Stark White Scars and Her

image
A mystery, a stigma.

Dancing on the tabletop when drunk on her company, but refusing to move a leg, claiming she didn’t know how to dance when her friends invited her to — that’s the kind of girl she was. She had always been a mystery to everybody who ever had a chance to hold a two-minute conversation with her. And, that was the reason why everyone around her was so fascinated with her. She never gave much away. She held everything close. Too close.
She was friendly with a lot of people. But, if you ever really looked close, she barely had any friends. She didn’t let people in. And, that led them to speculate about her past. She knew they wondered what had happened in her past to make her so “closed off”. She knew they created weird theories and reached even weirder conclusions. But she just didn’t really care. It didn’t matter to her, any of it. It was as if she was missing a very important part in her system; the part responsible for everything emotion. It was as if she didn’t feel.
Then, she got taken by the police. Police had knocked on her dorm room door at the ungodly hour of 7 in the morning. She had opened the door, muffled and disheveled. They had talked to her intensely for a minute. She had nodded and went inside. A moment later, huddled in a huge fur coat, she had reappeared, and had went with them quietly, without any protest. “What the hell is happening? Where are you going? It’s freezing out.” Her roommate had shouted from inside.
Everybody wanted to know. Nobody heard anything. For days. There was no sign of her returning. One morning, her roommate had taken the whole dorm by a storm, shouting about no sense of privacy in the “perverted” place. Apparently, HER stuff had disappeared in the black of the night, as if she never lived here. As if she hadn’t existed. Her roommate had been crazy angry for the next few days because somebody hadn’t bothered to wake her up when the stuff was taken, and she was worried about having flashed the “intruder” in her sleep.
Days turned to weeks. No clue. No word. Everybody started to forget her. Nobody speculated anymore.
Then, on the cold, freezing morning of January 11, a part of her she had held close for so long came into light. It was the puzzle piece that had been missing all along. And it was a revelation that had the power to destroy everything.
A news headline shook the walls of the dorm. “The serial killer, a mutliple personality disorder case?” Her picture just below it. It was unbelievable. It was crazy. It was the truth.
Everything unraveled bit by bit. Reason for her weird, crazy behavior was revealed. Her “friends” claimed to have doubted it forever. Everybody was banking in for their 15 minutes of fame, the case becoming national level in 2 days straight. The whole nation was curious. They hadn’t met anybody like her. It wasn’t a 2, or even 3 split personality case. The doctors hadn’t been able to determine just how many personalities she had. She had been sent to an asylum. A caged, isolated room, too. They had pronounced her “mentally unfit to live amongst normal people”. She was a phariah. She was a stigma.

In a windowless room: Finally, I am here. He’s dying the ugliest, most painful death of them all. He won’t be able to touch another 5 year old ever again. I will kill him. He’s declared me sick. He’s the sickest of them all. A doctor, they say. A renowned one. He’s the last. He’s my salvation. My oath will be complete now. He doesn’t know me. But I know him very well. Too well.
The scars of the past haven’t faded one bit. They are even more pronounced now. Stark white, all over my soul. Nothing will soothe them other than his blood. All over me. All around me. In me. I will make every second count. I will make every second as painful as an eternity. So much so that he will beg me to kill him. I won’t. I will let every cell in his body experience the pain he put me through. Over and over again. And, when my ears will be ringing with the melody of his painful shrieks; when my own shrieks from the past will not be as loud; when my sleepless nightmares will not haunt me; when all my wounds will be soothed, maybe, just maybe, I will let him die.

Toodles!
~A♥~

P.S. Find me at:
Twitter @ilovetoread003
Facebook The unapologetic pen

Advertisements

100 word stories:#1-The VIOLET blouse

image
Those 100 words.

The violet blouse she had on was a pretty little thing. It was made of net at the neck and the front was covered in cute, tiny, pink polka dots. It buttoned up to her throat. And the stuff looked expensive. Really,really expensive. The satiny feel!*Sighs*
Her face, though, was an entirely different story. She looked alert and lost, all at the same time. Her eyes had that far away look. The longish sleeves covered her Bruised arms and the tear in the material at her waist,which she was so desperately trying to hide,said it all.

Toodles!
~A♥~