The Internship

Chapter 3: Crackhead

Trigger Warning: mention of blood,
murder scenes.

2013

"Don't do this, please." Do it. Do it.
The dragging sound of a dragging shovel reverberated through the darkness. The faint sound of panting— almost like out of breath— and groans accompanied the dragging noise.

"Please." A faint voice pleaded. "Don't do this." The voice grew faint with each stuttering word. The dragging shovel came to a halt. The voice froze with the unaccustomed silence in the dark.

A shy peak of sunlight shoots straight inside from a tiny hole in the old wooden walls. Ragged breathing coated the darkness like a cloud.

The creak of a wooden chair resounded in the room as a man thrashed around its rope-bonded form tied to the chair. A muttering of pleas seeped out from his cracked lips. The dragging sound of the shovel resumed once more.

"Look up!" A gruff voice boomed in the silence, making the faint whimpering start its pace. Yet no answer. "I said," a black-gloved hand grabbed the whimpering person's chin in a harsh grip, making the person look at them. "Look at me." He barked.

A bloodied, busted face peeked up. The firm grip on his chin was still present, making his cracked lips pucker up, dripping raw blood along with some saliva. The once structured, pretty face of a young man was now mauled as if a wild creature had jumped him. His mocha-kissed skin was filled with scratches, streaks of blood, and day-old vomit caked on his mouth area. His eyes busted black and blue, the left side shut closed due to the immense torture. The gloved hand roughly moved the bloodied face from side to side. Inspecting.

The man groaned at the rough manhandling of his broken jaw, but whimpers were all he could croak out. His shallowed breathing fanned the gloved hand. A tongue clicking was heard as the hand slapped the man's face away. His whole body bounced back with the chair before approaching a rattling stop like a frisbee.

"This didn't work, too." The gruff voice groaned, his mucus-coated gloved hand covering his face, dragging it down to his mouth. His bloodshot eyes doubled in size as he looked at the tied-up man bobbling his head. Presumably fainted. A dark snicker crawled up his throat as he moved towards the unconscious body, roughly grabbing his greasy curly hair.

Another ruined artwork.

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Florida Man Called Cops On His Child

Greg groaned as he thrashed the newspaper. His hands jammed inside his pockets, a cigarette hanging on his lips. No good news nowadays. So boring. It has been uneventful for the past few weeks, maybe even months at this point. Greg looked up at the sky as he huffed his cig, that act etched into his system just like breathing. The cigarette smoke swirled with the crisp air of the wintry weather.

A vast canvas of cerulean blue, flecked with the cottony wisps of clouds, painted his vision. A ballet of seagulls takes flight, dancing around the mast of a ferry. Their calls echo like a joyful chorus. A few ferry passengers peek at the vibrant ballet. Greg's eyes unconsciously follow the seagulls: their white bodies flash in the sunlight, their wings carving graceful arcs in the crisp air. Greg stubs the butt of his cigarette on the concrete, his smokey breath mingling with the air rising towards the sky. Freedom, he thinks. It must be nice.