HEY GUYS, IT'S ANN1AMOUR AND JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT I'M DONE WITH FANFICTION, I BROUGHT THIS TO YOU. A ONE-SHOT TO START MY FIRST WORK OF THE YEAR. ALBEIT, SUPER LATE, I'M GLAD I MADE IT. AND WHAT OTHER DAY TO PUBLISH THIS HORRIFIC STORY THAN ON THE EVE OF HALLOWEEN. HAPPY HALLOWEEN TO EVERYONE WHO CELEBRATES.

THIS IS A DARK PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE SHORT STORY, HEAVILY INSPIRED FROM SIR EDGAR ALLAN POE'S 'BLACK CAT'. I WOULD NOT RECOMMEND ANYONE TO READ IT IF THEY CANNOT TAKE THE BRUTAL MINDSET THAT THIS STORY CONTAINS. IF YOU LIKE DARK STORIES, THIS ONE'S FOR YOU.

ENJOY AND AS ALWAYS R&R.

DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN THE CHARACTERS NOR DOES ANY OF THE OPINIONS SHOWN BY THEM IS MINE. I JUST WRITE THE CHARACTERS AND THEIR STORY. THE WAY THEY SEE WORLD IS DEFINITELY NOT THE WAY YOU SHOULD.

FEAR

It has been three hundred days and eighty-two days, I have become an abnormal psychopath to the world. Twice have I been arrested for attempted murder and I do not comprehend what they meant when they said,

The third time's the strike.

Nor do I want to. I'm too far absorbed into the inconceivable abyss of my imagination for someone to swim me ashore. The voices inside my head have silenced me, and it's too much to sustain anymore. I'm waiting for my impending demise and saving everyone the distress. I don't believe I'm remorseful for what I did or what I could do. If fate does me a favor and presents another fortuity to mend things right, will I, in all likelihood, do anything and everything in my capacity to repeat the same incidences and wait for better consequences. I'm not afraid of death. I'm afraid of not doing certain things in a certain way before I die. I'm afraid of what she might do to me if I don't.

Fear, to me, is a temporarily lasting impression of something or someone within us, either as a recollection of bad memories or a subsequent situation imposed on something of importance. It is relative and priority-based. If you don't have priorities, you don't have fear. Unlike the people on the other side of the wall who remain terrified about the thought of what I might do to them if they let me off this leg iron for once. Scared they are, to unlock the metal manacles constricting my wrists, which by now, is just a lean pair of bluish-purple blood-bleached carpals hanging, albeit forbearing enough, not to tie my jaws, or I would not be alive, at this moment, to share this tale with you.

I eat, once each passing day, around the time the sum skims slightly south, past the golden scorch, revealing just enough, now a blazing brilliant red, through a cracked, dilapidated, wooden aperture, presumably in the west. It is awfully dark in here. Perhaps, just a reflection of the demon inside, or the looming inevitable, about to approach. I don't care. Employing the only source of light, I wriggle, hauling the steel rack along, the rust grazing my skin, my legs tending to shred apart. I grasp the steel plate, boasting some dreadful rice and baked beans, and drag it to the fallen beam on the rag, devouring it like a beast. Hunching down, my chest hits the floor as I gobble up as much as the mouth can hold onto, rendering my face a slithery mess when I finish. I lick the water on the side bowl clean. They take the dishes, change my clothes and re-shift my newly acclaimed position while I'm tranquilized to sleep.

The food is the offender. I'm okay with that. This is survival. And I wish to survive. Even when despondency is the only thing that awaits.

It's instinctive. It starts within yourself. Regardless of a reason, you do survive. Those who fail to satisfy this basic prerequisite, deserve to die anyway. I don't just survive, I thrive, amid chaos. It irritates me to find people chasing peace and perfection. I prefer asymmetric imperfection. I prefer a scattered set of cards to an organized deck, an open scarred face than a smooth one, and irregular footprints amongst the perfect snow. What is perfection? Is it not a predefined form of an ever-existing erratic occurrence? That's chaos too. I don't like it when people imply it to be something they're not, as if they're dreaming their own fantasy. Even that, I don't like.

I don't like to dream. I don't wish to dream. I don't wish to fantasize about the dazzling dark night sky, with fragmented pearls demarking a bright stream of hope, looking down on me, while I aim to capture a part of the starlight glowing from the universe, standing in front. Yet I find myself doing it. I'm intoxicated, engrossed in the revelation of my realm falling away, imploding into the endless restraints of her vision. Hurting me. Defying my gravitational ripples from their woven stitches. I see death. I see life going on despite a star dwindling from eternal lines, the significance being reassured by her gentle smile. Wish I didn't dream after all, because whenever I do, all I see is her.

Despite my escalating reluctance, dreaming is harmless. It is the recurring sub-psychotic rage that ensues after, which I fear, shattering glass panes with wooden chips lying around, I endure the ricochet, piercing the legs and face. I yell obscurity blended with desperate profanity to no avail. The door doesn't open. I hope they tremble to hear me speak. I've attempted to lubricate away the ruthless chains with blood. I've attempted to bite it open. It's inextricable. Is it really my fault when she is the one praying me to break free? I'm not a whimsical maniac. I'm not behind this adversity. She is. I don't blame her. She has her reasons that she constantly strives to shove down my throat. All I do is gulp it, mindlessly. She is the sole cause I haven't gone completely insane by now. She is the sole cause I will, eventually. She caresses the scars on my face, lovingly, reminding me of the time she came to me, like the gracious pallet of rain.

I was parched, as bone-dry as an arid barren desert. Her incessant drops calmed me. Every moment she smiled, I felt every inch of sand drench with a splatter. She came roaring, extinguishing the last red wisp of light, followed by a smell of petrichor. She went with the equal haste as there was when she came. Withering away, leaving me open-hearted. First, she gave me love, and then she left me, devoid of it. I wasn't hurt. I was more confused as to what caused her to do that. Maybe I was getting too used to being her own that I forgot when to let go. I was oblivious and she darted out of my door when I knew I would find her. I presumed she would be there tomorrow. I never asked why.

It was months after she disappeared, that I saw her again. She apprised me of her departure. The same door she walked out of was the same door she appeared from, mere days succeeding my current confinement. I have shown symptoms of frequent panic attacks ad a deranged demeanor. I've never felt more alive than those three hours she was with me that night.

They were unfair to her, she said, with a voice amplifying horror every second. You can cry with a stifled muff behind your palms when abysmal things come about your life, edging you to a state of misery, almost inconsolable. It breaks you. You can't cry when a hand tries to push you to the ground and chokes you to death, moments before they violate your body for their barbaric atrocious delight. No tears left to cry. Just an exploited cadaver, lying amidst stained dry blood. But there she was, so brave and strong, so beautiful, right in front of me. Vaporizing tears giving way to a vengeful aura, marching for revenge.

She was the sole cause I escaped from my house that night, thankfully since my parents didn't feel the necessity to chain me down yet. The fact that a nineteen-year-old could stab a person in his neck and disembowel his guts was beyond their imagination. And they were right. When the time came, I couldn't do that. Despite the voices eating me, my hand froze in fear. I've always believed guns to be quick and painless. To perfect a weapon to inflict satisfactory damage and horror. I prefer hideous daggers. Had I known, killing him was the primary objective, I'd have thought otherwise. While she screamed at my ears to rip him apart, all I could do was snap his one arm in half before I heard the sires etching nearer.

She was the sole cause I went ahead to shoot him within the next three months he thought he could take his pathetic life for granted.

It's only fair if you shoot him. This is justice, love. This is revenge.

She screeched from ear to ear, summoning a devil inside, lustful of blood.

Yet I failed to shoot him. This time as well.

I could barely walk when they proceeded me towards their vehicle. I could barely hear anything except her repetitive screams, persistently asking me to complete the task. I am afraid of her. I told them to shut her up, but they didn't pay heed. I could just have covered my ears had they not been handcuffed. Or maybe, I just wanted to hear it more. More and more till I collapsed right there with my regrets. Handcuffs were just an excuse. I'm a sick lunatic and no one believed me when I said she told me to do all this.

Right as I speak, I'm listening to her reverberating symphony. I listen to it all the time. The sound never leaves me. The screams never let me alone. She's looking at me. A void, aimless stare that doesn't let me sleep at peace, one last time.

She died on day one, and I'm not crazy about being enchanted by her spirit for so long. I love her because she never did let go of me. Be it alive or deceased, she still lingers around me. Be it the person or her specter, she holds my hand tight and tells me she loves me for everything that I am. And I can't get enough of that. Not yet.

THAT'S IT! WE DONE! HOPE YOU (LIKED) IT. HAPPY HALLOWEEN AGAIN AND HAVE A GREAT DAY AHEAD

KEEP SMILING AND R&R

-ANN