An introduction by :
Lee is a mature student in the final year of a Creative Writing and English degree at Newman University. We won’t reveal his exact age, but he once appeared on Tiswas. Tis what? Exactly. When he’s not being outwitted by his four-year-old-daughter – or gratuitously posting gym check-ins on social media, he enjoys reading and writing. His flash-fiction and poetry has featured in several online and printed publications. He’s currently working on a series of dark short-fiction pieces, set on the fringes of Birmingham. He describes these urban gothic tales as people you don’t want to meet, in places you don’t want to go. His favourite Psychological Thriller depends on which day of the week it is, and how much coffee he’s had.
We’re busy folk here at High Tensile. We have to find time to actually do all the stuff we brag about. On top of that, Lee Armstrong writes.
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To prove it, he’s kindly shared a part of his latest project, Diminished Responsibility. From the extract, it looks to be a twisted tale of jealous obsession, furnished with all the amoral atrocities that such fixation can inspire. However, this story isn’t only notable for its physical horrors, but also for the masterful presentation of an abnormal mental state.
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Armstrong’s piece consists of a stream of consciousness peppered with curious staccato asides. The result is an overly-intimate perspective, in which it is difficult for the reader to separate objective logic from twisted reason. But this isn’t an unpleasant experience. While the narrator’s off-the-cuff remarks directed at an imaginary audience reveal a deep neuroticism, they also serve to make him almost charming.
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In court, I’d swear that I’d been forced to inhabit the skull of this unhinged individual. Either that, or that I’d been seduced by spider-silk strings of prose, against my better judgement. That isn’t true. I followed willingly, because of just how damn personable this rampaging psychopath is.
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I dread to see what he’ll do for his urban Helen of Troy. I have no doubt he’d launch a thousand ships, start a war and more besides. The worst part is, I’ll be there with him, playing the friend, justifying and encouraging his actions.
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Read on. What do you have to lose?
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You’re already guilty by association.
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Diminished Responsibility by Lee Armstrong
I never considered myself the type to ever kill someone. But here we are. These are the lengths you go to for the ones you love. Not that I planned it this way you understand. Not really. It was more a spur of the moment thing. An opportunity seized. Carpe diem, as they say. Truth be told, it was all a bit of a gamble. No time to calculate the angles, or factor in the rate of descent. It could easily have gone the other way. I suppose you could argue it was always going to end up like this. The course was set. And there’ll be those looking to dredge up all the others. Spring skeletons from their grubby little closets. A little unfair given the circumstances. Objection, your Honour! My previous crimes have no bearing on this case. No, I suggest we stick to the matter in hand. The last two years. Carla and me.
I remember the first time I saw her. I mean really saw her. She’d moved in during that long August heatwave. A month of hose-pipe bans and high-pollen counts. Days stretched out like chewing gum. The air slowly being sucked out of everything. Carla was standing at the kitchen sink, a glass of cold water pressed to her cheek. A rippling halo of light danced on the ceiling above her head. She was barefoot on the terracotta tiles, her yellow summer dress clinging to her skin. That dress was always my favourite. She looked perfect in it. But then Carla looked perfect in almost anything. I moved behind her; let her feel the light breeze on her neck and shoulders. She tilted her head forward, one hand reaching back, scooping up her hair. Every shade of Autumn. Sweet smelling like cinnamon. I let myself glide through her fingertips and down over soft cotton, smooth skin. Wrapped myself around her. Held her. She shivered and gave a sharp puff of breath like she was blowing out a birthday candle. Then, on tiptoes, she reached up to close the kitchen window. Too much. Too soon.
The white bathrobe could be alabaster; a fallen statue at the foot of the stairs. Almost. It’s twitching again. The figure inside still gasping like a cooker ring that fails to ignite. It’s all part of switching off. Shutting down for good. No rush. Take your time. Carla won’t be back from work for another hour, maybe longer if she stops off at Waitrose. It’s Tuesday after all. It’ll be finished by then. Done and dusted. I know what you’re thinking, but no, that isn’t her in the hallway. The crumpled heap, steadily leaking life. I could never hurt Carla. Not for anything. I’m disappointed you could even think it. Granted, things haven’t been great recently. But every relationship has its ups and downs, so to speak.
I watched them last night, thumbing through brochures. Making plans. Aligning futures. I heard the crackle of lives being soldered together. Me, I’ve always been the more spontaneous type.