C, B, C, A, D, B, he quickly filled in on the bubble sheet. He sighed, and watched his college aspirations fly away as the proctor took the SAT booklet from him. His parents were going to kill him if he had to go to community college, they had(more) such lofty ambition for their only son. But the scores came back, and he did incredibly well, and got a scholarship to college. A lesson learned, he resolved to never make this mistake again.
D, E, A, A, B, C, D, E, he clicked on the computer screen, finishing the MCAT before time ran out. Sweat beaded on his brow like little bats hanging on a cliff's edge. The dream of medical school swirled down the drain, and panic rose inside him. A trip to the bar let him forget about it, and a month later, he did ok. He was accepted to medical school, and his parents were elated.
A, B, A, C, he punched in, just in the nick of time. Boards were hard, but he'd just barely finished them. He chastised himself, "you didn't learn this last time? That you actually have to prepare?" But the scores came back surprisingly well, and he was accepted to a prestigious surgery residency.
Blood sprayed from a nicked artery he hadn't noticed. The vitals monitor beeped uncontrollably as heart rate and blood pressure dropped. The nurse was throwing clamps and bandages at him, but it was to no effect as he stood there, frozen, vision tunneled in to the geyser of blood.
The attending pushed his way in, still tugging on the gown, and looked at the mess. "Fantastic," the attending muttered, "how did you manage to nick the femoral?"
Everything sounded muffled, everything hurt, and Martin knew that nothing would be alright.
Whomever had knocked him out had tied a bag over his head, one that stifled his breathing every time he started to hyperventilate. And when you've been kidnapped and bound, you tend to hyperventilate quite(more) a lot.
"Where am I? Who is this? Please," Martin started to beg after sitting through what seemed like an eternity, with a bag pulled over his head. His hands were tied behind his back, and the ropes left his wrists raw and burning every time he moved a fraction of an inch.
Screaming did nothing, it only drove him madder. Nobody could hear him he knew, nobody would find him.
"You want us to let you go?" the first voice he had heard startled him, and for a brief moment, he thought there was hope that he'd be free. That he could bargain his way out of this situation. How wrong he was.
"Yes, please, I'll pay anything," Martin gasped.
"I'm afraid I don't want money," the voice said softly. "I'm looking to have some fun."
"Fun? What the fuck you sick bastard, please, just let me go!" he was crying now, shaking his head at the thought of his captor's idea of 'fun'. "Who the hell are you, what do you want?"
"What?" Martin cocked his head.
"Take a guess," the voice said.
"You're some druggie who wants ransom money?" but the man only laughed. "You're looking to be the next big news story?" and the man laughed louder. Martin hesitated for a second, before opening his mouth, "Are you a mad man, whose going to kill me either way?"
The man stopped laughing, "My my, what a good guess."
Martin did nothing but soil himself in fear. (less)
A killer is someone we often describe as someone who kills other human beings, but has it ever come to mind that in a way we are all killers? Dave is a killer, but unlike most psychopathic serial killers, he's rather quite regular. He's your average guy, except he(more) works in a slaughterhouse which deals mainly with lamb and pork. Every morning he wakes up to hang the animal by eats feat to slice it's throat so that the people of his world could enjoy the pleasure of meat. He continued his way until one day he found himself in a room with a man hung by his feet, and a blade in his hand that was freshly stained with the man's blood. Dave felt nothing... How could he? He had been a killer all his life, yet he had no idea. "We're all killers. We were born to kill," he would reassure himself.(less)