Hell

El Guapo!

Any chance of some feedback on the start of a story I wrote tonight? I just had an idea and wanted to get it down on paper. I'd be interested to hear any opinions on whether I should continue with it or drop it altogether.
Thanks.

They say Hell is a place where bad people go when they die. A place full of murderers, rapists, and the truly evil. A place where pain and suffering are your only companions, and punishment is the order of the day.
When I was a kid I always imagined it as a place deep down in the very depths of the Earth. A never-ending cavern with rivers of lava and walls of fire as far as the eye can see. The smell of sulphur and burning flesh would fill your lungs with every breath.
The only sounds are the screams of the condemned. Pleading with their torturers to end their suffering. Their souls trapped there for all eternity, stuck in a deathless, unending misery.

But now that I've aged somewhat, I realise that's not what “Hell” is at all. Hell has a face.
A face so full of scars, so damaged, that the only thing to do is to bury it. Bury it deep down to spare people the trouble of seeing it. So that others don't have to deal with its repugnance.
This is something that I have managed to do since I was seven years old. I've developed quite a skill over the years that frankly, sometimes even I momentarily forget what lies under the mask. I place this mask over me every morning and greet the world with an unenthusuiastic disdain. This is no mean feat considering what I have to hide.
Only a very select few people have ever came face to face with what lies beneath my “mask”. I have a particular criteria which people must fulfil before they can be chosen. Before they get the opportunity to meet the real me. I haven't always been so fastidious however. There was a time when anything would suffice.

So that you can have a full understanding, I suppose I should go back to the beginning. To the “birth” of the monster.
July 4th, 1971. My tenth birthday.

Being born on Independance Day had its advantages. My parents didn't have much money when I was growing up and so parties and celebrations were scarce. If my birthday didn't coincide with my fathers favourite day of the year, I'm sure I would never have had a birthday party. It was the one day a year when there was a small amount of happiness in our house.
My Father was a war veteran and he made sure to celebrate every 4th of July. He'd invite all the neighbours round for a barbecue and all the kids could play in the yard together while the adults drank alcohol. Not that my father needed an excuse to drink though. He did that every day anyway, but the 4th of July was special. He'd even hold off on beating my mother senseless until the neighbours went home that night.
My mother always made sure that I felt as though the party was for me. She'd bake a small cake and all the neighbours would gather round and sing “Happy Birthday” to me. She would always get me a small present and give it to me when my father wasn't looking. This year I got a toy horse and I had the time of my life pretending that I was a cowboy.

The July sun beat down relentlessly on the back yard all day. All of the neighbours children had decided to play down at the creek that ran by the back of our house, while I sat alone under our porch playing with my toy horse. I didn't have any friends when I was young. The kids at school used to think I was “weird” and so they preferred to make fun of me rather than include me in any of their idiotic games. I preferred it that way anyway. I have always enjoyed my own company over the company of others.

My mother happened to spot me sitting under the porch and she came over to ask me why I wasn't playing with the other children down by the creek. I tried to explain that I was happy enough by myself but to no avail. She insisted I go down and make friends or she would tell my father I was being rude. I contemplated the situation for a moment. I was in no mood to be called a little ****** again and get another beating from my father so I reluctantly made my way down the hill toward the creek.

I could hear the other children laughing and splashing about in the water at one end of the creek, so I headed to the opposite end. I sat on a large rock and resumed my game of cowboys with the toy horse.
It didn't take long for the other children to notice me sitting alone and they seized the opportunity to torment me. They began by calling me names and singing songs about me. I pretended I couldn't hear them and continued with my game. They moved closer and chanted louder but still, I ignored them. The hate bubbling inside me like a cauldron. It got harder to ignore when they began throwing rocks at me. I asked them to leave me alone and go back to playing, but my response only spurred them on. The hail of rocks rained down on me and I covered my head with my hands, dropping my horse in the process. I dived after the small metal toy as it floated away from me but the barrage of stones kept coming, forcing me to curl up in the foetal position desperately trying to protect myself. It seemed my tears were fuel to the fire and the sight of them caused the gang to erupt with laughter and taunts.
My saviour was the voice of one of their mothers calling from the hilltop. “Come on, kids. The hotdogs are ready!”
My tormentors turned and ran up the hill, taunting me all the while. I sat up and looked around for my toy horse, hopelessly scanning the rocks and crevices for my new best friend but it was gone. Washed away while I received my punishment for being different. As I sat there, I spied one of the posse coming back down the hill towards me. It was Stacey Johnson.
The Johnsons lived about a half-mile up the road from us and they came round every year for the celebrations. Her father was also our family doctor. The same one who tried to “diagnose” what was wrong with me and why I was an “outcast.”
She sat down beside me in the water and put her hand on mine. “I'm really sorry about that.” she said, “I didn't throw any rocks at you. It was the others, but I couldn't tell them to stop or they'd pick on me too. I'm really sorry. Wanna come up and get a hotdog? You can sit with me.”

I wasn't sure why, but I never felt any remorse as I watched the life drain from her face. As I held her head under the water, I just watched and waited for her to stop moving. I thought I'd feel different. Before then I had only ever killed a couple of squirrels and a stray dog I had found a few weeks earlier but I thought that somehow, if it was a person, I'd feel worse. But oddly, I had never felt so alive in my ten short years.

Lplated

There's a touch of 'Dexter' about it.

I think life of a psycho, written in the first person, has good potential, although one would want to be careful of stereotypes.

Even though the story is set in the U.S., there is something more European or English about your language/style to my eye.

Not sure what you want your end product to be - it reads like a short story given the quick jump from setting/background to first dramatic incident - if you were more thinking of a book, perhaps it is something you would flesh out more.

Brian Lighthouse

Glad to see you posted something else.
Keep writing.

Just one thing, start to become your own critic.
Don`t rely on the boards readers. You will get so many differing opinions on your work.
Have confidence in what you produce.
Edit it, refine it, tighten it, (however you like to call it)
Publish when you are happy with it.

If you`re stuck leave it and come back to it; epiphanies are glorious.

Keep at it.
Brian

P.S.
avoid cliches: "...pain and suffering are your only companions..."
avoid overused phrases: "...sun beat down relentlessly..."

Most importantly, enjoy writing.

El Guapo!

Cheers for the feedback. It's very much appreciated.

I seem to have a knack for churning out the clichés! I must try avoid that in future!

I don't know if I'll continue on with the story though. At the moment I'm a total beginner so I'm just writing things down when I get an idea and seeing what comes out and getting a feel for the whole writing thing. I'll definitely keep trying anyway. Even if I never write a bestseller! It's good fun though.
Thanks!

Brian Lighthouse

Keep writing is the main thing,

Over time you`ll rid yourself of things you don`t like to see.

Don`t worry about it for now, just write it down.

After writing for a few weeks, re-read some of your earlier work. You`ll be surprised. You`ll see your work in a different light.

Have fun.