by Matt Shaw
TWISTED TALES
BOOK 1
A Christmas to Remember
YOU CHOOSE THE STORY!
© Matt Shaw
The right of Matt Shaw to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any format without written consent from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.
The characters, and story, in this book are purely fictitious. Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover artwork by Sally Hattrell
http://imamyrose.deviantart.com/
IMPORTANT NOTICE - PLEASE READ
When I was growing up (in the factory) I remember reading “Choose Your Own Adventure” stories; these little books where you got to choose the outcome of each chapter. A set of two or three choices instructing you which page you needed to turn to, to continue your story.
I was crap at those books. I mean really crap. I even used to cheat. You know, kept my finger on the page just to make sure I didn’t choose incorrectly. Now I’m older, I’ve realised I was only cheating myself.
So I’ve made that pretty tricky to do, in this book - giving you hyperlinks at the end of each chapter instead. You simply click on the decision you wish to take. No way back unless you start again.
Now - there are numerous endings to this book but I’m going to let you know (without any spoilers) the MAIN endings.
Ending 1 - The Ultimate Happy Ending - everyone survives.
Ending 2 - The Ultimate Revenge Ending - only the wife is hurt.
The various other endings have the wife running away or the kids being affected by what they’ve seen or even the husband killing himself. These are all bad endings - some of them a little nicer than the others. You reach one of these... game over. Back to the start you go.
Anyway, I truly hope you enjoy this ‘interactive’ book, I can’t even begin to explain how hard it was to write! And please remember - despite this child-like gimmick to this book...
THIS BOOK IS FOR ADULTS ONLY
Don’t forget to follow Matt Shaw on Facebook (mattshawpublications)
(REMINDER: DON’T FORGET TO READ THE IMPORTANT NOTICE BEFORE YOU START YOUR TWISTED TALE!)
A Christmas to Remember
Sleigh-bells ring.... are you listening..... In the laaaaaaane, snow is glistening.....
.... Should have auditioned for X-Factor last year ...
..... A beautiful siiiight, We’re fucking happy tonight....... Walking in a motherfucking winter Wonderlannnnnnnnd........ Gone away is the..... thing...... Here to stay is..... the other thiiiiiiiing.... He sings a love song, As we go along..... Walking in a.......
Quick Michael Jackson foot-spin.... big ending.....
Winter Wonderlaannnnnnnnd.. Yeaaaaaaaaaah........
Jazz hands. Awesome. Love the lounge’s laminated floorboards - makes doing the funky foot-spin so easy.
I stepped back from the freshly decorated Christmas Tree. Looking good, if I do say so myself. And I do say so myself. No doubt the wife will bitch when she sees it. Not entirely sure why I bothered. A desperate attempt to show her, one final time, that I can be useful around the house. That I can be just as good as.... him. Fuck it. Don’t even know why I bothered. After all, I’m foregoing the Angel on the treetop this year - favouring her head instead. Even bought a new hacksaw for the occasion. An early Christmas present. To me, from me. With love. Shame I didn’t have the patience to wait a few days - could have got it in a sale, I bet.
Speaking of the wife - should be here soon with the kids in tow. That’s what we agreed. Christmas Day together - as though everything between us is still cool. For the sake of the kids. Try and keep things as normal as possible for them - whilst the wife and I sort our shit.
A ping from the kitchen as the timer, I set earlier, went off.
Shit.
Forgot about the food.
Too engrossed with the Christmas Tree.
Shouldn’t have left putting the tree up so late. I blame the wife. Had she told me she was happy to bring the kids to our home, for Christmas Day, I would have put it up much sooner. Until late last night, I thought I was spending Christmas alone. Well, not quite alone. I still had The Queen’s speech - the wife couldn’t take that away from me.
Have to say, actually looking forward to watching it. She never used to let me. I think that’s why I always wanted to watch it. Because I wasn’t allowed normally. Had I been permitted to turn the television on, at Christmas, would I have bothered with The Queen or simply tuned into James Bond? Not sure. Find out today when I watch Her Majesty for the first time.
Shit - the food.
Stop panicking, I thought to myself as I walked through to the kitchen. Can’t help worrying, I just want everything to be perfect for the kids. My wife and I have managed to ruin a lot of the things we did together - be a shame to include the children in that long, long list.
I opened the oven door and glanced at the meat, through the transparent lid on top of the cooking pot I bought myself a few months ago - after she took what we already had for her new flat. Looks good. Sure smells good too. Been cooking for a number of hours now. Even had to set my alarm, specially during the night, to ensure I came down and flicked the oven on.
Never been good at cooking meats. Mind you, never really been good at cooking full stop. Chicken is always dry. Beef always tough. Turkey always gives me an upset stomach. Please let this be a more successful year. Please let it be a nice meal. Please. Can’t help but think it would have been better to eat around her flat. I know it’s a little cramped but.... least, with her cooking, the food would have been better. Not that I’d admit that to her. She doesn’t get ‘compliments’ now. She chose to leave so she loses out on them. She made her choice...
Actually - maybe I best turn the meat.... I mean, it looks okay but.... wouldn’t kill to give it a turn. I turned back to the oven and opened it once more, after sliding the oven gloves on.
“You want to stop opening the oven, son, you’ll let all the heat out,” I heard my dad’s voice in my head. Always there, when I used to help in the kitchen - growing up - telling me what to do. Weird thing was - it was never him who cooked anyway. Always my mum. Dad would just occasionally come into the kitchen and chip in his two cents worth. Used to bug the shit out of me.
I pulled the tray from the oven and placed it on the side before removing the lid. Definitely looks good. Strange, you wouldn’t even recognise this as one of... his.... thighs. No chance of the wife noticing. She may have done if I used the other thigh - large, ghastly tattoo on the skin. Looked as though a child had etched it into his skin. I won’t tell her what it is until after she’s eaten it either. Will wait until the kids are in bed before breaking the news to her as to what I’ve done. The kids don’t need to hear what they’re eating.
Just noticed - the hairs seem to have singed off in the oven. To think, I contemplated shaving them off before I bunged it in - gas mark eight - glad I didn’t waste my time. Especially considering how much stuff I’ve had to do this morning.
I turned the thigh over, put the lid in place, and slid the tray back into the oven. Check it again in another half hour. Has to be nearly done now. Tried to look up cooking times required, online, but couldn’t find anything of use. Not that I really expected to. Just kind of hoped.
Okay, that’s done - for now. I walked back thr
ough to the lounge. Tree is up... just needs her head on the top. Will sort that after the kids are in bed - give them a nice surprise in the morning. I wonder - will it be possible to dig her eyes from the sockets? Replace them with fairy lights? Kids might like switching it on in the morning? A Boxing Day Treat... For them at least - it won’t be the Boxing Day she’s expecting... Bitch, making out she’s doing me a favour by letting the kids stay this Christmas. Fuck that, she just wants a Boxing Day with her new man. Just the two of them. Probably wants to spend the day fucking. Slag. We’re not even divorced yet and she’s already seeing someone else. So much for making a go of it again. That’s what she said. A little break and then we’d make a go of it. Still, fuck her. The only time she’ll be spending with him, in the morning, is when he’s passing through her digestive system.
Might even give her the shits. That’d be a double win, for sure.
I sat on the settee and looked at the time, on the clock hanging from the wall above the fireplace. Seriously, where the fuck is she? Nearly ten o’clock now. Half the morning is gone. So much for a whole day with the kids. This is typical of her - always playing by her rules.
I can’t wait to see the kids, it feels as though it’s been months. Mind you, it probably has been. I haven’t been keeping track of when I do, or don’t, see them and - in all honesty - I haven’t been feeling myself since she walked out all those months ago. I thought I was dealing with it ‘okay’ but then I heard she was seeing... him. Leon Tope. My old boss.
Still, is she in for a surprise. Part of him in the oven, the rest of him wrapped as little packages underneath the Christmas Tree. For the first year, ever, I’m one hundred percent sure she’ll love what’s under the tree. She’ll love her presents. She’ll love her meal. And then she’ll die. I should have done this months ago - no expensive divorce, no having to be a ‘weekend dad’, no having to hear about how happy ‘mummy’ is with their new ‘daddy’. Just me and the kids. Might even take them to Butlins in the New Year. I can’t remember the last time we had a holiday. A fun holiday anyway. Their mother likes them to experience ‘culture’ when she organises anything for them. They’re six and eight years old. They’ve got their whole lives to experience that shit. At the moment, they should be more concerned about having fun! That’s why I’m thinking, more and more, that hollowing the eyes from her pretty little head, and replacing them with the lights, would be a neat idea.
See, I’m all about the fun.
“Hey, kids! Look what mummy can do!”
Ah, I can see their delighted faces now. To think, I was dreading this year but.... this is going to be the best Christmas ever. If they ever show up.
What happens next is up to you!
The wife shows up, with the kids
If you don’t want the kids to show up, with the wife
Want a helping hand with your first decision
She is still coming, isn’t she?
She wouldn’t have changed her mind at the last minute and just not bothered telling me? I wouldn’t put it past her. It’s the sort of selfish thing she does. And, when she does do it, half the time I reckon it’s just to get a reaction from me. Probably hoping I’m going to go around her flat and start mouthing off. I expect the whore is keeping some sort of diary of times I’ve mouthed off - ready to use it against me when the divorce starts. Ha! Little does she know... they’ll be no divorce.
“He shouldn’t get custody of the children,” she’d say before handing over a file compiled of the times I’ve gotten aggressive with her and there’d be nothing I could do but suck it up and pray the Judge still, at least, lets me see the kids from time to time.
Good job it won’t come down to that. Although, thinking about it, it could still come to that if she doesn’t show up today. A quick call won’t hurt. I’ll keep it friendly, just wish her a Merry Christmas and ask what time she thinks she’ll be coming over. Can’t hurt.
I stood up and walked over to the table, against the far wall, where the telephone sat. Can’t believe I still haven’t replaced this antique piece of shit. The old-style kind of telephone where you dial the digits using a large spinning wheel, instead of simply pressing a button like you do with phones of today. Hell sometimes, with newer phones, you don’t even need to do that - you simply say the name of the person you want to call up. The telephone dials the number automatically for you. As I put my fingers in the various numbered-holes, dialing her telephone number - I couldn’t help but remember when she actually took the telephone which used to sit on this table.
“You’re taking the phone?”
“My mum bought it for us so - yes....”
“It’s a fucking telephone, woman! Are you really that pathetic?”
I remember the look she gave me. She didn’t need to say the words. The eyes did. ‘Fuck you’. She simply carried on winding the base-unit’s cable around itself, before throwing it all in the last of her bags.
Considering it was supposed to just be a trial separation - she really didn’t leave much behind and yet, at the time, it didn’t feel strange. I wasn’t even upset at the thought of her walking out, despite being married for seven years. I just remember feeling angry. A feeling amplified when she had the audacity to take the fucking telephone. I mean, really, who does that?
The last number dialed and there was a slight delay before I heard a ringing down the line. Okay, this is it. Just stay cool. Keep calm. Stay civil! It’s Christmas, after all.
A few more rings and the telephone went dead. Either it rung off or she had simply hung up on me. Knowing her - it was probably the latter. I pressed the telephone’s receiver down and replaced the handset. Could be that she’s driving. It doesn’t mean she isn’t coming. Doesn’t mean she’s stood me up. Either way, maybe I should turn the oven down? Don’t want to overcook the meat. Although, if I did, at least it wouldn’t be a surprise to her. Just another example of how I wouldn’t be able to look after the children...
“How can he look after children if he can’t even cook a simple meal?” she’d point out to anyone who’d listen.
Just as I walked into the kitchen, there was a knock at the door. I guess she didn’t answer the phone because she was close. Whatever, least she’s here now.
I stepped out of the kitchen and turned to the hallway.
‘This is it,’ I thought.
No turning back now. Mind you, I don’t have to open the door immediately... it won’t hurt to leave her stood out there for a while longer, that’s what she does to me on the rare occasions I’m allowed to pick the kids up from the flat!
What happens next is up to you!
He leaves them standing at the door a bit longer
Don’t answer the door - keep reading
Wait...
What am I doing?
What has she turned me into? A confused mess.
I never used to be like this. When we were happy - I’d never do any of this. I’d never put someone through what I’m about to put her through. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. It’s only since the marriage broke down. Only since she moved on and found someone else. I felt as though something inside of me snapped. All sense of logic went out of the window and I turned into.... I don’t know what. A murderer? Am I murderer?
Yes.
I killed her lover. He didn’t even know who I was but that didn’t stop me. Neither did his tears. His pathetic tears - begging for mercy - as I stood above him with a hammer in my hand. No emotion flowing through my body as I raised it high in the air and slammed it down into his cranium.
I’m a killer.
The kids loved him. And, now, I’m about to feed a piece of him to them. My own children turned into cannibals because they trusted me to cook them a proper Christmas meal.
She’s turned me into a Monster.
This isn’t right.
I can’t go through with it.
Even if I did manage it, I’m not fit to raise the kids. I can’t be. I was up for them seeing their mot
her’s head impaled on top of the Christmas Tree with fairy lights in the sockets. I was keen for them to eat her new man - along with roast potatoes and vegetables. Vegetables which, until this split second, I had even forgotten to prepare - since I, myself, am not a fan of them.
What the fuck?
I can’t do this. I can’t. I need help.
No.
Not help.
I don’t.
It’s too late for me. I know that now. I’ve come all this way, done all what I’ve done... to finally realise what needs to be done. I should have done it sooner. I should have done it when she first left. At least I would have been remembered as a decent human being... instead... Jesus - what the hell am I going to be remembered for? I cooked her lover and wrapped what was left of him - stuck him under the Christmas Tree for her to open.