#45 - Sloth

He knew that he had to get out of bed. He knew that his alarm clock was going to ring in just a few moments. He dozed into an instant sleep, his worries vanishing in an instant. Then, as quickly as it had come, the alarm came in a shrill howl that caused his stomach to drop.

Just five more minutes he thought to himself while utilizing the clock's snooze function.

The increment of time seemed to hardly exist. The alarm was blasting once more, sending feelings of dread and guilt to circulate within him.

In a frustrated fit, he kicked the blanket from his body and slammed his hand down upon the clock. After silencing the noise, he felt his body melt into the sheets around him, the seductive softness tempting him to stay. Why did he even agree to such a thing? Did they even need him to help move? He rose from the bed, feet slapping down noisily upon the hardwood floor. He trudged to the bathroom, his eyes closed to a squint from the bright morning light seeping through the windows. He snapped on the bathroom light, the resulting brightness causing a labored moan to escape his lips. His eyes searched himself in the mirror. He looked awful, he knew that.

He never does anything for me he thought angrily, his gaze following the delicate lines of the bags held beneath his eyelids Why should I help him?

He began considering the line of thought with sleep-fueled seriousness.

I'll just tell him I got held up in traffic he announced to himself, suddenly turning on his heel and back toward the seemingly glowing bed it's not like they will miss me much.

He practically leapt back into the folds of delicious fluffiness, his eyes instantly slamming shut. He would only sleep for a little bit, he thought.

He instantly began to dream, something that did not come easily to him. He was in the room of a new looking house, the area bare of furniture and instead replaced with sealed boxes. He was lying upon the floor, his eyes staring lazily up and the ceiling.

“Hey man!” came a voice from above, “Can you help me with this side?”

He sat up a bit to find the source of the voice. His eyes widened at the sight before him. The man that knelt before him crawled upon a mass of twisted arms and legs, his hands cradling a large box. His face was completely missing, save for a gaping, bloody hole. He hobbled toward him upon those broken appendages, the sounds of snapping bone emanating from below. He instantly shot to his feet and backed away.

“Little help?” the hole spoke, “A little heavy.”

The room began to tilt uncomfortably, the floor beneath him appearing to slosh with rolling movement. A deafening snap suddenly came from his right leg, causing him to cry out in shock and horror. He gazed downward to see his leg bent at an awkward angle, the ankle hanging limp and useless. Another crunch sounded from his back, causing him to hunch over and squeeze his eyes shut in agony. Again and again, more bones within his body twisted and turned as if made from the most fragile of twigs.

“See? That's it.”

His friend was hunched beside him, seeming to watch the grizzly transformation. With one, final crack from his spine, the noises halted. He stayed there, a rumpled mass of pain and brokenness, his face streaming with tears. Then, those same eyes fell from his head as if they were merely stuck to him with cheap adhesive. He brought his twisted fingers to his face, touching at a gaping hole.

“Now you can help, can't you?” came the voice of his impatient friend, “It's not so bad after awhile. You get used to it.”

His eyes shot open in bed suddenly, a layer of thick sweat layering his brow. He threw his body into a sitting position, the memory from the vivid dream pricking his neck and sending shivers through his body. With one, fluid movement, he left the bed and headed for the shower. Maybe it was best that he did help his friend after all, he thought.

#44 - Wrath

A trickle of blood began running down from the fresh split that now glistened upon her lower lip. She watched him with wild eyes, her body a crumpled heap upon the carpeted floor.

“I'm tired of bein' late to work 'cause of yer slow cookin'!” the large man roared, “You don' appreciate a damn thing I do for ya!”

He brought his hand back and slapped it across her face a second time.

“I-I'm sorry,” came her faint reply, “I can remake them-”

“Aint make no damn bit o' difference now, do it?” he replied in a harsh snap, “Time ain't gonna wait. Guess I'm going to work hungry. Again.”

He swung his booted foot into the woman's stomach. She recoiled with a grunt while lying ever flatter upon the floor.

“This house better be spic n' span when I get home,” he said to her while turning to the door, “The least your worthless ass could do is-”

Something struck his shoulder. The blow was incredibly hard, and caused him to fall forward a bit. Once he caught his footing, he wheeled around to face her.

“What the hell do you think yer doin'?” he shouted while taking a step toward the now cowering woman.

“I d-didn't do anything,” she stammered out weakly while bringing her hands out in front of her.

He grabbed her shirt collar and lifted her from the ground.

“Yer in fer a worl' of hurt, you ungrateful-”

It felt as though a frying pan was driven into the side of the man's cheek. He lost his footing, instantly releasing the woman and stumbling to catch himself on a nearby couch. Another hit came to his left arm, then his chest.

“What the hell's goin' on?”

He barely managed to get the words out as blow after merciless blow slammed into his body. He struggled to his feet, only to be splayed back upon the carpet. He looked all about the room, settling upon the woman. His eyes went wide at what he saw; massive cuts and gashes lined her body like grotesque medals. Her face was a myriad of bruises, swelling and redness. Blood freely dripped from her body, staining her clothing with red streaks.

“I'm not doing anything, I swear!”

He watched as she spoke, blood poured from her mouth. Despite the horrid appearance of her face, her eyes appeared to be completely intact. She was watching him with a wide, fear-struck gaze.

He felt his body spasm as the millionth hit rammed into him. He lied back, strength becoming unattainable. A deafening crack resonated within the room as he felt an impossibly large force collide with his left arm, severing the bone and pulping the flesh.

“H-help me,” he managed to say while looking to her, “Please.”

She only watched. She watched as he cried out once more as the same crunch came, now from one of his legs. She watched as he made a move to stand, but was forced back as if a bowling ball had been tossed into his gut. She watched deep, bleeding cuts began to slice up and down his body; mixing with the fresh purples and reds of his damaged skin.

She was smiling. The force at work was alien and unknown to her, and she knew that at any moment it could turn upon her. She knew that her husband was dying, being beat to death right before her eyes. The smile never faded from her lips.

“Y-you are a h-horrib-”

With one, final snap from somewhere within his chest, the man was silenced. He stared at her with a look of pure surprise, then fell limp, his gaze averting from her's forever. Silence filled the small room, her husbands body beginning to pool blood beneath him. She shakily got to her feet while lapping at the cut upon her lip. Then, the utter silence was shattered. She stood before the dead body of the man she once loved, and was laughing.

#43 - Greed

“For the last time, son, I am not a charity!” roared the strained voice of the man within the dimly lit room.

A pause followed, the phone cradled within his wrinkled fingers falling silent.

“Dad, I never said that I wanted free money,” a smoother voice responded, “I will pay you back. Ashley is expecting in just three weeks-”

“With what job? Last I heard you were fired!”

Why couldn't his kids keep a job like he always could? They just needed to try harder, he thought.

“Dad, I wasn't fired,” he replied, “I was let go because the company went under. I know the economy-”

He clicked the phone off. He was so tired of the excuses! His son needed to know the joy of making it by himself!

He sat back in the soft padding of his chair with an angered sigh. Kids these days, he thought. Was it too much to ask that they suffer a bit for what they wanted and needed in life?

“I never got any handouts,” he grumbled to himself.

A glint of something suddenly caught his eye. He turned his attention to a spot upon the floor. A small, round object was shimmering before him. He stood and approached the curious item, pausing for a moment to stoop down and pick the thing from the carpet. The smallest of smiles decorated his aged face as the silvery quarter felt cool within his grasp. His son's birth year was present upon the etched surface. A gasp of surprise and pain suddenly burst from him as it suddenly lifted upon it's side and raced across his palm, cutting his skin deeply. He shook his head in disbelief as he saw his own blood beginning to pool within his hand. He stumbled from the room and into the adjoining kitchen, allowing his hand to run beneath a stream of cool water.

“What the hell was-”

“Dad,” his son's voice suddenly sourced from directly behind him.

He wheeled around in shock. An icy stone fell somewhere within his gut at the sight before him. His son was standing before him, a multitude of scrapes, bruises and gashes etched throughout his body. One eye was swollen shut, the other watching him intently.

“My boy!” the man bellowed, his own eyes bristling with tears, “What happened? Are you all right?”

His son smiled widely, catching him off guard.

“The car blew a tire on the freeway,” he seemed to say in triumph, “Tires haven't been changed in awhile. Stuff happens, huh?”

His attention turned away at now noticing someone else within the brightly-lit kitchen. A young woman was seated upon the tile, her head hunched down. She appeared to be holding something.

“Terry, what's going on?” he said, now recognizing the woman as his son's wife.

He stepped past him and knelt down before her. Her entire body was bathed in blood, her hair dripping from it. At the mention of her name, her face shot upward with a smile.

“Look, Damien!” she chirped with a smile filled with broken, bloody teeth, “It's your grandpa!”

The baby within her arms did not move. The man turned his attention away with a sob, not daring to look back into the dead child's blank stare.

“We couldn't afford a hospital,” came the voice of his son over him, “So we delivered him at home! Isn't he beautiful?”

The man's eyes slammed shut. He couldn't breathe; so much sorrow had overcome him. Then, as suddenly as it began, he felt their presence vanish around him. He looked about for a few moments with tentative eyes. He looked to his hand to see the cut had vanished. He stood and practically ran to the nearest phone.

“Son? Yes, it's your father again,” he said after a few moments, his breath a bit ragged from exertion.

“Dad? Are you all right?” his son's concerned voice rang out in his ear.

“Yes, I'm fine,” he said in response, “But you are not. I know you'll be able to make it on your own eventually, but how about I help out a bit until then?”