First born (standard:horror, 3409 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Oct 30 2008	Views/Reads: 3268/2178	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Getting to see his child grown-up in the future is something he'll wish he'd never seen.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

cluttered the bottom, amongst them his holiday flip-flops which he 
fumbled around for, and slipped on. The key was already in the back 
door, and he unlocked it, tightened his gown around him, and stepped 
out into the freezing night. The wind pushed him off balance 
immediately and he staggered across his limestone patio onto the lawn 
towards the shed which was still banging away as if a naughty child was 
constantly kicking a football against it. Lightening lit the area up 
for a split second, and the rumble of thunder came two seconds later. 
Already the rain had soaked him, and his hair was matted to his scalp. 
Another bolt of lightening struck a telephone stanchion behind the 
shed. The electrical box shattered and there was a ball of luminous 
blue that exploded, knocking him to the grass. The shed seemed to 
suddenly become elongated, then upside-down, and melded into its 
surroundings, along with Geoff himself. 

He awoke on his back, staring up at a blue sky. The sun was out, and a
fat bee lazily crossed his line of vision. He leaned up on his elbows 
and looked around him. He was in the same place, but was still soaking, 
and wearing his flip-flops and gown. The shed looked different, older, 
its wood stained and cracked with age. The door was missing, and there 
was nothing inside it. Its windows were gone, and it looked about ready 
to collapse. The grass was much longer, and was filled with weeds and 
pieces of litter. He slowly got to his feet and looked back at the 
house. It was the same, but different. It had been painted white, as 
opposed to the beige he had thought it was. The patio was still there, 
and against the wall leaned a cordless grass trimmer, looking dejected 
through lack of use. This is definitely my house, he thought, isn't it? 
The surrounding area was similar, the neighbouring houses looking 
vaguely as he remembered them, but he was convinced that he stood 
facing his house, in his back garden. The back door was wide open, and 
he could hear no sound from inside. He felt a little apprehensive, not 
really knowing why. This is my house, he thought, I have every right to 
be here. He slowly walked inside, and did not recognise the place. The 
layout was still the same, but there was a completely new fitted 
kitchen, with an extractor fan above the oven and a cupboard above the 
worktop. Geoff thought again that he was in the wrong house, but then 
convinced himself that he wasn't. He thought about calling out, but 
then decided against it. Into the hall, he stopped. The front door was 
wide open, and he could hear a car engine nearby. The carpet was 
thinner, cheaper, a dark green to the rust coloured one he remembered. 
He cautiously went inside the front room. There were two black leather 
sofas at a ninety degree angle, facing a 44-inch plasma television. 
There was a coffee table in the middle upon which were cans of lager, 
white powder, several straws, and three handguns. Bullets were also 
amongst them. He then heard the car engine outside being revved. 
Somebody was here, just out in the front, and Geoff looked out of the 
window and saw that the layout was still the same. He could see several 
semi-detached houses opposite, as well as the corner of his local park. 
He looked down at a newspaper on a sofa and saw that the date was the 
23rd of January 2025. 2025! he thought, staring wide-eyed at it. As far 
as he knew, it was 1995. ‘MY BOOZE HELL' was the headline. Claudia 
Sterling had apparently collapsed and was sick outside club 
‘Anonymous'. Claudia Sterling, Geoff thought. I know of her. She was a 
four-year old rising star of dance and theatre as far as he knew. She 
could sing and dance like those twice her age and was tipped for 
stardom. Then who was outside? he thought. On the wall, in the corner 
above a CD micro system, hung a cracked framed photograph. It had been 
knocked skewiff, and showed three people smiling at a round table of 
what must have been a function, or party. He instantly recognised 
himself. Crossing over, he saw his wife as well, and sandwiched between 
them, a baldy smiling youth. My son, he thought. That's my baby, and he 
looked back towards where the car would be, as though the intervening 
walls were simply not there. My son. He walked to the living room door, 
and looked down again at the table, at the drugs and weapons. It can't 
be, he thought. It can't be my son. Out into the hall, he stopped at 
the wide open front door. He could hear clinking and shuffling, as well 
as the engine. Geoff didn't know what to do, fearful of walking out 
there, but not really knowing why. It's my son, my lad, so why am I 
afraid to walk out there? He wondered if he would see his future self, 
but so far it appeared that only his son lived in the house. He then 
heard another noise, a loud jangling tune, suddenly followed by: 
‘Hello? Oh, alright, listen, I've been meaning to talk to you'. Geoff 
heard more clanging as tools were put down. A shadow fell across the 
doorway. He's coming in! he thought, then turned and dashed up the 
stairs, stopping at the top of the banister to turn and see who it was 
coming in. He edged himself out of sight, but could just see that it 
was same man in the photograph. “Look, I'm havin' to put the price up 
to £800” he said, holding a small mobile phone to his ear. Geoff saw 
that he approached the stairs, and panicked, turning around and 
crossing to the bedroom door which was ajar. It was the same room he 
and Miriam used, but a double-bed was against the opposite wall. His 
son walked up the stairs. “You've no idea what I had to go through to 
get it,” Geoff heard. He saw that ahead of him, at the back wall, the 
clothing cupboard was still there as it was. One of its doors was open 
and he hurriedly dashed across and squashed himself inside, amongst 
leather jackets and trousers. He was breathing heavily with nerves, and 
just managed to pull the door over before his son entered the bedroom. 
A three inch gap gave him a view of the bed, upon which he saw four 
shotguns, and innumerable bullets. “You'd better have the cash. I 
didn't get this for nothing”. The man sat at the edge of the bed, and 
with his free hand, picked up one of the weapons and admired it. “Yes, 
right, good. Its pump action, sawn off, as you wanted it, Right? So 
what d'you want it for?” Geoff saw him nod several times as he 
listened. “Starting small time then,” he said. “Listen, if you're going 
to scare old people into giving you cash, you don't need a shotgun. You 
just need a knife or baseball bat. I've done it myself. Just get into 
their house when you know they're on their own. Wear a disguise. Say 
you're a gas man or something. It's alright, most of them let you in. 
Smack them around so they can't call the police and just rob them. 
Easy, I used to do it before robbing shops. Thing is though, you've got 
to mean business. If they refuse, or fight back. You've gotta blast em. 
You can't bottle it. Two that did it to me are now dead, and the pigs 
haven't got a clue. It's why I can talk about it over the phone. They 
say they've got all sorts of intelligence and surveillance and all 
that, but they're too busy going after speeding motorists and litter 
bugs to see what's going on right behind their back”. 

Geoff was trying to breathe slowly, but he knew he was audible. His son
picked up another shotgun, and once again, examined it affectionately. 
He nodded a few times, said a few yes's, and rights, then continued: “I 
know what you mean. Did you know that me and the lads are planning 
another job tomorrow? A bank. It's so obvious. How many bank jobs do 
you hear of these days? Not many, right? so I reckon a lot of these 
places have let their guard down. They always have money on site, 
behind the counter, don't they? And if we go in just before closing 
time, when there won't be as many customers, we'll take a few hostages 
and get what we can. I mean, to show we mean business I think I'm gonna 
blast one of ‘em. Well, I need to test out my new shotgun. We've got 
the masks, the getaway, and the firepower. Well, your gun's here 
anyway, and you'll pick it up when? Tonight, good. See ya then”. He 
threw the phone on the bed, and cocked the weapon and aimed it at the 
wall, looking down it as though it was a sniper rifle. He slowly aimed 
it around, towards Geoff, who held his breath. The gun passed him by, 
and his son did not see inside the cupboard gap. He cocked it again, 
nodded to himself, then placed it on the bed with the others. Geoff 
could hold his breath no longer, and tried his best to be quiet as he 
sighed quite audibly, a leather coat creaking also. His son picked up 
the mobile phone, put it in his pocket, and left the room. Geoff heard 
footsteps recede, and he guessed he'd gone back out to the car. He 
almost fell out of the cupboard, and got his breath back and surveyed 
the room. That's my son, he thought. A violent criminal. How could that 
be? How could I spawn that? An image of his friend's father came to 
mind, because he had reacted badly to the discovery of his son's 
homosexuality. ‘How can I spawn a child like you?'. ‘You're disgusting' 
‘An embarrassment'. ‘How can I tell my friends about you?, and what you 
are'. ‘You're not my son'. 

Not my son, Geoff thought, surveying the guns on the bed. It can't be.
He walked across to a sideboard, and amongst several issues Of ‘Biked 
and racked' magazine, featuring motorbikes and semi-clad women from 
around the world, and a few credit cards that he was convinced were not 
his, there was an issue of ‘Domination', featuring a person wearing a 
rubber zipper mask on the cover, with rope wrapped around them, which 
was tied to a post. Geoff closed his eyes. Not my son, he thought. No 
way. Anger began to rise within him, giving him increased confidence to 
go down and confront him. He turned and strode towards the bedroom 
door, looking down again as he did at the guns on the bed. They began 
to distort, to elongate, as though he was looking at them through water 
that had suddenly been disturbed. Everything he could see melded 
together, and Geoff became an ingredient, a drop in the malformation, 
his consciousness vanishing. It suddenly returned, and he found himself 
lying on his back, in his garden at night, wind and rain lashing him. 
The shed door continued to bang, but Geoff did not acknowledge it. 
Instead, he got to his feet, got his bearings as much as the weather 
would allow him, and looked up at the bedroom window. He was breathing 
heavily. “Not my son,” he said aloud. “You're not my son,” he shouted. 
The tear in the fabric of reality and time and space which had been 
ripped open by the lightening and power surge, creating a chaotic 
vortex, sucking Geoff through, had healed itself. Like a cut on skin, 
it heals over time, but here it was much quicker and healed fully, 
leaving no scar but the memory of where he had been. Geoff was 
breathing heavily, still staring at the window. “No way” he said. “No 
way”. He then ran back to the house, bursting through the door. He 
dashed across to the counter to where he knew there was a large bread 
knife in a rack. Picking it up, there was another flash of lightening 
which flashed from its blade, before returning the darkness again. “Not 
my son,” he shouted, dashing through into the hall. “You're not my 
son”. Running up the stairs, rain water scattering from him as he did, 
he burst through the bedroom door and stopped. With the room being in 
darkness, his eyes could not immediately adjust, so he scrambled for 
the light switch, and the room was illuminated. He crossed to his wife, 
who was still sleeping soundly. “You're not my son” he said, staring at 
her bulging stomach. He reached down and wrenched back her sheet to 
expose her bare skin. Still she slept. His wide eyes stared at her 
stomach, and the images of what his son would become flashed through 
his mind. “You're not my son!” he screamed, raising the knife, and 
plunging it down, tearing through skin and flesh, the blade slicing 
through the foetus. He repeatedly stabbed, his wife startling awake, 
screaming, her wide startled eyes staring at Geoff, who sent the knife 
plunging into her neck, slicing through veins and nerves. Blood spouted 
from all the wounds, the heart still pumping the fluid as best it 
could, the crimson liquid splashing up at his face and soaking his 
gown. He stabbed her throat three times, the blood from those wounds 
spraying into the blood from her stomach, which he continued to stab. A 
liquid scream gargled from Miriam's throat, her head falling back, 
ripping the knife wounds wider, more red fluid gushing forth. His arm 
quickly grew tired, and after a few moments, he stopped and stared down 
at his writhing, scarlet soaked wife. Every inch of her was red, and 
the blood soaked into the duvet and mattress, dripping onto the carpet. 
Geoff was breathing heavily, the stab wounds in the stomach had 
converged into one pulpy, gaping maw, the blood-soaked foetus carved 
into pieces. He did not hesitate to send the knife into his own throat. 
He managed four times before he lost the strength to continue. Blood 
rained down over his wife, spouting over the bed. He swayed, dropped 
the knife, and collapsed forward. Pain tore through his neck and he 
gripped his throat in a vain attempt to stop the blood-flow. Geoff and 
Miriam writhed on their scarlet death-bed, and as the life fluid gouted 
out of Geoff, he unconsciously found himself adopting a foetus-like 
position. He trembled as though cold. Miriam had stopped, but blood 
continued to spill from her. Geoff soon stopped also, and outside, a 
flash of lightening struck the electrical box at the side of the house, 
short-circuiting it, cutting off power. The room was plunged into 
darkness. The storm continued to sweep forcefully across the town, and 
in the back garden, the shed door continued to bang. 


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