Day 6: Please

Prompt:

writeworld: Writer’s Block A picture says a thousand words. Write them. Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture. Be sure to tag writeworld in your block! Sam liked the way the soles of his feet rested on the sharp edge of the table. It was a little painful, but pressure sent these strings of pleasure up to his ankles and his calves. His tongue licked the inside of his cheek, looking for the flap of skin he we trying to rip off, but truly he was focused on his palms. The bandages had made the wounds itch and while the man who’d dressed the wounds instructed him not to scratch, that guy was dead now, and the wounds felt like they were closed. He was shot clean through both his hands, in the middle of the night, slobber straining out of his mouth as he begged them.  "Please-please-no! I’ll do anything—" Sam had a sister who used to tell him about how the world could be a peaceful place if everyone could learn to not compare each other. The look in that man’s eyes as he cocked the hot gun up against his forehead, pressing the nozzle unto Sam’s skull, was look of a creature completely happy. And to be honest, when sam had been saved by the nurse man, he climbed on top of that bastard and squeezed his neck, the blood gushing out of his own wounds. Sam might have looked the same way. His finger slipped under the bandage and he began scratching, toes curling and soles rubbing against the table. He pulled his hand back and brown and red blood mixed under his nail. He disgusted himself and pressed the bandage back again. "Please!" The voice filtered in from the back door and Sam grabbed the rifle, laying against the table. Five paces forward was a pool of blood, and the dead doctor. Five paces back was a door, rickety with a slapping screen door. Sam itched up against the cupboards facing the pool of blood, waiting for the sound of something. "Please God!" And then the sound of crashing and water spilling. The person had knocked over the water supply, near the bloody entrance. Sam was quick, stepping over the pool of blood and aiming carefully. Sam stood there in the crook of the door, looking at an incredibly pregnant woman, skin dark brown and eyes the same. Once Sam was in view the woman pointed her shotgun up and towards him, elbow propping her up against the kitchen counter, and at her leg a lighter brown girl, gripping the tattered material of the pregnant woman’s pants. "Please." She asked again, cocking it, "Please, she’s bleeding. I just need some bandages." The blood had begun to wrap around Sam’s bare feet. He’d stood too close.

Please:

Sam liked the way the soles of his feet rested on the sharp edge of the table. It was a little painful, but pressure sent these strings of pleasure up to his ankles and his calves. His tongue licked the inside of his cheek, looking for the flap of skin he we trying to rip off, but truly he was focused on his palms. The bandages had made the wounds itch and while the man who’d dressed the wounds instructed him not to scratch, that guy was dead now, and the wounds felt like they were closed.

He was shot clean through both his hands, in the middle of the night, slobber straining out of his mouth as he begged them.

“Please-please-no! I’ll do anything—”

Sam had a sister who used to tell him about how the world could be a peaceful place if everyone could learn to not compare each other. The look in that man’s eyes as he cocked the hot gun up against his forehead, pressing the nozzle unto Sam’s skull, was look of a creature completely happy. And to be honest, when sam had been saved by the nurse man, he climbed on top of that bastard and squeezed his neck, the blood gushing out of his own wounds. Sam might have looked the same way.

His finger slipped under the bandage and he began scratching, toes curling and soles rubbing against the table. He pulled his hand back and brown and red blood mixed under his nail. He disgusted himself and pressed the bandage back again.

“Please!” The voice filtered in from the back door and Sam grabbed the rifle, laying against the table. Five paces forward was a pool of blood, and the dead doctor. Five paces back was a door, rickety with a slapping screen door. Sam itched up against the cupboards facing the pool of blood, waiting for the sound of something.

“Please God!” And then the sound of crashing and water spilling.

The person had knocked over the water supply, near the bloody entrance. Sam was quick, stepping over the pool of blood and aiming carefully. Sam stood there in the crook of the door, looking at an incredibly pregnant woman, skin dark brown and eyes the same.

Once Sam was in view the woman pointed her shotgun up and towards him, elbow propping her up against the kitchen counter, and at her leg a lighter brown girl, gripping the tattered material of the pregnant woman’s pants.

“Please.” She asked again, cocking it, “Please, she’s bleeding. I just need some bandages.”

The blood had begun to wrap around Sam’s bare feet. He’d stood too close.

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