The To Hell With You Diaries

By Mark Trimeloni

Philip’s best friend Jacob sits naked in a wheelchair. The secret behind the accident that got him there is too horrific to believe. Even as Michael, Jacob’s father, fights his own demons to free his son, Philip is the only hope. Philip must deal with his own sexual abuse to find Jacob and free him from the other side. A place of pedophiles and demons hell bent on possessing both boys. Not to mention a psychotic tumbleweed that may be more foe than friend. Will Philip succeed or is the cure for Jacob too horrible to comprehend? A story designed to challenge everything you believe in.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Trimeloni
• Release date: Dec 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311840516

Mark Trimeloni

I write nudist horror novels. Novels that use nudity as a background element in a story like most authors use clothing today. Curious. Then join me at www.myhorrornovel.com to read and review my work. I hope to see you soon.--love mark :)

Book preview

THE TO HELL WITH YOU DIARIES

By

Mark Trimeloni

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Mark Trimeloni on Smashwords

The To Hell With You Diaries

Copyright © 1997 by Mark Trimeloni

Thank you for downloading this eBook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoyed this book, then encourage your friends to download their own copy.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

*****

Thank you to my mom and dad. There would be no me without you.

I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

*****

THE TO HELL WITH YOU DIARIES

*****

Chapter 1

Michael’s World

He felt tired. He felt worn. He felt hungry. Pain seared the tender lining of his stomach waiting for food. An emptiness gnawed deep inside him like a starving dog on a sliver of bone. This place provided sustenance, but little else. He looked around the diner for some sign of life. On the counter, nursing a cup of day old coffee, leaned a waitress. Her hair hung in oily strands dropping loosely to the dirty surface. She might’ve been alive, but at this moment he wished her dead.

A thin smile played across chapped lips. Oh, the pain he could show her. Pleasures offered from exposed nerve endings revealed by his skillful hand. Her face, once pretty before the job or kids, still held some innocence. He knew this woman felt none of the emotions of a child. Yet, he could use her.

The thoughts faded to dull memories. His finger traced a brown stain around the cup of coffee in front of him.

The circle is life, he said, clearing his throat on the last word to make it sound ruff and abused.

A guy, dressed in dirty overalls, turned to face him. How long the man sat in the seat across from him. Williams couldn’t tell. It must’ve been long enough to hear the words spoken in anger. To feel the malevolence of each syllable. With a sick expression of apathy, the man returned to two eggs and bacon. One sulfurous yellow orb spewed sluggish liquid onto a white expanse of nothing. The fork came across moments later cutting a piece off before stabbing it. He cringed at the violence of the act—something this man didn’t realize even as he decimated the life giving meal.

This I have given unto you that you might be... Williams trailed off as the man turned to face him again.

The anger was all too apparent in the guy’s pudgy features.

What the fuck’s your problem buddy? He waved the fork inches from Williams’s face. The tines glinted dully in the harsh light of a hundred-watt bulb.

Maybe there was no answer. Only moments of clarity when even the simplest of questions seemed to be spouted from the mouths of puckered assholes.

Shit is what should be coming out of there, he thought, looking more closely at the stained teeth inside blood-red lips. Mounds of fucking shit.

A runnel of egg dripped slowly from the sides—filmy and clear grabbing bits of dirt from the man’s chin as it slid down.

I should lean over and suck that right off your face, he said, staring intently at the escaping mass.

The man looked disgusted. He pulled his plate away licking the strand of nourishment with abandon.

Fucking him would feel so right, he said, as the man left for safer climes. A small rise of penis against fabric accompanied the thought. He let a hand slide down to stroke the hardening mass. Fuck him like the world fucked me.

He tried keeping his eyes on the plate of congealed grease and steak bits in front of him. But the man in the dirty coveralls kept drawing his attention with alarming consistency. He looked at the clock on the wall standing sentinel over a dull-metal vent cover. The whole grill area looked lack luster and disturbing—a place of death spawned from man’s insatiable need for dead cattle. To be fair, an occasional pig found its way to the grill. The bacon, Mr. Happy Go Lucky over there was scarfing, came from living flesh. He wondered if the man even realized it. Or if he did, would he really care?

Still, he kept going back to the dirty clothes. He examined every inch of him—from the muscled forearm to the flabby, swinging mound beneath his shoulder. The shirt, which might have been decent at one time, hung in places around the sides before straightening out around an ample mid-section. This man was a microcosm of irregularities. He could stare at him for days and never lose interest or feel the need to take his eyes elsewhere.

Now the bastard was talking to the waitress and pointing those nasty tines his way. Must be the eggs climbing up his throat to burst from bloody lips. Eventually, swallowing his face. He could see the mental image clearly. For a moment, he thought it might be happening.

Excuse me. The waitress snuck up on him leaving only an after image of the man’s face slowly disappearing under a yellowish mound of uncongealed gelatin.

He turned to face her with the precision of a prize fighter picking a spot to slam home the knockout punch. Her nose, which twitched as she got closer, might explode with the proper pressure applied to the tip. Damn, the mental movies were good tonight. Maybe he should make this diner a regular stop on his evening journeys. At least for a while.

Yes, he said, feeling his tongue circle the word like a snake enveloping its prey.

Ah, she began. Could it be she might not want to confront him? Hell, he could be a very nice guy at times. Even while ramming his fist into her cunt or asshole until she bled rivers of bloody gore. The man over there... Her voice trailed off with only the slightest hint of the fear he could see so clearly in her eyes. With a mild tremble, she pointed a finger in lover boy’s direction.

He wanted to draw this out. Words ruined the special moments between individuals. Best to make her dangle on the string before plunging her ass backwards into the pit of fire.

With hard fought control, she continued.

The man over there wants you to stop looking at him, she finally blurted, preferring to get it all out at once instead of wasting any more time in his presence.

He drove his eyes into her with careful precision. His search began with the edges and angled to a fluttering lash. By the time he finished assessing her, he had all the information he needed to take her into a world of infinite pleasures born from extreme pain.

He likes you doesn’t he? The question caught her off guard.

What? Her response typical of someone trying to beg off or get a second to clear their mind and come up with a suitable response.

Perhaps you didn’t understand the question, he continued, relishing her discomfort. I think he likes you to.

She couldn’t grasp the meaning of his words. Even now, he envisioned her as a naked woman on a raft in troubled waters—sharks circling the tiny dingy waiting for it to sink. And the craft definitely appeared to be going down—water rising in the stretches of plastic safety—her hand slipping momentarily just as a great white ripped the entire appendage off leaving gushes of red across the steadily swirling sea.

I’m not sure what you mean, she reiterated, trying to regain control of the situation.

I think he wants to fuck you until your eyes shoot out your ugly head, he said, clearing up whatever confusion might’ve been between them.

She turned, heading back to the trucker. And without any hesitation, he left. Better to get out before all hell broke loose. He couldn’t afford any more trouble tonight.

Williams moved with the purpose of the damned. This city sucked the caring right out of a person. He felt tiny bits of brain tissue being corroded each day spent among the swirling mass of corrupted humanity occupying the dwellings around him. Each one snug in their homes as evening fell giving way to the worst of the lot. Even now, he felt presences around him. Not people, the term being too generous a description. But presences. Insignificant creatures stalking the next fix or waiting for life’s next high. Williams experienced none of these things. He was drug free and stone-cold sober. Alcohol held no interest to a man already on the edge. And base-lining cocaine could not control the emotions of someone searching for relief from a home no one could imagine.

He steadily cruised a block away from the diner. The man, still vivid in his memory, caused another rush of revulsion and pleasure. Yes, he could fuck him. Yes, he could whisper harsh realities into the guy’s ear as each thrust drove the man deeper into piss-stained pillows. But he’d rather hear him scream. Let the bastard resound choruses of agony into the bitter twilight. Feel his spirit break under the pounding of penis and sweat. He might even die in the throes of passion. Williams steadied himself and looked around. The man and waitress were snugly tucked in their metal cocoon. Out of harm’s way, at least for the moment.

He let the hatred ebb as he rounded the corner toward home. Halfway along a dingy block, he came to alley 17. The stretch of no man’s land didn’t have a real name. He only called it that after being jumped by a kid in the dark recesses of the place a month ago. The boy couldn’t have been more than seventeen-years-old.

This time he heard movement near the back. His ears strained to catch every muffled humpf, humpf as if something was pounding fists into flesh. And occasionally a whimper from some animal. Probably, some kids beating a stray dog. And against his better judgment, Williams wanted to see. Wanted to catch a glimpse of violence in the cool light of dawn. Needed this more than saving himself from a similar fate should the attackers decide they wanted bigger game.

He pulled a knife and cocked back the 7" blade. Cold metal against heated flesh provided another erection. Violence existed down that alleyway. His heart pounded and sweat ran in tendrils down his face caressing a cheek before dripping off his jaw. He moved quickly making little noise. A discarded box and other debris attempted to slow down his approach. But he dodged them skillfully. Years of his life spent in alleys like this doing a makeshift dance even a skilled dancer would’ve been proud to choreograph.

As he neared the commotion, he noticed the head of a dog peering out from behind a metal dumpster—the creature’s ears bobbing in and out of the corner—most of its body hidden behind chipped green paint. The sight felt wrong. Each time the dog’s head appeared, its face revealed something like pleasure. Williams realized he might’ve caught two dogs fucking. Only he couldn’t see the other beast yet. He moved closer getting a better view of the dog’s sunken sides and scrawny legs. Whatever playmate was fucking him, must be one hell of a lot bigger. He rounded the dumpster still brandishing the knife. The sight of a thirteen-year-old boy didn’t surprise him. Everyone knew about Joey. And what the kid did on Thursday nights.

Williams watched as the boy sent each thrust into the mutt. He felt no shock or revulsion. Hell, he couldn’t even blame the kid. Anyone who knew his parents understood how someone could be driven to such an act. The moment was awkward however. He wasn’t sure what to say. And to leave without words might be considered rude.

How’s your mother doing? he asked, leaning against the side of the dumpster.

The boy didn’t look up or even open his eyes. The concentration on the act occupying all available mental resources. Williams waited until there was a lull then asked the question again. This time Joey looked up.

What difference does it make to you? he said, still pounding away on the dog. Each stroke made the thing whimper even more. Someone was reaching climax and Williams wanted to be out of here before it happened.

None of my business, Williams said. I just heard she was in jail for prostitution.

The boy looked at him. His cheeks puffed in and out following each fresh assault. But Williams saw wetness forming along the edges of his eyes. He’d hit a painful spot in the boy’s memory.

My mom’s not a whore, he said, turning his full gaze on Williams. She’s not.

The last word was weak and the thrusting slowed considerably. Then the boy turned his gaze to a point somewhere down the alley.

She’s not a whore. Williams strained to hear the soft tones of the child’s voice seeming more distant by the second. Because, I love her.

He turned and left knowing his own wife and child were waiting at home only a few blocks away.

At some time in his life the God’s had turned on him. He used to be a minister for the Holy Cross of Jesus. Memories of services past came back in vivid mental pictures. He saw Sister Gloria throwing her head forward in another heartfelt hallelujah. More show than actual praise. And Father McCready in the back pew playing with himself as the children came up to sing. The man wasn’t a real preacher. He wasn’t much of anything. But Williams knew him as more than a pervert pawning naked pictures of people in the most interesting positions. There were some confessions even he couldn’t believe. The man had a family he loved. He worked a government job and supported the community with his time. Still the moment the man admitted an attraction to young girls stood out in Williams’s mind.

How old? he asked him, trying to keep his voice steady as thoughts of various tortures this man would receive in Hell went through his head.

The man’s voice was solemn, controlled.

Various ages, Father, he said, a slight waver breaking past the solid tones. It doesn’t really matter, I guess. Moments passed as the man broke down and spilled everything. I just know I feel something when I look at them. I feel their need. I feel their longing.

Williams shifted in his seat. At some point, he had gotten aroused and wasn’t sure why. He felt none of the same things, but this man’s description kept him fascinated well beyond the point of any reason.

You know what it’s like when you love someone? The question caught Williams off-guard.

Yes, my son, he said, still trying to absorb the revelation.

People think that children can’t love. That they have no feelings before a certain age. He could hear a shaking in each syllable. A need to be understood. But they’re wrong.

Williams took the rest of the confession in silence. He was stunned to find out how many girls this man had loved. But he didn’t judge him. God, laid down the rules. Instead, Williams forgave him.

The image of boy and dog recurred with stunning clarity. He shook on the edge of the alley. How many men or woman had abused Joey? And could they be blamed for the way he turned out? Too many questions. And answers he didn’t desire. He fingered the knife closed before replacing the blade in his pocket. There was no use for it tonight. Besides in a couple of hours another day would begin. And he still had things to do at home.

The remaining blocks to his old brownstone were unremarkable compared to the evening’s events. He felt numb as each stair moved underfoot providing access to a life he could barely handle and never imagined. At the top of a long staircase, he paused. Someone breathed behind the door—then moved deeper into the apt. He felt each wisp of breath penetrate through wood and worn lacquer to reach him. Like tiny fingers gently stroking his shirt before giving a gentle tug to come inside. A chill ran through him. Gooseflesh broke out on his neck to mingle with the sweat already there. Each beat of his heart kept pace with the blood pounding in his ears. There was no description for what happened every time he came home. He felt alive. Truly alive at this moment. But soon he’d be dead again. With trembling fingers, he turned the knob and went inside.

Hello, Rachel. A voice said from somewhere beyond a dark living room—the animosity of it clear even though she was thirty-feet away.

She kept herself in the kitchen and waited for him to come. He treaded across stained carpeting feeling a bounce as each step softly propelled him forward. There might’ve been a hint of longing in her voice as well.

I can feel their longing. The voice of Father McCready came back in a sad whisper. Their longing to be fucked by me.

Williams shook halfway across the room and stopped. The breathing from the kitchen came in short, harsh gasps. Like an animal anticipating prey. He felt stalked and alone standing in the living room. A beat up sofa provided little protection. It’s worn, orange fabric clashing violently with the green carpeting. Every day was Halloween in the Williams’s household.

Hello, Rachel. The voice repeated, beckoning from some point in front of him. His mind blanked and he moved a step closer.

You want to know the best part of fucking a little girl? The voice of Father McCready became harsh. They always scream your name before climax.

Jesus, Williams said, trying to regain what little control he still possessed. Dear God, please make him stop.

And he did.

A steady heartbeat kept him company for the last few yards to the kitchen. Inside the sanctum, lying in wait for him, was his wife. And he knew the other thing would be there as well. Something she loved for him to see even though it tore him apart. Because although she could be hateful and cruel, he still loved her. And just because someone can no longer see how much they’re hurting you, doesn’t make that love go away. He prepared himself with a quick prayer to a God he might no longer believe in and went inside.

The knife stood out clearly against her white skin. He begged her to open the blinds and get some sun or go to the park for a day to relax. But she refused either request stating simply her need to keep the darkness close to her. He never asked her at the time what that meant. Part of him not wanting to feed her delusions of a place where monsters wore human flesh and spent their days plotting another person’s demise. He preferred to focus on the positive. She possessed a gift for needle work far exceeding anything his mother could produce. One of her creations laid beneath her wrist. A child in front of an open grave. His face serene as evening settled in. On the tombstone were the words In Remembrance of a Loving Mother and Caring Wife. He spoke each syllable softly as he approached the table with her hand laying delicately in front of her. On the veins, applying slight pressure to the flesh, laid a knife. Her hand trembled as he came closer and sat down.

His eyes searched for the woman he loved—her expression appeared made of clay—a slight sagging in the bruised patches below each lid. With calm reassurance, he moved a hand forward to retrieve the blade. The clarity of metal against flesh startled him. His world became a motion picture played at half-speed. Every detail stunning in its own simple way.

How was your day? he said, still reaching for the instrument she planned to hurt herself with.

The blade bit deeper into her flesh and he stopped—his own hand trembling. A slight smile formed along the right side of her mouth making blood-red lipstick curl into a feral half-grin. He felt chills run along his spine. She knew damn well he hated that smile. Hated the way it made her look insane when he knew better.

Hello, Rachel, she said. Her blue eyes finding their mark before boring into him.

She couldn’t stop saying them. Those two words shook him to the foundation of who he was. What he had done so many years ago. She took a simple farewell to a dead friend and turned it into a mockery of his grief. He wanted to hit her for all the pain she caused without truly knowing the levels of torment each tiny act produced. This suicide attempt joined at least a hundred others over the last six months that he could remember. The incidents blurred becoming one memory of her sitting here in this same kitchen time and again with a similar cutting instrument above her wrist. That’s when it hit him. This knife was new. She’d been out yesterday and relief flooded in.

Where did you go? he asked, changing the conversation to something more interesting.

Her eyes closed slightly making him wish he’d never posed the question. The last time he screwed up she spent two days in the hospital. He spent a week explaining to a psychologist about his wife’s various bouts with depression and reassuring the man this could never happen again. Somehow, she made it through the ordeal without being taken to a mental ward. This time he might not be so lucky.

Nowhere. Her voice came out in a sickening monotone. A distant cry from a far off place only she could go.

He kept his tone steady and proceeded to distract her.

I bet it was someplace away from here, he said, moving an inch closer to her hand. You know how the light makes your hair glow like an angel.

It sounded corny, even to him, but her face changed expression with the subtleness of a new-born flower opening its petals to the sun for the first time. He was reaching her in that distant land where nightmares and dreams became one—a terrifying world of lost hopes and forgotten memories. She told him about it once. The feeling of nothing as she entered a place born of misery; fueled by regret. Her fingers released the knife allowing her free hand to gently stroke faded-blonde hair, moving a strand from her eyes. He could see the wildness leaving them. He was reaching her.

The way the wind blows your hair back. He felt a smile forming. The warm caress of each current twisting every strand into a frenzy of motion. A field of golden wheat where two lovers run across to end up in each other’s embrace.

And that’s when he lost her. Her face became solid and the eyes, once so alive with the mental picture he’d created, closed him off with a stony glare. But her attention was diverted long enough for him to cross the open grave, where the boy stood saying a prayer to his lost mother, and remove the knife from her. He pulled back allowing the blade to scratch a thin line across the tiny roses printed on the table. Then, she broke down.

He laid the thing as far away from her as possible then went to embrace his wife. Her trembling frame sent waves of anguish into him. A disease worked steadily through those veins she threatened so often to destroy. By killing herself, she might truly be the woman he remembered. But a selfish part of him wouldn’t let her go. Then he’d be alone in a world of faceless people. A place he didn’t want to live, but death was not an option he could easily take. He had other things keeping him here. More important concerns than his own pathetic reasons to die. He felt her calm beneath him and waited.

Her voice came out in a whisper.

Hello...

Please don’t, he said, slowly rubbing his hand along her back.

And she didn’t.

He remembered his son sitting naked in his wheelchair in the room across from the kitchen. The boy might’ve heard everything. And the kid was not stupid. He’d know his mother tried to kill herself again. The scenario played out too many times for comfort. They should move him to another part of the house, but Williams needed him close during the bad times. And there seemed to be so many lately.

How’s Jacob? he asked, feeling the warmth of her tears through his shirt.

She’s just a child. His mind told him. A thirty-three-year old woman with the mind of a little girl. Let her cry. Leave her alone.

But he couldn’t. His son was close and the boy needed him more than this woman ever would. He removed his hand from her back and pushed her off. Melissa didn’t fight. Instead, she rocked back in the kitchen chair—with angels engraved on the wooden arms—and stared at the ceiling. She reminded him of a child’s doll discarded after a tea party. The hostess heading for other adventures while the stuffed toy waited to be played with again.

He blinked and the image mercifully left. A trembling hand found support on a faded-blue table cloth. The one her mother gave them on their wedding day. The same woman that called him, A whore and a cradle robber. It made no sense. Only women were whores and this substantial individual his wife referred to as mom was a lot of woman. And if anyone was a whore... He let the thought trail off on the short trip to his son’s room. The door felt cold beneath his touch. Each finger searching the white paint for something alive in the area beyond its dull surface. Tiny lumps rolled beneath his palm in a pleasurable way. A person can feel so much beneath the finished surface of an old door. And once inside, they experience many more emotions contained within one small room with one tiny boy inside waiting for his father.

He pushed the door open and saw a discarded bottle of medication on the floor.

I bet she gave him a lot this time. His inner voice echoed what his conscious mind already knew.

The bitch liked to drug their son so he’d behave. And this early in the morning she would’ve laid the pills on heavy to avoid any problems when she knew he was coming home.

He waited for his eyes to adjust to the low light—shadows played in the corners like old friends. How many times he could remember the darkness taking on shapes and coming to him for a moment of bonding. Some of the coldest areas in the room were along those edges untouched by light. He wanted desperately to join them. To be taken to the places only they could go. To find out what death was really like before his own time expired. But between him and what the shadows offered was his son. And the boy’s head faced the ceiling like his mother’s did in the other room—a sight Williams couldn’t handle.

The few paces to the wheelchair seemed to take an eternity. His breath labored in the warmth and moisture of the room. It was always hot in here. But not in a way that provided any comfort. A humidifier ran in the corner—fine spray entering the air then falling to the floor to puddle around the water basin.

Damn her, he thought, reaching a hand behind his son’s head and pulling the delicate face forward. His eyes were closed, but the boy was not sleeping. His thin chest heaved under white skin then went still. If he didn’t know better, Williams might’ve thought his son was dead. But this