“Yeah?” Lindsi turns to you, eyes alight. That transition was terrifyingly rapid.
“I thought we could finish what you started. But somewhere different, you know?”
“Yes. Maybe one of the beds in the Macy’s housewares department. Once in high school, my boyfriend and I—”
“Or somewhere less busy? I want us to be able to be…” What will appeal to your apparently nymphomaniacal girlfriend without getting you arrested? “…loud. As loud as we want.”
“YES.” Lindsi’s practically drooling now. She grips your thigh so tightly you wince. “I know the perfect place.”
“Is it far away from everyone? I don’t want to get interrupted again.” You try to keep the nerves out of your voice.
“No one will be there, I’m sure of it. It will be so hot. GOD, I’m going to ride you so fucking hard.”
Lindsi whips out of the parking lot, obviously on a mission. You’re nervous, but at least she’s not pissed anymore. Plus, even if the sex is uncomfortable, there’s something kind of hot about fucking in the back seat of a car, or in the woods. And when it’s as cold as this, she can’t blame you for finishing really fast.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
“Wow, this looks like a shitshow,” you say. Lindsi growls threateningly. “Why don’t we get a drink instead? To relax.”
“That’s a good idea,” she says slowly.
“I’ll buy,” you say, eager to keep her in this slightly better mood. “It’s the least I can do.”
“That works. Or…” She turns to you, eyes bright. “One of my high school friends is having a house party this afternoon. An ugly sweaters thing—isn’t that funny?” You nod like the idea is original. “I’d been planning to skip it once you said you’d be here, but if you don’t mind…”
“Not at all!” Ugh, a house party full of strangers? Is there anything worse? “That sounds fun!”
But you can’t back out now, especially since Lindsi is clearly into the idea.
“Great, I’ll just run into the house and grab some sweaters—Mom has, like, a thousand ugly things—and we can wear those!”
“GREAT!” you squeak. At least it makes it harder to hear your dread.
• • •
“LINDSIIIIIII!”
The minute you walk through the door people start yelling. Man, Lindsi must have been popular in high school. A pudgy bottle blonde comes over with two shots, reluctantly offering one to you. You put a hand up—it looks like cream booze, possibly the worst thing you can imagine—and she eagerly turns to Lindsi.
“Three…two…one…DRANK.”
Lindsi and the girl take the shot. Already someone’s appeared with more. You refuse again—electric blue is like an alcohol warning sign—and she, Lindsi, and Blondie take another.
Within minutes Lindsi is housed. In fact, everyone around you is wasted, except you, of course.
That makes it so much easier to be at a party full of strangers.
Blondie turns and leans against you, snorting wetly.
“How Lindsi fie you ennyway,” she slurs. “You’re too HOT for her.” She giggles.
“We met at a friend’s wedding.”
“Dih she tell you ’bout me?”
“I don’t think I caught your name, actually…”
“She’z juz jealous. She’z all-ees been jealous uh me.”
“Oh my gah, Vicki, ged off my boyfrien.” Lindsi is stumbling over, lip curled in exaggerated disgust. “Yer such a slut.”
“Fug you, Linzi.” The girl pushes up off you. “Juz cuz Steve all-ees liked me better duzzin mean…”
“He NEVER LIKED YOU.” Lindsi is looming over the girl like some drunk demon. Somehow she’s even more terrifying than when she was yelling at her mom.
“Thazz not what he sed affer we fugged.”
* * *
Oh shit, you’d better break this up NOW. Go HERE.
You know what? They’ll work it out on their own. Go HERE.
Dear god, what have you done? What have you become? HAVE YOU LOST ALL YOUR HUMANITY?
No. Not yet. You leave the carcass in the snow. Maybe some other animal will eat because of your deed today. That’s good, right? Helping the circle of life?
You’d vomit again, but you’re too dead inside to bother.
You stumble to the road, hands and soul numbed. After a half hour of plodding along in the direction of town, you see a car. You flag it down. The middle-aged, permed woman driving gives you one look, smiles blandly, and starts chatting about the weather.
You’re literally covered in gore, with a Bowie knife blood-glued to your right hand and a crossbow death-gripped in your left.
You’re starting to believe this town might actually be hell.
Maybe it’s your dead-eyed silence, or maybe it’s the heavy, used weaponry, but the woman drives you all the way to the VanWhittington house.
The entire family is sitting at the kitchen table when you walk inside, talking in low, urgent voices. Lindsi sees you first.
“Oh! You’re here and—” She glances at you, squeals delightedly, and throws her arms around your neck. Her hand sticks to something on your ear. “You did it! Oh, baby, I’m so proud of you. I knew you had it in you, but this is even more than I expected.”
You stare at her, eyes narrowing slightly. Who is this strange person?
“Is the carcass outside, or…”
“There is no carcass. The animals have the carcass.”
“Oh. Well, that’s okay, though. Even without the body, I think we can all agree.” She turns to her dad, widening her eyes meaningfully. He nods once and she grins. “You’ve succeeded. You can join the family. Mom, bring him the cup.”
“Of course!” Mom is beaming. She pours what you recognize as an extremely expensive scotch into a golden…there’s no other word for it than chalice, and walks toward you.
You feel bile rising in your throat again.
You turn to Lindsi.
“You’re a disgusting person.”
She frowns.
You look at the rest of them, your voice rising. “All of you are disgusting people. You should be ashamed.” You look at Lindsi again. “I hope you’re fucking barren. I pray to all the fucking gods in heaven and the hell world you actually live in that you never, ever reproduce any more of your sick, twisted kind.”
Everyone stares at you, stunned. You walk to the bedroom, snow melting pinkly around every footstep, grab your bag, and leave, driving away without looking back.
You make it to the city in some kind of fugue state. You must have stopped and washed off the blood somewhere, but you don’t remember it. You don’t remember anything.
At least, not until your exhaustion overwhelms you and you fall asleep.
Rivers of blood, steaming, stinking guts spilling through your hands, the dying cry of a—
“AAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”
The sound of your own shrieking wakes you.
Every time you try to sleep it starts again. Eventually, you just decide to stay awake.
You spend the entire Christmas vacation drinking so much caffeine that you’re regularly vomiting pure acid—you’re that terrified of sleeping.
But you’ll get over it eventually, right? You’ll have to.
Right?
The End.
It’s too late to turn back now. The only way out of this is to finish the deed; after all, you’re alone in the middle of nowhere, and killing this deer is the prerequisite to ending that.
Plus, you already did the horrible part; you might as well get the credit.
You don’t actually know how to skin a deer, and even holding the knife close to the animal again makes you gag heavily.
There’s no option but to haul the entire thing back with you and hope they give you a bye. After all, you did brutally slaughter the thing.
At first you try dragging the deer by the legs, but watching the he
ad lolling over to the side makes you want to cry, so you flip it upright-ish, the rest of the insides spilling out into the snow, and haul it up on your shoulders.
At least you managed that one belly slice. You probably cut out at least thirty pounds of weight!
You stumble back to the road, leaving a dripping trail of blood and gore behind you. You can feel the warm, wet blood soaking through your coat, dripping down your back, pooling in the waistband of your pants. This must be what war feels like.
After about a mile your phone picks up a weak signal.
You dial the number Lars typed in before he left.
“Lars? Lars, it’s me. I did it.”
“Really? Already?” He sounds skeptical.
“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t skin it. I don’t know how to skin a deer.”
“But you killed it?”
“I shot it in the throat.”
“Did you gut it?”
“Uhh…I think so? That’s the intestines and stuff, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then yes.” The last of that shit fell out about a mile back.
“Wow.” Is that a note of awe you hear in Lars’s voice? “You’re a natural. I’m not sure we’ve ever had someone finish a proving so fast.”
“Really?” In spite of yourself you feel a little glow of pride somewhere beneath your ribs. Though that could just be a side stitch from hauling an entire deer on your back.
“Nowhere close. I was out for two days during mine. Nine-year-olds take a while to figure things out. Even Dad took six hours. Although he did bag a lynx.”
“Whoa.”
“I’m impressed, man. I wasn’t sure you had it in you, and you nailed it in under an hour.” Lars laughs merrily.
You join in. Now that you think of it, that was a pretty impressive thing you just managed. You feel closer to Lars than ever before. In fact, you’ve never felt this close to anyone.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You wake up to a hulking, hatchet-wielding shadow standing over you.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY SHED?”
Sweet Jesus, it’s a murder-lumberjack.
“Soooo cold,” you manage to squeak out.
“What?”
“The elements. Had to…escape…the elements.”
“Get out of my shed. NOW,” he bellows.
You stumble back toward your sister’s house, covered in spiderwebs and dust from the shed.
Harrison opens the door and instantly starts screaming. You didn’t realize you looked that rough.
“Look who it is,” Lauren says. “The idiot brother who gave my kid a Super Soaker. After I specifically told him about our no guns, no plastic policy.”
You stumble inside, too weak and cold to argue.
You try to untie your shoes but your fingers won’t cooperate. In fact, your hands look completely blue.
You definitely have frostbite.
On your entire hand.
If you lose it, will you get a prosthetic? Or a hook?
The End.
Lindsi throws the car into park.
“We’re here!” She grins wickedly and leans over the console to lick your ear.
“We’re…in the parking lot of a church.”
“Exactly.”
“Where did you think—”
“The crèche, obviously.”
You look through the window to where she’s pointing. Right. You’d missed that nativity scene because you were so fucking confused about your girlfriend wanting to fuck in a church parking lot.
“Do you really think that’s a good idea? It’s kinda…”
Lindsi’s eyebrows lower dangerously and her lips pinch so hard they go white.
“What? Are you trying to shame me for my healthy sex drive? I hate that.”
“No, no.” You shake your head rapidly. “This is great. It’s, uh, kinky. In a good way.”
“Good.” Lindsi leans back, smiling brightly. “Then let’s get going. Evening services are only a couple hours from now.”
Unsure what else to do, you follow her inside the nativity, carefully picking your way around the life-sized mannequins dressed in actual clothes. All their eyes are dead. It feels like they’re staring at you.
Still, the sun has gone down, so that’s on your side. And it’s kind of hard to see anything behind the crib. This could work, right?
• • •
“Why won’t it work?” Lindsi exhales in frustration, then starts sawing away at your dick even faster. It stays stubbornly limp under the gazes of Jesus and Friends.
“I’m sorry. Maybe I could just do you, and then—”
“NO.” Lindsi glares. “Both of us or nothing.”
“Okay,” you squeak.
Several minutes later, you manage to get just hard enough to stuff yourself into Lindsi.
Then you hear something. Something other than Lindsi.
“Lindsi, shhh.”
“OOOoOOOOOoOOOOOHHHH.” She’s moaning louder than she ever has before. And you know this isn’t the best you’ve ever been. You’re about half a centimeter from utter, limp defeat.
There it is again. Voices. High-pitched voices.
“Lindsi, wait. I think someone’s—”
“UH! UH! UH!” She’s making little yips now. “HARDER! HARDER!”
Her head is thrown back, so she doesn’t see when they start appearing around the corner, first just a couple of people, then a dozen more.
Everyone’s in robes, the youngest boy maybe fourteen, the oldest man way past eighty. It’s clearly some sort of choir, though they’re not singing. They’re staring, horrified.
Well, except for the fourteen-year-old. He looks pretty into it.
A priest comes up from behind.
“Ah. Lindsi VanWhittington,” he says coldly.
Your dick falls out, completely dead.
Everyone stares at you, even Lindsi. Do they expect a speech?
“We just, uh, felt that the virgin birth was so…miraculous,” you begin. Someone starts chuckling in the crowd. “Anyway, what kind of Christian would watch? That’s a sin too, you know.” You try to look defiant, but the priest’s stare withers your resolve. And, somehow, even more of your dick.
“I’d still watch,” the ancient man says, grinning widely to reveal mostly toothless gums. “Unless that makes things too…hard for you?”
The entire choir bursts into malicious laughter. God, you hope the family hadn’t planned on going to services…
The End.
You turn away, tapping your foot in frustration. This has to end soon, right? There’s a huge line of kids.
Steve whispers something in Lindsi’s ear and she giggles, slapping his cheek playfully. Thank god you don’t know anyone in this town. It would be too embarrassing if…
Fuck, is that Lindsi’s brother Lars?
It has to be—perfectly formed blond giants can’t be that common, especially in the middle-of-nowhere town Lindsi grew up in.
Maybe he won’t look over? Or if he does, he might not recognize you. It’s pretty chaotic around the Santa.
Lars’s massive head turns slowly on his thick, muscular neck.
He stares right at you, waves, and walks over. It’s not until he’s just feet away that he registers Lindsi on Steve’s lap.
“C’mon, Linds, really?” Lars raises an eyebrow. “Let the kids have their fun.”
“Oka-ay.” Lindsi sticks her lip out in an exaggerated pout. “See you, Stevie.”
“See you Va-va,” he growls. His hand lingers as she stands, caressing her thigh and ass. Lars grimaces and turns to you.
“None of my business, but…man up.”
The worst part is he just sounds sad. Like you’re a puppy with cancer. A helpless, testicleless, inevitable failure.
Lars walks off, leaving you alone with Lindsi…and your boiling rage.
By the time you’ve made it to the car you can’t hold it in anymore.
You snort loudly.
“Bless you,” Lindsi says.
“Aren’t you even the slightest bit embarrassed?”
She turns, obviously confused.
“About what?”
“About that little…display back there. You made an absolute idiot of yourself. It’s bad enough you were acting like a Playboy Bunny, but letting him grope you in front of me? Do you respect me in the slightest?”
“Letting him…” Lindsi frowns. “Steve?”
“Yes, Steve.”
“He wasn’t groping me.” Lindsi’s face is dripping scorn. “He has a prosthetic hand.”
“A prosthetic…?”
“He lost his hand in the war. ’Cause he was a soldier? But you’re right, I should have definitely made a big deal about him not being fully aware of where his fake hand was sitting.”
“Oh.” You still feel pissed, but simultaneously ashamed. “Well, you were still being too flirty.”
“Wow. Now who’s an embarrassment?”
You ride home in impenetrably icy silence.
* * *
If you want to apologize, go HERE.
No, fuck that, she was being ridiculous. Let her stew. Go HERE.
Jesus, do they even care that you’re here? Does he seriously think it’s okay to grope your girlfriend while you’re three feet away?
“Hey,” you say, voice tight. He looks up, eyebrow raised, lip curled in a sneer.
“You need something?” His hand drifts higher up Lindsi’s leg.
You feel hot and red, like all your blood vessels have burst simultaneously. Letting out an inarticulate grunt, you rush forward, pulling Lindsi off the Santa’s lap roughly.
“What the fuck?” she squeals.
But you can’t really hear her, you have to focus on—
CRACK.
Your hand explodes in pain as you connect—hard—with his stupid fucking stubbly jaw. He falls over sideways, gripping his face as he hits the floor.
Choose Your Own Misery Page 23