hey guys!!! This is story scene based on a dream I had, and I just had to write it. It's a short scene, a murder scene told through the murderes point of view. It's dark and mysterious. Don't read this if you get creeped out easily. Oh, and please read MrsMasonMussos's story "Three Piece Puzzle" And comment! We're like writing partners. Oh, and if you would like, give me some tips of how to be a better write, don't be afraid about hurting my feelings. Well, enough talking.... her it is....
It was dark.
That was an understatement. It was pitch-black; you could barely make out what was settling two feet of you, if you could at all. And it was cold. The wind slivered its way through my fleece coat, which ran down to my ankles, embracing me in a shadowy grayness that melted in the dark. I shivered, paying only the slightest attention to my own breath in the air; foggy and light, swarming up and away from the iciness, going to wherever your breath went after you exhaled. Droplets of water were stroking down my face all at once. I could taste the freshness on the tips of my lips, licking them with my tongue. The rain was heavy and loud, my footsteps were only a slight echo compared to all the commotion. It was the kind of night, or morning, depends which way you look at it, that would make any normal, decent person aching to be curled up in their bed, protected by their mushy pillows and slender layered blankets. It was the kind of night where someone good would wish to be safe.
But I was not a good person.
Was I ashamed of my work? Did my chest throb every time I ended an innocent soul’s life? What they are, what they could have been, what laid ahead of them? Was I forced to fight my eyes from closing, blocking the view, every time rivers of blood swept on the floor, discovering a new owner, a new destination, one that could not be destroyed? Was there a sense of accomplishment all of the times when I would drop the lifeless body with a thud, walking away gracefully with the blood covered knife surrounded by my calloused hand?
These were questions often brought on about people like me. As.sas.sins. Why did we do what we did? What causes led us to embrace such atrocious effects? The answer, to everyone who was like me, was money. It was not that I enjoyed watching myself live in my worst nightmare; it was not happy or uplifting to see life in a view knowing that the reason there are burglar alarms, locks on doors, police men, cell phone trackers, were because of you. You are the cause of all insanity. But when it comes down to it, my life is far more important than a complete stranger’s. I loved that &35,000 dollars I would be handed over after every kill. It felt good, knowing that I was holding all this money. I was in control; I had all the power in the world.
Through the blackness and buckets of rain, I could make out the figure of my next victim. A slender body shape, tall and thin. She was leaning against an abandoned garbage dump on the opposite side of the alleyway. In her hand was what looked to be a bottle. Probably wine or beer, I thought to myself. And by the way her stance was, slump and weak, there was a high possibility that she was drunk. Being drunk, I said in my head, means that your half-dead. Which means only half the work, only half the time.
“Well, well, well,” I said seductively. My voice was smooth and sexy, all the feelings of doubtfulness and agony hidden impressively. The girl, who looked to be about in her lower twenties, dropped her bottle with a smash, all the liquid spilling out. I could smell the bitterness of beer run up my nose. She turned around shakily, smoothing her little maroon dress with her palms. It was low cut and barely reached her mid thigh.
I could see her face vaguely. There were dark bags set under her eyes, and her light brown hair looked like a haystack; tangled, frizzy, and out of control. Makeup was scribbled around her face wildly, as if a five-year-old child mistook her ex
pression for a coloring book. And her green eyes themselves were the worst of all. They were anguished with unconditional exhaustion, drowsiness, pain, and lonesome. She looked so terrified, covering up her pale skin as much as possible with her arms. That only made it an easier kill. “What is just an innocent young girl like yourself doing all alone at two o’clock in the morning?”
“Go away,” her voice was squeaky and trembling. Like a lost puppy in a pack of wolves, I thought silently.
“It’s dangerous out here, you know,” I continued on, taking one step toward her so she was pressed against the brick wall, “And such a pretty thing like you could get into some serious trouble.” I took my soaked palm and graciously strode it along her bare cheek. The girl shuddered even more, and water that was not from the rain weld up in her sea green eyes.
“Don’t cry,” My voice was as soft as her skin, but that made me even more of a threat. Despite being drunk, she knew what was happening. I could see it in her face. Feel it by her presence. “Shhh, it’s all gonna be over in just a few moments.” I reached in my coat pocket, feeling around cautiously for my weapon. I pulled out my long, slick knife. My savior. I held it firmly to my side, making sure it was out of view of the young girl.
“L-l-l-l,” she was stuttering insanely, stumbling from side to side occasionally. The alcohol was settling in on her, I could tell. Her consciousness was fading away. “Let me go,” she cried, barely above a whisper. Her eyes transformed into red puffs from crying, and her hands were pressed against the wall. She was leaning as far away from me as possible, but not far enough.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered in her ear. The rain was pouring even harder now, and the water made my clothes cling painfully to my body. “I can’t do that.”
“Please! Please! Leave me alone!”
My laugh was vicious and heartless; it even scared myself a little bit. My voice was hissing when I spoke. “Shut up, you useless piece of dirt.”
“Please! Somebody help me, please…” Her shouts were dry of fear, crackling, hanging on barely to the last word. She was falling apart, breathing loud and heavily, sobbing and trembling. You think you’re scared now; I asked her in my head, just wait until you see the knife.
And she did get even worse. The second I brought my knife within view of the girl, she gasped and strangled in my arms, squirming and even attempting to bite me. She got a nip at my arm, and I pushed her against the wall with as much force as possible. There was a loud bang when I did it, but it was soon wrapped and hidden inside the booming rain pouring down.
“Touch me again,” I brought the knife right to her throat during my lecture. She bent her head back to a painful angle to keep it away from her, “and I will you kill you. Don’t, and I will kill you anyway.” I paused, bringing my face near hers and slowly tracing my mouth along her collarbone, neck, and cheek. I stopped at her temple; leaning back for the smallest second and then coming right back in to kiss it. She shivered with my lips.
“Just please,” she cried, her voice clouded with a deadly and painful amount of agony and despair. She was terrified beyond words; I could feel it by my touch. “Let me go.”
I didn’t answer her with words. Instead, I did much, much worse. Slowly and steadily, I raised the knife up and behind my shoulder blade, smiling mischievously at the beautiful creature. She made a bloodcurdling scream surround the air, but there was no one to hear her. I covered her mouth with my hand, gazing into those terror and torturous filled eyes of hers, watching them gradually slide shut as the knife got closer and closer. They were completely sealed by the time I got a hit at her, ending right where I started. Her limp body fell to the ground. I watched her figure for a second, staring down at the crime I had just portrayed. I should have felt guilty, I knew.
But I was not a good person.
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