Writer’s experience: Grossed out by your own words

Priceless, the moment you re-read a scene you wrote a while back and go, “Oh my God. Did I really write that?!”

Intense shuffling interrupted, and he swirled around to gaze into the dark corner of the cell. Lying on his back, breathing noisily through his nose, the prisoner pulled the rope above his head.

He moved fast and on impulse lifted a leg to bring it down to his genitals, crushing the pale, tender meat with a hard military shoe. The man howled through his gag and curled into a ball while bringing panicky hands to his crotch.

He went for another kick when the shithead managed to turn aside, offering his bony hips instead.

Growling, he sidestepped, moved his shoe to the man’s head, and landed it hard on his exposed ear, a lone piece of pink-skinned cartilage in the dark. As the metal shoe sole slipped on blond hairs, the ear lobe snapped off with a squash and the bloody flesh slid to the back of the man’s skull.

Ah, fuck, it stuck to his sole. He put the shoe down to scrub it on the cement and brushed the small piece of meat off, leaving it next to the immobile head—wait, the fuckhead wasn’t moving?

Yup, passed out cold. Must’ve been the last kick.

Blood rolled from the half-torn ear in a continuous filet toward the man’s throat before dripping down on the floor. A tiny puddle of crimson formed, barely visible in the dark corner.

Plop … Plop …

Ha ha, back in gear. He almost grinned.

But he needed to be more careful so he didn’t kill the bastard. Still lots of fun stuff to do before ending the shit’s miserable, pathetic life.

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