Hedge trimmers
The backstory is that a few years ago I was cordially invited to spend some time in a quiet place at the expense of the NHS. It was one of those invitations you can't really decline.

Anyway, I was discharged a few weeks later and toddled off to live with my mum for a while, on account of needing to be watched for Signs of The Crazy. Most of the time I was just wandering around like a zombie and occasionally refusing to eat or speak. Harmless stuff for the most part. But then there were the other bits.

The other bits when I was convinced that the furniture was watching me, that the food in the supermarket was all poisoned. That small boys passing by on those bloody skate-shoes were actually flying, due to being inhabited by demons. The times when dead people came and talked to me. Yeah, that was fun.

I hasten to add that eighteen months and a barrelful of antipsychotics later, I am a reasonably happy and productive member of society. I no longer hear voices, see things, or wish to top myself. Apart from a large and eclectic medical history, the only real remnant is a lingering phobia. Of hedge trimmers.

Even typing it makes me feel ill. Now, as a rational human being, I am aware that some might consider this an unreasonable fear. They're just large gardening shears, inanimate objects after all. What could possibly be frightening about that?

And to those people I respectfully say... fuck you. Don't come crying to me when the evil spirit that inhabits the hedge trimmers infects your loved ones.

They'll pick them up, maybe just to look at them, put them on the other shelf in the shed, maybe prune back the leylandii... and that's it. That isn't your dad anymore. It's hedge clippers given control of a human body. There's nothing there in his eyes anymore, just the soulless reflection of those shiny metal blades. He'll start opening and closing the shears, almost aimlessly, without any real direction, but still somehow closing in on you. You'll laugh nervously and jokingly wave him off.
"Watch out, Dad," you'll say, pretending it's funny even though somehow it's really not. "You could have someone's eye out."
But he won't answer, and deep down you didn't expect him to, because you know your dad, you love your dad, and you somehow know that the thing behind those fucking shears isn't him. No, Dad's gone, dead, worse than dead, and the thing that has him is coming closer, jerkily stepping towards you with the shears swinging open and closed, the metal sliding sound speeding up. And you look around for a way out, a weapon, anything, but not openly, no, you have to be casual, not let on that you suspect because if it sees you know it'll be on before you can even scream.

So, pick up the spade and beat your father to death with it, or resign yourself to a bloody and painful death followed by a speedy induction into the undead hedgetrimmer army. There's no real winning solution here.

Fucking hedge trimmers.
(yes_slash_no, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 23:44, 1 reply)

*sharpens*
*snip*

*snip*

*snip*

*snip*

*snip*
*snip*
*snip*

*snip**snip**snip**snip**snip**snip**snip**snip**snip**snip**snip**snip**snip*



TA DAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
( Azra3l Lubrication Persuasion and Brute Force ™, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 2:35, closed)