Monday, 24 January 2011
06:43:17 PM (GMT)
“Witch! Witch!” Curse and slur was being tossed around like dodge balls.
Everybody gathered in the center of Salem, my mum was being tried for Witchcraft and
dark arts. I was held back by the mayor and townsfolk and made sure to watch my
mother be forced into a noose. They left her face uncovered for all to see as they
gently lowered her so that she didn’t die from her cerebral cortex and spinal cord
snapping, and her esophagus and trachea getting crushed.
Yellow and red and blue tongues licked her feet and lacy hem of her dress. She
didn’t make a sound as she hung bravely by the noose, her hands behind her back and
ankles tied. Her skin begun to bubbly and blister, the wounds on her skin popped and
pieces of skin dropped and flew off as crisps to the ground. They kept bursting until
she was left with nothing but a burned crisp muscle tissue and black skin with a
burning gown. Her long hair was gone, as it went up in flames when she begun to. She
continued to burn even after she was dead.
Her carcass was black, so where the dark caves of where her ocean blue eyes once
were looked down at the people below.
Tiny tears rolled silently down my pale face, as my mother was the last supposed
witch burned in Mass. I was tired, depressed, and I wanted to be dead. But before
that, I wanted sure revenge.
I had nowhere to go; my mother was a lonely widow with only I for company. My papi
died when I was three and both were singlet children. My grandparents died as they
were also accused of Wicca and sorcery that plagued the year’s crop and livestock.
Because of this I was sent to Worchester State Hospital. They put me there because I
was apparently going crazy. I had thoughts of homicide, and sadism, but because I was
the child of a witch-craft family I was condemned by the age of 18. Even if I
hadn’t have shown signs of being a necromancer, I would have been sentenced to
In Worchester my personal perdition grew to something so much more than it
should’ve been. In my own sanctuary I created terms of torcher by hellions and
savage brutes to eradicate whatever goodness was left in a human.
My bloodlust became so insatiable that I stole the straight razor in Doctor
Mainstream’s room during the night. The nurse came into my room, Catherine, was her
name, and I slit her throat. She wasn’t much bigger than I at the time, so she was
small enough to fit into the foot locker at the end of my bed. I had cut it clean
open, she bled out quickly. I used my white bed sheets to clean up the mess, and once
I was done I shoved the blanket in there with her. I remember sitting on my bed,
fondling the blade to feed my hunger. I watched it, relived it, over and over again.
It was so extraordinary for her to be alive one moment, gone the next.
By the time I was sixteen I’d been in the hospital relatively five years. I’d
killed five nurses, one infant, and three cats. My doctor had a lust for me, so I got
off free. He helped me by burying the bodies in the back. I loved him in fact, but I
was damned to the hospital. I couldn’t leave, and I couldn’t marry or procreate.
But so much I loved him that I grew more than sexual lust for him. My desire grew
past that, I wanted to taste him, to feel his heart beat stop and the liquor blood
run down my skin. I wanted to feel his blood on my hands and lips, I wanted him to
suffer, to feel who I was on a physical level. To know what type of torture I’ve
mentally gone through, so that he too, will live in hell as I have.
So I waited, for weeks I brought him in, closer each time. I created a persona, a
sweet and sexy sixteen year old with an utter craving for his divine pleasure. I
would lay on my bed, the neck of my gown stretched out enough to show my shoulder and
chest. The hem of my dress was being crumpled back as I drew it up my thighs with my
index finger and middle finger. I would bring him in, when he got close I’d kiss
him, love him, please him. It had undoubtedly been one of the best times of my life;
this just amped my morale to murder him.
After we finished he’d tighten his belt and straighten his tie, and I would
replace my panties and give him some random things to jot down about how I was
feeling. Though I never lied, I wouldn’t do that to him. I’d only act for him,
just as I partook in the act of giving him false information.
He would bid me farewell, and once he was gone I would go back to daydreaming and
creating ways to supply my craving for bloodshed. Slicing the throats, poisoning,
stabbing, strangling, it was all so glamorous. One I had often thought of was
cannibalism, but then I told myself I’d be mad to have conceived such thoughts. I
surely wasn’t mad.
Everybody has an indulgence, some was money, other was cocaine, and some was even
sex. I had one; it didn’t make me anything but myself for my indulgence was cat and
mouse. I loved to toy with my kill; it made the chase so much more euphoric when I
felt their blood soak my suave hands. I once believed that bathing in another’s
blood made you youthful, but I never saw through to passing the age of twenty to test
After two weeks of sweet love and admiration for my sweet Doctor Mainstream, he’d
offered to let me go and run away with me; to take me to Paris and marry me. I said,
“I’ll tell you my answer soon.”
We began another round of the most fulfilling fortification I’d had yet with him,
and even now it still makes me shudder. It was slow and passionate, but rough enough
to be fun, and gentle enough to send chills up my spine. I felt my climax coming, and
before I went, I grabbed the rusted straight-razor from under the covers and sliced
it swiftly across his throat, cutting it clean open. As I did this my climax came and
I cried out in ecstasy as my body throbbed with the blood splattering on me. We were
in the missionary position, of course, and as soon as I was done with him, I pushed
his corpse aside and backed away, my body was drenched in blood as he bled out nearly
every drop of blood onto his chest and me.
My deed was done, and it made my so undeniably proud of myself that I wanted to show
off to the world, it made warm laughter form in my stomach and start the stampede
with soft giggles before I fell to the ground in a howl, unable to breath from such
amusement until a few minutes later, I got up, a grin from cheek to cheek. And my,
was it a toothy grin. I rubbed my stomach tenderly before taking my straight razor
and starting down the hallway.
My day ended as I was the last to go, every patient and nurse and doctor in all of
Worchester was slaughtered brutally by a sixteen year old girl.
But you see, I didn’t commit suicide; I wasn’t ready to die, but the monstrosity
I had created decided it was my time. Just like the monsters that killed my family.
Last edited: 24 January 2011