his hands, which was silly; he was a musician and he needed them to
He got up and looked at his alarm clock. It read: 1:19 AM. He knew he was going to have trouble keeping awake in school. And then he remembered.
...en a strange feeling down his spine again, as if something was breathing on his neck. He turned slowly… seeing if someone was behind him and then boom! The figure was right there, about seven feet away, trying to grab him with his big, skinny, hands, with his sharp and dark fingernails that could rip a man’s heart out… He fell down, so surprised by the strange figure.
‘My fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it’ (Page 20)
She woke up at 8:35, she got up, and got dressed, in a light blue T-Shirt with a pair of jeans. She then perambulation down to the kitchen from her bedroom upstairs to get breakfast. When she got into the kitchen she smelled the aroma of her Father’s famous biscuits and gravy.
A dull ache had begun in his side. Lifting his shirt, he saw a large bruise beginning to form. His memory flashed to the struggle with the boy and he visibly cringed. The boy that now lay at his feet, dead, had been merely fifteen, he had barely lived. And he killed him for what? A wild goose chase that had led him nowhere? A senseless game someone was playing with him? He yelled in frustration, pulling even more at his hair. His head pounded softly against his skull, reminding him that this wasn’t a dream, no matter how much he wanted to wake up.
was heard at the time of the murder. The protagonist was waiting long and, “felt himself getting
My feet planted firm on the ground as I bit the inside of my cheeks to feel something. My pigtails and gray uniform forgotten along with my surroundings as I just watched death do his work. I didn’t feel like a kid anymore. The once peaceful scene turned into a mass of chaotic moments as soon as metal clashed on metal, and the remains of glass littered the floor of the street in front of the fenced gates of my school. My peers screamed loudly but the sound of the crash replayed in my head, but worst of all is that I saw the blond hair of the woman cover her face like a veil tainted red. My teacher ushered us to wait inside yet my mind was numb and my thoughts blurred as I heard the cries of the adults.
OUCH! My leg crippled with pain. I tried to shuffle my way to the window, but it was excruciating. As my senses kicked back in, I felt pains shooting up and down my body. Peering down at my hands I screamed. My hands were covered in cold, congealed blood.