Chapter IV- Comatose

Was she just destined to be petrified for the rest of her life? Morgan had no idea. Just the thought of knowing that the killer knew where she was staying, he knew where her family was. She had everything to lose. Morgan was anxious; time was moving by so strangely for her. Terrified, angry with herself even. Morgan wanted nothing more than to see her attacker's head on a platter, but she was scared at the thought of seeing him again. Oh, how she wanted revenge, but how could she get her sweet justice if she freezes up just from hearing his name.

Morgan's mother pushed her time and time again to see a therapist, but she hated the idea of it. Sitting in a room and talking about that monster and reliving the advent sounded excruciating. But, nonetheless, Morgan scheduled an appointment to accommodate her mother's needs.

It felt like she sat in the waiting room for hours, and of course the whole place reeked of band aids and cheap lemon scented cleaner. An assistant finally called her back, dragging her down several hallways into a small room that looked like a cliché psychiatrist office from the movies. Old book shelves and a mahogany desk decorated the centerfold, the curtains looked velvet and were a scarlet. One of those ridiculous half couches sat in the middle of two recliners, and a glass bottle of what looked like scotch was resting to its side.

Her eyes met with an elderly man with thin circular bifocals, he waved his hand for her to come in. Morgan sat down, biting her lip as the man poured himself a small glass of the liquid. He stared at her as he took a swig, licking his lips afterwards.

"Morgan Rodjers I presume?" She merely nodded, smoothening the skirt she wore. "I'm Doctor Cliff Anderson."

"I've never known a doctor who drank on the job," she stated, still eyeballing the glass that rested in his hand.

"Well," he cleared his throat, setting down his drink, "my methods are a little obscure."

He had a deep and gravelly voice that was hoarse yet relaxing. The older man reminded her a lot of her great uncle; a man who was assertive and didn't have a care in the world. He pulled a clipboard out of what seemed like thin air, tapping a pen against it while his eyes studied her.

"I suppose you don't want to be here?"

She snorted, "Well, you aren't the cheapest."

He gave a sly grin, "Why don't you tell me why you're here."

"I was attacked by-"

He cut her off short with a chuckle, "No, no, Miss Morgan why are you really here."

She glared at him, "I am here because my mother wants me to be."

"You don't actually want to talk to me about your problems; you just want her off your back."

"You're a smart man, Mister Cliff."

"Why don't we talk about the incident a little anyways?" Morgan stared at him until he finally continued, "So you were attacked by that serial killer on the news, is that correct?" He checked his clip board, making small marks here and there.

"Yes, about five months ago."

"Are you still living in your apartment where the incident took place?"

"I'm still paying for the rent and all, but I've been staying with my parents."

"Do you not feel safe there?"

"Would you?" He nodded in agreement, making a few more notes. "I go there sometimes to get clothes or other things and," Morgan swallowed that large lump that found its way into her throat, "I can only think of that night. The door is split, there's blood stained into my bed and the carpets. I've tried to scrub it out, believe me I really have, but it just won't come out. I've thought about putting in an alarm system, but I decided against it."

"It says here on the police report that you received flowers from him?"

Morgan nodded, "Nightshade."

"Nightshade, hmm? Beautiful but extremely poisonous. Do you know why he left those?"

Morgan shrugged, "How am I supposed to know."

"Has anything happened since he left the flowers and pictures two weeks ago?"

"No, it worries me though. One of the pictures was of my parents' house. I'm worried that he might hurt them too and I would never be able to live with myself if that happened."

"How do you feel?"

"What do you mean 'how do I feel'? I'm terrified. I'm angry, I'm depressed, I'm everything but happy…"

And that reality stung to Morgan, and suddenly an even more terrifying thought hit her- what good was it to her that she even survived that night, if she would live in fear and agony for the rest of her life? Morgan needed answers, and she sure as hell wasn't going to get them in a shrink's crammed office.

The first thing she did once she got home was take a bath. Just throwing off her clothes and slipping into a hot tub almost immediately made her forget all of her troubles. It was a Friday night, she thought about going out, like any reasonable person would do. Morgan was home alone; her parents always went out on Fridays to a karaoke bar with a few of their friends.

She could feel that the night was going to be a long one already, something just ached in her bones and she wanted nothing more than to fall asleep watching a cheesy movie on Netflix. Once the tub was drained and Morgan had put on a comfortable pair of shorts she flopped onto her bed.

Her soft blue eyes were just fluttering shut when she was awakened at the violent sound of someone knocking on the front door. Morgan grumbled to herself frustrated. She nearly threw open the door and glared at the person in front of her. Who on earth would be knocking at her door so later anyways?

Morgan let out a deep sigh, "What do you want Daniel?"

He was hunched over, catching his breath, "It's mum and dad." Just seeing the look on his face gave her all the explanation she needed. That monster had gotten to her parents. Tears had welded up in her eyes, spilling out onto her red cheeks. Did she even want to know what happened?

They raced down to the hospital, and devastation was soon found. Morgan stared at their mutilated bodies in the morgue. Their eyes were gouged out, tongues split in half. Her mother's stomach had been opened, most of her entrails seemed to be missing and the same with her fathers.

Morgan choked, covering her mouth as she sobbed against her brother's shoulder. The doctor continued to give her the report as the police covered their bodies. What else could possibly go wrong in her life? What else could she possibly have to lose? She was basically to her breaking point, at least, that's what she thought.

She had no idea what monstrosities were to come.

"The wall that built to keep you out is starting to rust, because everything around me just reminds me of us. I'm an addict for dramatic, black hair and pale skin. Yet I'm still collecting bones, but that's why closets are for skeletons."