You Can’t Resist by Michael Flanagan

Just kill yourself, you fucking whore!

The voice blasted in my head, reverberating against the skull. My hands pressed against my face, squeezing tight as if it could all be smothered away. My palms rubbed into my eyes, drying up the manic tears. My fingers ran through my hair, pulling like mad as if it would stop the voice!

Take the blade and cut!

The voice grew louder, rattling my nerves into submission. I tried to fight back.

No,” I whispered through clenched teeth.

Do it NOW, you fucking whore!

Despite my efforts, my hand pulled away from my face and began to reach for the knife.

No,” I yelled, retracting my arm. “I’m not doing this!”

Oh, yes you are!

My arm began to pull away from me. Quickly, I grabbed my wrist and forced it down to my thigh.

There are other ways to hurt you, girl!

My fingernails pressed against my thigh, digging into flesh. I wanted it to stop. I tried to make it stop, but my hand wouldn’t respond. I hooked a finger from my free hand around the middle finger, and pulled with all my might. Despite my effort, the finger wouldn’t budge. My fingernails went deeper into flesh. The burning sensation, coupled with the cooling effect of blood, did not do well for my resistance.

Fuck yourself, you stupid fat whore. No one loves YOU!

With a sudden violent jolt, my hand moved up my inner thigh, raking flesh. I winced and cried from the pain. The torn flesh burned feverishly. Blood ran from the jagged wound.

Grab the knife and end it!

With my other hand, I reached for the knife. My fingers felt the handle, and I quickly retracted them into a clenched fist.

I don’t want to do this anymore,” I said, desperately.

Grab it and it’ll all go away!

Banging heard from the other side of the bathroom door immediately caught my attention.

Melissa, are you alright,” asked mother, her concern muzzled by the handful of oxy she took earlier.

Oh My God,” I said under my breath, noticing blood on the floor. “What do I tell her?”

Tell her to fuck off!

Melissa,” said mother, as she fumbled with the door knob. “Melissa, open the door.”

Go away, mom,” I shouted, straining to keep my hand from grabbing the knife.

Open the door!” Mother banged against the door.

I can’t, mom.”

Yes you can, honey. Please, please open the door.” She pounded against the door.

Tell your fat whore of a mom to Get The Fuck Out!

No, no. I can’t say that,” I muttered, pleading for an ounce of sympathy.


The thunderous voice shook me to my knees. With my hands preoccupied and refusing to obey, my forehead smacked down to the floor.

Melissa, open the fucking door!”

Go away mom!”

Melissa, just open the door.”

Mom, just go the fuck away. Go the fuck away!”

I can’t, honey. I can’t.”

Just fuck off!”

Blood leaked from my forehead, trailing down my face. I rolled over to my side.

Your mom is an insufferable cunt. Does she know her husband is cheating on her with her sister.

She knows. She doesn’t believe,” I whispered. “She would rather believe a lie than accept the truth.”

Like the truth that her daughter is a fat whore!



With tears running down my face, I leaned into the door and pleaded for my daughter to open the door.

Melissa, please. Please honey,” I said, as I pound a fist against the door.

Fuck off, mom,” said Melissa. The anger in her words cut me deep.

No,” I yelled, as I pressed my shoulder into the door. “You will open this door. Open this door now!”

I heard Melissa mumbling something incoherent, and fumble with something metallic. But then silent whimpers, which only aggravated my concerns. I slammed my shoulder into the door, feeling the frame give. As I was going to slam into the door again, Melissa released a blood chilling scream. I slammed into the door again, feeling the wooden frame begin to splinter.

Melissa,” I shouted, as I peered in through the cracked door. Melissa’s was on her back, blood trailing from her face, pooling on the tiled floor. I slam and slam some more into the door, and finally it gives all the way.

Oh my god,” I yelled, as I witnessed the horror before me. Melissa was sprawled out on the bathroom floor. Wet bangs plastered to her forehead. A knife wedged deep into her right eye. Tears, blood, and cheap makeup ran down her face. The collar of her school uniform drenched. Splotched of blood on her skirt. Pooling blood under her right thigh.


I rush to her side and was about to help her up, when she turned her head towards me with a smile. Melissa grabbed the knife and pulled. The blade sliding out made a sickening fleshy sound that was almost just as wicked as the sight of her mutilated socket.

Why,” I asked, shaking my head.

Melissa released a smug chuckle and said, “Mr. Deadman made me do it.”

Read more in Mr. Deadman Made Me Do It!

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