Fly On The Wall: Fairy Tales From A Misanthropic Universe, Vol. I by Alfy Dade

Author:Alfy Dade
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: horror, monster, free, disturbing, horror anthology short story, horror anthology short stories, free horror, horror flash fiction postapocalyptic apocalyptic dystopia dystopian, scary creepy story, horror and dark fantasy stories

32 – Wailing

She wailed and wailed, but to little avail. She couldn’t take much more. She wanted it all to end but knew full well it could not, regardless of desires, it would all continue endlessly. The men that rushed to be inside of her, well, she couldn't say they didn't care, but they had definitely become desensitized, they did not care about her anymore, only about the others like them. They were no longer gentle, as they had been when they'd all first met. Now they used her carelessly; they abused her recklessly. They never asked her if she wanted it. Maybe they cared about her well being, but they certainly never cared about what she wanted. She shed a tear as black as a medieval night.

It always started the same way. First a deafening noise, no siren's song but a shrill bell's screech instead. The frenzied shouts of savage well-clad men, all of whom rushed to be the first in her. One time she had not made them come quite quickly enough, they were furious beyond belief; they'd raged, they'd shouted, and even hit her body with their calloused fists. The day after they sent her away to some depraved monster who tore out her most precious innards and replaced them with cheap Chinese organs instead – ones clearly garnered from unwilling donors. They worked, sure, and she now made them come much quicker, but it just wasn't right; she wanted to be herself. She wanted no part in the misery of others, whose services were abruptly ended by the totalitarian state. The men cared little for her, yet they would not let her leave. They kept her there, downstairs, alone, in the dark. Dust was her only friend. Sometimes she could hear them laughing upstairs. Sometimes they came down in the day, sometimes they mocked her, threatening to ship her off and get a new whore instead. Crying just made it worse, it was then they slapped and hit her hardest. She looked forward to the days when the men all came and hosed her down. It was better than when they made her watch people burn, cremated while conscious. The putrid smell of charred flesh filled the air she breathed too often; she was too used to it. The bubbling, popping, fat of people which furnished the wind with grisly firework-like sounds. She shed another black tear; she could not be used like that again. She made them come so quickly, and yet all she got in return in return was to watch that most horrible of suffering.

The deafeningly shrill noise came, as it had so many times before. She shed another black tear. She knew that soon, all of them would be grasp their long, hard, slippery pole, and pile into her, one by one. What was worse was they took turns. Today it was the chief who would drive. He reached and flipped her switch, and off she went again; her beacons flashed red and white, and her sirens wailed.

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