I wrote a short story, a short while back. I really like it and hope you guys would to, thus im shareing it with you.

Tell me what you think. I don't care if you don't like it, however, if you don't id like to know why as to improve.

Vicarious

She can only return to him a cold, blank, empty stare. Maybe she knew it was going to happen, foreseen these events in her mind many times in the past. The hints, obsessions, the clear, however, ignored signals. There was, however, something else that causes her dying face to be so blank, shocked. The smile, he wore it with such pride and a scene of accomplishment. He was exhilarated, his emotions of pleasure only increased as she collapsed to the floor. It seemed to be everything he imagined. The blood now began to spread from her chest wound, unto the brown carpet. How could he feel so happy? Why did he do this? It was unprovoked, no hate, they shared only love, affection. He loosened his vice grip on the gun dropping it to the floor, no sound. There was no sound at all. The TV deafened the moment. A turned over bus, children dead, injured or maybe they were lucky and survived without physical damage. The news story flickering across the screen of the TV, something that would normally spring the man to attention now ignored.

I own a TV, I bought it in the early nineties. It has brought me so much pleasure and fulfillment. Eyes always glued to the stories. Why? I watch it because tragedy thrills me. No matter what flavor, always watching, looking, obsessing. Most men may find themselves cheering on their favorite team, hoping for victory. I can understand it, the violence that is witnessed, the fights, broken bones, however, no deaths. It does not have tragedy, only victory and defeat. I can not settle for this, there is not enough blood, there is no true pain. She put poison in his tea, drowned by the ocean, shot by his own son, that’s my kind of story. It’s no fun until somebody dies.
This is why I watch the news. My composure changes awaiting the day’s tragedy, fidgeting and gripping at the thick arm of the chair. I’m sure she has seen the glimmer of pure joy in my eyes. Smiling as I anticipate the result, like a child, waiting to see what is in his present. It is always different; you never know what could happen. Perhaps it will be arson, or maybe the death of an innocent. There is no way to tell, always something new, something unique, something cliché. Finally it shows up, the woman on the TV entering the story with the hypnotic “We regret to inform you.” I stare like a junkie, in a way perhaps I am. The sadness brings me to an ultimate high. Like a zombie I look into the TV, ready to bite into the flesh of the story, feed on its contents. The mother holds her child and watches him die, bleeding unto her lap. They know there is no helping him, so they leave them to be together. She weeps, heavy tears stream and roll down her face, she can only tell him of her love. Drawn into the crossfire, he had fallen victim to a stray mass of lead. Left then with nothing, only to look to the heavens, and scream with hate “why?”

Do you think I am a monster? Do you think I am insane? Am I a madman? You judge me without looking. Do you not do the same? Perhaps you don’t realize it. Maybe you disguise your feelings with your sympathy, delude yourself with tears. Do you not cheer when the hero kills the villain? You watch these movies, using the excuse that “it’s not real” to hide your sick joy. The only difference between me and you is that I embrace it. We all need to watch things die, always from a distance. You all need these tragedies too, don’t lie. Why do you find it so hard to admit it?
It’s quite accurate to say that this event was foreseeable, perhaps preventable. People, however, did not try and do anything, they did not try and ‘help’. Why is it that people saw me do these things and then say, or do nothing? I am not trying to shift any blame for my doings, but rather proving a point. Maybe they had seen themselves in my actions. I would act as a mirror, showing them their own hidden desires. One cannot change another, when they need to first change themselves. You cannot fight back against violence with your fists.

There is a question still not answered, and that is why I felt the need to do such an action. Was it a feeling of curiosity? Simply wanting to know how it felt. Yes, maybe that was it indeed. I need to feel this pain, one that comes from the loss of a loved one. I see it countless times, an emotion that blocks out all other happenings in their life, to merely cry. Why do they do this? What use do these tears have in this time of anguish? I needed to find out. I could not simply read it and be fine, I had to experience it, feel it. Is this the reason I choose to take action? Id would be lying if I said it wasn’t a factor, however, I can’t help but think there is more.
Maybe I was wrong to act on my feelings. No, if I was wrong I would not feel this way, I would not feel happy. People who are wrong feel remorse, regret, and pain. I feel none of this. Therefore I can not be wrong. People are going to wonder, why I would kill her, when I loved her so much. I needed to! I can’t kill someone I feel nothing for, there needs to be the pain. It needs to be perfect; there can be no mindless murder. This was not senseless, this was needed! It was for me, no, maybe this was for you. So you can feel it. So you can live through me, you can murder her. You can be just like me, do what I’ve done so many times before.

I know your feeling of want, your urges. I have killed so many people this way. I would try and feel the pain; I imagined the blood on my fingers. I tried to force the tears on my face. Vicariously I lived while they died. So you see I, no we, live while the whole world dies. So many stories sold no matter to you if they are bold, or they are brave. You read and feel their lives, their mistakes, their victories, and of course their deaths. We don’t care until the blood is flowing, for it has been and forever will be.

You are simply blinded, if you believe that man is nothing than blood thirst voyeurs, pleasuring from sight of death. You can go back as far as you wish; man has always felt pleasure from pain. Blood has feed the forests of today, like rain, death has sprouted mankind to his fullest. Like a vampire to blood, we will suck and feed off the pain and misery. It was only natural that I as human do this.


As I stood there, I finally felt it, the tears. No longer was I happy, my heart raced as it had always, perhaps for different reasons. Now, there was a guttural feeling, one of loss. I dropped to my knees, blood soaking itself into the fabric my pants. The pain was there, it was actually there. I could feel it, the emotion tore and ripped, and I needed an outlet. Perhaps that is the source of these tears. They are a means to be rid of the pain. I want it gone, it is not as I have imagined, and it is too much. Her face is so soft, calm and quite, beautiful. I want it all back; I want to take it back. I shake her, hoping for her revival. It is funny how logic plays no part in pain. Perhaps right now, even more then pain, I feel desire. I can feel the hope that this is but just a dream, desire to put it all back.

When you look at your TV tonight, and this news story flashes, you see me and my pain. My eyes start welling and flowing; my wife is pulled and carried from the house. Will you grip at the chair, gawking, smiling? Will you use my pain as a catalyst; bring your self to a high? When my victories, my mistakes, my life, and my death is shown to you, how will you feel? Do you see what I now see? Feel what I now feel? Or perhaps, the gears of humanity will keep turning, the cycle revolving and returning, all in the name of enjoyment.