I tried being patient with them. Really I tried. But, they left me no choice honestly. All I wanted was to be accepted. To be loved to some degree. Yet these ungrateful simpletons whose pride outweighs their intellect won't even give me a small wave hello. They won't even look at me unless it's with disgust; their eyes narrowing in on me as one would a piece of moldy trash that needs to be discarded and put out of sight. Burned to ash.
But, I have one friend.
He won't tell me his name but hearing his voice soothes me. The deep intervals echoing in my mind like hallow bells and the words he speaks lingering in my mind like poison. Whether an illusion developed by my mind or a truly special being I can't decide, but I'm sort of embarrassed to admit that I, well…that I have a sort of attraction to the one I call the Voice.
He always chuckles when I call him this, the sound like music to my ears and never failing to make me smile. I've told him of my classmate's remarks and their torment—how even the adults ignore me now. The Voice is a very patient listener. Never once interrupting me as I talk to him and always motivating me to move forward on really bad days. But, lately his whispers have become different. Telling me of unsavory methods to extract revenge on the souls who do torment me.
Where to strike, where to bite, and how to dispose of the leftovers when I'm done. At first I was appalled, but now they sound…enticing. I wonder if the human heart will still beat if it's ripped out of the person's chest. How long a person will survive being amputated before giving into unconsciousness. If the blood that runs through their veins is as warm as my own. Could a person actually get away with such things? And how long would it take before they're caught?
Humming in thought I look at the butterfly knife in my hands. The item a gift unto me I believe, as I had found it lying in the ditch on the way home from school the other day. Tossed away just as I've been and nearly buried in the muck. Gripping the cold metal tightly I bring up the blade to look at it gleam in the fluorescent lighting, the maroon liquid that slides down it like syrup looking, in a twisted way, beautiful. With a gentle smile I wipe the blade clean on a napkin and settle back on my couch, turning my gaze over my foster father's dull ones.
"See? Isn't this nice?" I ask, picking up the remote and turning on the TV, "No yelling, no drinking, and some nice sitcoms playing on the telly."
Stretching upwards I turn my gaze over the couch to the kitchen where my foster mother sits at the table, her head laying on the wooden surface and her arms sprawled out before her—her abdomen's contents littering the floor underneath as red drips into the puddle under her feet. I tsk and turn back to my foster father, my eyes noting the slash and stab marks on his upper chest. His own fluids leaking out and onto the chair where scratches left from his fingers are embedded on the arm rests.
"You both should be ashamed of yourselves. Ruining perfectly good furniture." I let out a low chuckle. "Ah, it's so nice to have some peace and quiet in the house."
My eyes drift to the snow falling outside, the storm hiding any proof of what I'd done. The bodies will of course have to be disposed of quickly before the sickly sweet stench of decay starts to rise, but the unfinished basement would prove to be a good place to store them—at least until my mission is done.
I gaze back down at the knife, rubbing a thumb over the design on its side. "What should I do next?" I ask out loud.
An uneasy tension engulfs my house after I speak, but slowly I hear the Voice say, "Why you practice on another of course."
I was lucky enough to have fallen into the hands of a wealthy couple, as people often reminded me. Yes, lucky to become a prodigy that would be pushed into a mold they've already created; caring not if his bones would break and the cries that would be ripped from his lips as they squished him into this frame of being. Forced to learn the skills and ways of the upper class while they pushed me to outshine my classmates with my intellect.
Perhaps though I do owe them some gratitude, as they did feed me, clothe me, and help me obtain a higher way of thinking—but those insults. The lashing they would have the house hands do unto me at the slightest failure, and those absolutely horrid lessons with the violin; an instrument my fingers have been pricked by from their constant movement along the wire strings since I was a small child.
"Natural selection has a hand in everything," they'd tell me after I would be punished, "We saved you from death. If you continue to act foolish then death will naturally come to you."
How very right they were the foolish, foolish little insects.
With a heave I roll my foster father's bagged up body on top of my foster mother's before picking up the shovel with a grunt. Filling in the hole, my mind drifts at what to do next. The house hands have all left for their Christmas break so cleaning up this mess will prove to be nothing more than a slight nuisance. I'll have to deal with them once they come back, but for now this is enough.
I glance at the butterfly knife attached to my belt, the gleaming object held lovingly in the black pouch that once served as a case for my foster mother's sunglasses. There are so many others that should feel it's sting, but who should I pick?
"The one who proves to be the largest threat," the Voice whispers into my ear, sending a shiver up my spine, "The one in orange. I wish for his heart."
My smile falls at this. "His heart? What is wrong with mine?"
The Voice chuckles and phantom-like touches move up my arm in an almost comforting fashion. "I adore your fleeting beating heart. Much more than I would like for it to still. I only wish to have his heart so that I may crush it."
His words relax me, but still a pinch of anxiety remains. I stab the shovel into the ground and wrap my arms around myself, trying to block the chill of the winter night that drifts from the ground. "Do this," the Voice whispers, "And I will use the shadows to give me a physical form."
Interest sparks in my eyes as my heart begins to erratically beat. A physical form? One I can embrace? "Do you promise?" I ask, my voice but a whisper.
His laughter meets my ears, filling me head to toe with such a foreign emotion that I struggle to put a name to it. The emotion so unbound and rapid that words seem pathetic to describe it. "Oh course," the Voice replies, "Give me his heart and I will give you mine. Together we will bring those who've done you wrong to their knees and they will pay for their sins in blood."
My face flushes as images of what the Voice will be flash in my mind; a strange itch beginning along my spine and spreading to my fingertips. I gaze back down at the rumpled patch of dirt, a smile pulling the muscles in my face taunt and making my eyes shine in delight.
Natural selection has always played a hand in people's death. It's what separates the weak from the strong. It determines whose genes will live on to create another generation. Only those able to adapt and survive live on, while those who are lesser become nothing more than memories that will one day fade away. I am not one to stop such a thing, but I wonder if it's possible for me to help it along? To simply become another factor that one must overcome to ensure their survival?
The Voice's dark chuckle rings in my ear as he hears my thoughts, my body moving upstairs to clean up the rest of the bloody mess that my foster parent's left.
I'm anxious to see how this plays out.
A/N: I've been left home alone for the week. My family and boyfriend are out doing social stuff, while I'm busy with work and such. This is why I shouldn't be left alone. My mind starts to think up some pretty disturbing stuff. (perhaps that's good though?)
IDK if I'll continue this. Depends on if you guys want to see more. I'm pretty content to just let it collect dust now.
Review and tell me if you want me to continue this.
Thanks for reading! :D