Out of Sight, Out of Mind

The therapist looked at me with a standard glaze, like the one you would give to a stranger. He had no response, for now, but what I had just said was still lingering fresh in my mind. I sat down, with my legs tossed over the right arm of the chair. It was such a nice room. It was brightly colored, with dark reds and neat little paintings. A large window, facing the city. We were 3 stories up, and all the people scattered below looked like ants. I could squash them with my fingers, if I wanted to. I let them live, though, so they could suffer the inescapable pain of continuing their everyday normal lives. What do we do, anyway? Eat, sleep, breathe - live the same old life. If you think about it, it might as well be life-long torture.

"What did you say before?" The therapist asks me with a monotone voice.

"I said many things before this exact time, in this exact period, in this exact life," I turned to look at him. "What would you like me to repeat?"

"What you just said, minutes ago."

"Ah," I turned back around, "I said that she was out of my life."

"You considered it a good thing?"

I laughed. Of course I did, but I didn't say this out loud. I nodded with the back of my head still turned to him. I could hear the therapist scribble down some words, probably a note or two. Did you know that if you have written for a long time, you can actually make out the words someone else writes? This theory is highly untested and could be false, but the same thing goes for most new theories, doesn't it?

"Could you tell me why you considered her death a 'good thing'?"

"That, now that is hard to explain. But then again, why do we consider all the things positive in our life 'good things'?"

"Because they are positive, meaning they help us in some way."

"Yes, so why don't we consider the negative things in life positive?"

"Because they are negative, meaning they did something bad to us in some way."

"But if we considered a negative a positive, then the world would be happy and together and free."

"No, because a negative times a positive is a negative. Something bad will come of it."

"You're no fun, are you?"

I laughed once again. I like this one. His mind is fun to tamper with. I wonder how long it will take until he snaps. I decide to push him to the limit.

"Please, try to focus," he says.

"Oh, all right." I groan. His business seems to get into the way.

"Tell me why you were there that night. Tell me everything you can remember."

"I'm afraid you have forgotten I have amnesia. I can't remember much."

"But you can remember what happened three weeks ago."

"I might be able to."

"Then please," his pen snaps into place, "Indulge me."

I have nothing to say, since that night was such a blur, so instead, I humor him. "What's your life like, doc? Do you have kids? A wife?"

He is silent for a minute, but he seems to have forgotten about the question. More importantly, that it needed an answer.

"A wife," he mumbles. "A-And two kids. Twins. Both girls."

I smile, "That must be an adventure."

He musters a small chuckle. "Oh it is," his voice brightens, "They're like angels. Both of them are perfect and they remind me of my sister."

"Siblings?" I find the concept of siblings a bit touchy, but I pursue. Anything to get me away from his questions.

"Yeah, my sister, Hannah. She, she left for college a few months back."

"She must like it there," I look up to the white ceiling.

"She did."

Did?

"Uh, she passed away a week ago. Car accident."

"I…I'm sorry."

"But this isn't about me, is it? Stalling won't work. I need an answer: Where were you that night and what were you doing by her body?"

"I thought a cop was supposed to ask those types of questions."

"I am a cop."

"Ah, a therapist and a cop on the side," I sit up straight and look over to him. "Some life, eh?"

He looks down to his notepad, which I now realize is covered by intelligible scribbling, and his voice turns darker. "I need answers, now."

I once again try to stall for time. I look around the room once again. A mirror is facing the wall back to the hallway leading to the many other offices in the building. I know exactly what's behind that mirror. Or, who's exactly behind that mirror, to be more exact, but I don't do anything yet. A wooden bowl of peppermints rests perfectly on a nightstand next to the chair. I reach out my hand toward the bowl, but of course, the doc has restrictions.

"Don't touch that," he says.

"I'm just getting a damn peppermint."

"Watch your language."

"What?" Without the doc's consent, I pop a peppermint in my mouth. "Damn isn't a bad word. People use it all the time." I move the mint to one side of my mouth so I can speak. "Fuck. There, now that is a bad word. It's especially vulgar to mix that with other curse words. It's vulgar, but it's fun. It gets the stress out without doing much."

"Please, we can do without the language."

I sigh, "Very well."

"Are you ready to cooperate? Can you answer my question?"

"Yes, I can answer your question, but I'm known to have a little trouble cooperating."

The therapist clears his throat and waits to hear my answer. I shift the mint in my mouth a bit before I finally speak. "Thursday, the twenty-third…I don't recall much of that night."

"You don't recall or you just don't want to?"

"Both."

"So you admit to –"

"I never admitted to anything, doc. Listen, why don't you?" He sits back and I breathe deeply. My head begins to throb, surely the starting signs of a headache, but I don't care. I might as well get this over and done with. "That night, I was home. I wasn't doing anything special, I was just lazing around. I heard a piercing scream come from the back of the house, next thing I knew, she was dead."

"You are well aware of the three stab wounds found by her neck, yes?"

I nodded. "What did you see when you were around her?" He asks with a firm voice. His questions bore me.

"Blood, like I've said before."

"Anything else?"

"No."

There is a beat of silence and the therapist reaches over to his side to grab a paper. He lays it down on top of his notepad and reads aloud: "Stab wound caused from a Curtly throwing knife, used by someone who is right-handed telling by the placement of the wounds."

"Tell me, Luigi," the therapist looks up, "Are you right-handed?"

"Yes," then I quickly add, "But most people are. You can't prove a thing."

He chuckles. "Please tell me why you have throwing knives in your home."

I shrugged, "Training."

"For what?"

"Bowser and them."

"But you've never used knives before, nor have you ever claimed that you would in the future."

"They're my brother's, okay."

"Then why did we find your fingerprints on them?"

I'm quiet.

"Why did we find her blood on the knife? Why did we also find her blood on your clothes when you claimed that you never touched her after you found her body; limp on the floor? Why do we have all the evidence against you, but you still think you didn't do it?"

I look down. I don't have much else to say. I'll have to face the jury soon, and then, if I'm lucky, prison. If Grambi really hates my guts, then I'm faced with the death penalty. Oh boy.

He clears his throat and puts the notepad aside. He looks over to the mirror and nods subtly. Then he looks back at me, with a face of disgust. "Tell me why you did it, you sick bastard."

"I changed, doc. She couldn't accept the fact that I changed. I told her to grow up and face it, that I was accepting myself finally. I wanted to be the evil one, because the whole 'Green Thunder' gig had its perks. I did it because I accepted me for who I was. She, on the other hand, accepted that wimp for who he was, and when I came back, she didn't care about me anymore. So she left me, but I didn't want her to. Yeah, I killed her, but it was only because she deserved it."

He stood up and the door opened. "She never deserved any of this. I hope you rot in hell."

Officers walked in and cuffed me. "You are under arrest for the murder of Princess Daisy Sarasa. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in court…"

As I walked out of the room, I saw her parents. They must have overheard the entire thing. They both look horrified, but I smiled.

I did that girl a favor. She would have to do the same old thing for the rest of her life and for what? It didn't please me anymore. She didn't please me anymore. She didn't deserve to live this stupid life. She deserved to live with the angels – back where she came from. If I'm lucky, I'll see her soon enough.

My original intentions on this website were to write these dark one-shots. I...I don't know why. My real serious idea of a fanfiction was Creepypasta, and I did come up with an actual gore and horror fanfiction, but I never got down to writing it. And, eventually I got more into the romance in the Mario universe and BOOM - all these other fanfictions were born.

If you didn't notice, I suck at writing these dark one-shots. The whole twist in this is that Luigi basically killed Daisy because he thought she deserved to live with the angels. But, I don't know if I was subtle enough. The twists (or reason as to why the killer killed anyone) in dark-fics are supposed to be subtle, so I tried. That, or the fact that I'm just horrible at writing dark-fics.

At the beginning of the story you must have been like: "The killer is Luigi. This is the pick-it fence, she only writes about Luigi. She's a fangirl, she adores him. It's Luigi. It's Luigi. Oh hey! It's Luigi!"

Yes, I am a fangirl, and yes, I do adore him. But it's not because of that, it's because of his twistable personality. You can just do so much with it. I know: PICK-IT, FIND A NEW CHARACTER TO WRITE ABOUT! GRRR!

I guess playing Luigi's Mansion: Dark Moon and watching CSI: Miami wasn't really a good idea...

Expect me to start writing more one-shots in the future.

Leave a comment, review, favorite, follow, CHECK MY PROFILE FOR UPDATES, PM me if you want to know anything, and I will see YOU...in the next story! BYE-BYE!