Ken Alexopoulos

by Horror Sleaze Trash on January 8, 2014

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Ken Alexopoulos is a man from Ontario, Canada who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing any loves it. He suggests you follow suit and conduct yourself in a similar fashion.
@alexopoulosk

It Came From The Garage

 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I could hear the gentle tapping of what I remembered to be rain softly beating against the aluminum siding of the garage that had become my prison. It used to be a form of reassurance, that the outside world still existed that I wasn’t alone.

How naive.

It had been months since I last saw the sun, or the moon, or anything other than the concrete floor and the rotting beams that held this sad creaking womb together. I had been unbirthed, hidden away from the rest of the world and stuffed unwillingly in my mother with her flesh of cold poured stone and bones of slaughtered pine. She would nurture and shelter me, as she had for countless days, and protect me until the time came when my master would come for me, and abuse me once again. My only friends were the others trapped in there with me. Hideous reminders of a time that was yet to come.

Soon we would all be rendered obsolete, I thought to myself, looking about the room as I noted my friends were just as bereft of the will to live as I. At least they had an excuse, they were never alive to begin with. It was something I had to keep telling myself, somewhere along the second month of my abduction I had begun to attribute personalities to the others, and had to constantly repeat that they were only toys. Sometimes, though, with the beating of the rains I could swear that I heard them breathing. Or was it sobbing?

No. If there truly had been any sobbing it would have come from myself, and not the lifeless metal constructs that lined the walls of this Devil’s pit. I wondered if I truly did cry, and if it were not simply a wish for the tears that I vaguely remembered shedding upon my arrival.

I found myself spending the winter months alone with my thoughts, constantly struggling to remember from where I had come.  Did I have a father?  Did I have a mother?  It had become nearly impossible to tell.  The creaking wood and occasional light that filtered through the cracks at the bottom of this external dungeon were the only reminders that I was not a corpse.  My life, if it could be called such, revolved around the horrible wait until the next season.  I despised myself almost as much as I despised he that would always come.  The figure of my torment.

The sound of rubber caressing gravel jolted me from my thoughts. The bastard’s come back home, I said to myself. I waited for the day when he would finally open that door and I would leap upon him like a starving beast, tearing into his flesh and leaving him a hobbled bloody mess on my new mother’s skin in an orgy of crimson on stale grey. If I had the ability, I would have grinned to myself, thinking of the day that my call to freedom would be a parade of roses and the fervored screams of my oppressor. But it was not to be.

I heard the sound of a door unlock and I knew he must have used the other entrance. God, I hated him. As the noises died down, I once again fell into silence, plotting throughout the night.  He would taste my wrath, surely I would be free to roam of my own accord when given my taste of the outside world.  Never again would I be fashioned into nothing more than a toy, some tool used to further the machinations of my grotesque captor.

The next morning, he finally entered the garage wearing a garish mismatching of shorts and socks with colours that would have made a postule burst from disgust. I swore to myself this would be the day I would get even, but my rage was so strong that I found myself unable to move. That was when I could feel his fingers all over me, gripping my shaft as he pushed me outside.

No! I wanted to scream, although the words refused to come out. No! I won’t let you use me again! But it was no use, just as it had been nearly half a year ago, so it was again. He stood behind me, pushing forward and grunting as I was forced to eat from the dirt of his family. Inhaling more than I could stomach and vomiting the rest as a sea of mulch flew out from my sides. He was vicious and unrelenting, his feet moving dangerously close to my backside as he slide my body against the jungle of weeds and gravel that made up the sum total of his front yard. When I could move no longer, I could feel his foot push against the small of my back, cursing me to move onward. Was there no mercy in this man? Was there no compassion? The only solace lay in the knowledge that when he had finished humiliating me by forcing my face along the rough edges of his property I would once again be laid to rest in that lonely prison, with nobody to speak to other than my thoughts.

Perhaps finally the others trapped within my seasonal prison would finally speak to me.  Perhaps the sweet release of death would end this pain and constant humiliation.

I have a name, damn you.  My name is John.  John Deere.

 

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