Creative Writing Pieces

A Murdered Innocence

"Faster, Gaston, faster!"

The child peddled even wilder than he was already going, which was already quite fast. His red mop of hair was flying all over the place, and his face was turning pink from exhaustion, but he refused to stop peddling.

"Faster!" the blonde boy shouted again.

When Gaston heard that repeated word once more, he peddled with all of his might. He peddled so speedily that in the back of his mind, he was afraid the tiny blue bike would fall apart from the overexertion.

Then it happened. The ginger's foot slipped.

It collided with the front wheel of the bicycle, and he flew from the little black seat. Had he just been riding down the road, he probably would have been all right. However, that was not why he had peddled faster. He peddled faster because he started at the top of a very long, very steep hill, and wanted to see just how fast he could possibly go. That mistake would end him.

His face hit the solid concrete with a loud bump kuu. His cheek was scraped from one end to the other. Just as he begun to scream in agony, blood spewed from the open cut.

"Gaston!" the blonde boy screeched.

The red haired boy's knee hit the ground with an eeeet. Blood escaped from the fleshy prison.

His elbow hit next. It dragged along the broken concrete for a second, allowing his red liquids to flood from his epidermis gates.

The ground was painted red then. The blonde boy no longer shouted for Gaston, because he could see there was no coming back from what he had witnessed.

A loud plump and Gaston's limbs were splayed about on the ground below.

The blonde boy rushed down to see the damage. The blood flow from the child's open wounds slowed to a half-a-pint for every ten seconds. His bone's were misshapen and jutted out at various places. His knees faced the opposite direction than they should have been. His face was the hardest to look at. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, not allowing his lids to shut. His nose was double its normal size; his lips were puffed up and split. The blonde boy stared, wide-eyed. What have I done? He thought to himself.

The boy couldn't look at his former friend any longer. It was scarring him more and more every second. He turned his head away. He was in that position for a while, until he felt something warm surround his shoes. He looked down in curiosity.

His heart sped up. He was stepping in his dead friend's blood.

"I'm sorry!" he shouted and turned away from Gaston. "I'm so sorry," he whispered softly and took off up the hill.

He left bloody footsteps behind him as he ran.

~

"Mother, I didn't mean to!" The blonde boy shouted. "I really didn't!"

"Don't try to make up for this, Flynn! You don't deserve to be listened to! You killed your own brother!"

"I swear I didn't mean to-!"

Flynn's mother threw her hand at his face with a loud slap. "Don't talk to me, Flynn. You're lucky I don't call the cops on you. I disown you as my son. You may pack your things and leave." Her voice was stern and lacked emotion. She was serious.

"But mother-!"

"Just get out of my sight, you monster."

~

The boy awoke with a gasp. He looked around his room. He felt his face. Was it all a dream?

His brother was asleep in his blue racecar bed at the other side of the snow-white room. His breathing was steady and monotonous. In, out, in, out.

Flynn raced over to his brother's bed for a closer look. It was true. It was all a dream! His checked the time on the alarm clock. 2:30 a.m.

It was just a nightmare.

Suddenly, Gaston's face turned a beet red color. Flynn cocked his head to the side, perplexed. Gaston's eyelids shot open and his eyes rolled to the back of his head, with only the whites showing. All of the veins within his face were visible and bulged outward.

Flynn backed up against the wall in a defensive manner.

Gaston rose from his bed and seemed to hover slightly above the ground. He flew over to Flynn. He was mere inches away from his face when a demonic voice growled somewhere inside him, "You wish."