The next day, she attended school. I followed her; I was curious to see how she coped amongst people of her age. Not well, it seemed. Some stupid boy threw a wad of chewed gum at her, and she got in his face. I could see the furiousness in her eyes, the want to kill. It was astonishing, the amount of sheer hate in this small girl. I wanted her to follow through, but a teacher soon intervened, telling them to go separate ways.
She excelled in her first class, Spanish I. She said the words and the translations before anyone else could even think of them, and English I was even easier for her.
It wasn't until her third class, Algebra II, that I noticed her struggling. She saw Taylor in the corner of her classroom, telling her to kill her teacher, telling her to kill the students. All because she didn't understand the work. She was being tortured by her own mind; so she would easily be my possession.
The rest of her classes passed on by, and she got a ride home with her boyfriend. I sat, undignified, in the backseat. My curiosity for this girl was becoming overwhelming at this point, then, if I would subject myself to such lows.
By the time we reached her home, she was crying. The boy couldn't stand her constant death wishes on people, and broke up with her. She slammed the car door and went into her house, cursing Taylor the whole way.
I was there when she opened the door. She didn't scream; she merely looked at me and said, "Please, kill me. I'm so tired of life."
I was appalled. I let the writing appear on the wall. No, you silly child. You will do my bidding before you die.
"Fine. What do you need me to do, Sir?" she asked in a monotone.
I need you to kill a man. A man named Paul. Follow me.
I led her through the streets, past houses and cars and children on the streets to a house on the corner, where a man played with his two young children in his yard. They passed a ball back and forth, smiling, laughing.
She returned at nightfall, and was possessed by me, though I don't think it was necessary. She would have done this anyway. The wife was in bed. He was tucking his children in. Holly walked right in the front door.
I watched her walk up the stairs, knife in hand. The man was pulling the door to his youngest girl's room closed. He turned, but he had no time to scream. She plunged the cool blade into his heart, rendering him speechless. He fell to the floor, unconscious. I made to make her turn and go, but she did not obey. She stooped down, and put her hand in the blood pooling on the wooden floor. Then she pulled out her notebook, the same one she used to draw her killing her mother in. She turned to a clean page and pressed her bloody hand onto the paper, leaving a print. Then she turned to go.
For the rest of the night, I listened to her talk about her life. How her parents got divorced, how her father abused her, how she longed to kill so many people. And I was here to help her fulfill that wish. And maybe, just maybe, she could help me fulfill my wish as well.