Won't Get Fooled Again

I wrote this story for a contest somewhere a while ago. I didn't win. I'm going to write a radio play for a contest by Wildclaw Theatre and I'm going to use the antagonist in this story, I think.

The story is a sort of sequel to Bellwether's Asteroid and it concerns the entity Aachiang.

As a side note, I hate the proliferation of the present tense in contemporary speech and how it is corrupting literary skills. People use the present tense when they tell stories to each other and now I'm seeing it more and more in "literature." I don't think most even know they are doing it.

There is a time and place for present tense and talented writers can use it at time to draw the reader in and make the story more real and personal. That is what I tried to do here. I consciously chose the present tense and I hope I made it work.

EDIT: I just realized that this story was posted on Illini6 earlier. I took it off the previous post and I put it here.

CAUTION : CONTAINS SCENES OF A VIOLENT RAPE.

Won’t Get Fooled Again

“Don’t make a sound.” He slams me, face first against the car with his hand clamped on my mouth.

My asthma. Throat tightens.

He’s undoing his pants. Oh God! My eyes search the dark empty lot. Dear God. He’s hiking up my skirt with his free hand. He’s using his left thigh to press mine against the car. His erection is sticking me in the ass cheek.

Can’t breathe. Gasping through his fingers, mouth open wide.

“Not a sound bitch.” He’s growling. His breath is hot on my ear. It stinks. He reeks. I’m tasting it.

His hand moves to the back of my neck. He’s sliding me down to the hood of the car. He’s smashing my face into the steel. He’s kicking my feet apart.

I’m gasping and wheezing.

“I said shut the hell up bitch whore.” He hits me in the head. He’s ripping my panties off, finding his target. I feel hard, wide flesh pressing against.

The hood is hit with something like a bullet. The noise it makes is like a tiny airplane crashing.

“What the hell?”

Another hits, and punches right through. They are falling all around. Falling from the sky.

He’s looking up and loosens his grip. I’m looking up. The sky is filled with tiny glowing meteors. They strike the asphalt lighting it on fire.

“What the hell are they?” He’s saying just as one hits him in the head. Half his head is gone before he knows it. I’m splattered with blood and brains.

He’s falling away from me. Falling to the ground. I curl up beside the car.

His body is lying there in filthy rags. The meteors are punching the lot, melting it. They glow white-yellow, the size and shape of pumpkins seeds.

My breath is coming back. The car rocks as more strike, but I’m in the shadow.

The body is moving. God, he’s getting to his knees. I see it, the meteor glowing in the shattered eggshell of his head, but he’s moving. On his hands and knees now, head bowed toward me.

His brain is bubbling, sizzling. I’m smelling hot tar and burning flesh.

His bones are growing. His skull is closing around the boiling, glowing meteor-brain mix. It’s closing faster. It seals with a snap.

He’s lifting his head. His eyes have that same yellow-white glow. His face is blank.

He’s beginning to smile. It’s spreading across his face and up to his eyes. He’s looking at me.

He’s standing above me. He’s looking out over the car.

“Yes. This time Aachiang understand. Aachiang, I won’t misjudge again.”

He’s looking down at me. He’s licking his lips.

“Yes. A rape is an excellent way to start,” he’s laughing.

I wheeze and wheeze.