Leora Tate
Hi, I'm Leora. I love to write and am slowly getting back into it after many years! Really open to feedback.
Leora Tate
Hi, I'm Leora. I love to write and am slowly getting back into it after many years! Really open to feedback.
Hi, I'm Leora. I love to write and am slowly getting back into it after many years! Really open to feedback.
Hi, I'm Leora. I love to write and am slowly getting back into it after many years! Really open to feedback.
Persinthemum, persinthemum, persinthe..she didn't finish the last word as she gazed up towards the looming castle ahead. The skies had turned an ominous tar colour, tinged with an angry red hue. The skies erupted thunderously.Emily jolted forward from where she stood in the middle of the cobblestone path. Her forehead wrinkled as she stared upward towards the mountains. The castle sat atop the highest mountain peak in Hellscape Valley and Emily knew the climb would be treacherous. She knew only with the assistance of Persinthemum would she harness the strength to make it. Persinthemum had been a constant figure in Emily's life since she was a little girl. Guiding her and giving her the confidence to get through each day. Emily didn't tell anyone about Persinthemum as she knew they wouldn't understand. Her chest raised as she took one long deep breath and again whispered "Persinthemum, I need you" The skies softened, as if the gentle whisper was the antidote for the agitation of the sky above. Emily now had some much needed courage to continue her ascent to the castle. Cautiously she navigated her way through each turn, meticulously darting her eyes back and forth between the castle and her surroundings. She managed to climb quite a few feet when suddenly a burning clawing sensation ripped through her back. Her mouth hung open, a silent scream echoing from the back of her throat. Her eyes, dilated, exposed to the terror in front of her. It scratched and squealed, latching on to Emily's dark knitted sweater. Large talons, each one sharper than the last, piercing through each layer of her epidermis. "Persin...." she gagged, the full word unable to exit her mouth. One more swat of its claw down her back as it screeched a sinister squawk. "Emily, you must run" the voice was soft and nurturing but unfamiliar. Her hand slowly moved towards her back. Her forehead tightened, her eyes winced as she touched the bloody gashes. "Go, now" the voice exclaimed. Emily gulped loudly, peering around for the creature who had taken off as quickly as it had come for her. Pushing her hands into the ground she lifted her battered body up. What Emily didn't realize was that the voice she believed to be Persinthemum was in fact the voice of the Morlitor. The voice that needed her to keep going up the mountain, up the valley and into its lair. The Morlitor could alter its voice, its energy, whatever it needed to get its prize, the human soul. It had been years since anyone had attempted to traverse the Hellscape and The Morlitor was eager to ensure this one made it all the way. Exhausted and writhing from the pain, Emily was unsure if she should continue. This journey was proving to be excruciating. "You must continue, five more miles and you will have reached the top, I believe in you" it was the voice of Persinthemum. The calming voice was all Emily needed to keep going. It was all she ever needed. The voice of reason, the voice of comfort, the voice that told her everything would be ok, even if it wouldn't be. The Morlitor knew this, he had summoned the essence of Persinthemum, used her voice to fool Emily. The real Persinthemum was caged, unable to speak or move. Held captive at the top of Hellscape Valley, unable to warn Emily of what was to come. As the night wore on, Emily managed to hike five miles towards the peak of the mountain, not much further to go until she reached the final destination. "Remember, no matter what, you must enter the castle, you must finish the journey no matter the obstacle" this voice sounded a bit different, not quite the voice Emily found familiar, but nonetheless she knew she indeed had to continue, to reach the top. Inside the castle The Morlitor began preparations for Emily. "The human is soon approaching" the voice was otherworldly, reverberating throughout the castle: Alerting The Others. Screeches and Squeels echoed through the many levels of the castle. A frenzy ensued. Each creature, servants of The Morlitor began to flock to the castle entrance. Taking position, each creature cackled and sneered. They had one purpose. Serve their master, ensure the master was fed both spiritually and physically. Emily was the prize, the nourishment their master had been craving for far too long. The rickety door began to shake as the door knob started to turn. Emily's chest rose anxiously. "Keep turning" the voice assured her. The servants, each more terrifying than the last began to snarl and bare their jagged yellowed teeth as they lunged towards Emily the moment she came through the door. Her screams were earth shattering, each sound bottled up by The Morlitor. The searing sounds to be kept for eternity. The servants dragged her by their teeth upwards through the never ending staircases until they reached their master. The Morlitor, pleased with its human prize, rewarded the servants with the flesh of Emily. They gnawed at her cheeks, clawed at her eye sockets and chomped through her bones. Cruching and cackling with each chew. Her body wasn't important, the physical form was just flesh and blood and bones. The Morlitor had no use for this. The soul, the light of the human is where The Morlitor retained its strength. And so, with the essence of a human, The Morlitor could now grow and strengthen to a level that knew no limits.
It's been 92 years. Ninety two years and I have accomplished more than some, less than others and I can't help but think I didn't quite understand the project. I wracked my mind throughout the years trying to grasp the _meaning, the purpose, the point. _Yet here I sit in my brown upholstered recliner, in the home I spent most of my adult years, quilted blanket wrapped around my frail legs and I wonder "Did I ever get this right?". Perhaps the point wasn't about right or wrong after all. Perhaps the point was just to live and to love and to pass each level with a semblance of sanity. I didn't quite get the latter part either. Or, perhaps it was to fulfill the highest of achievements. A famous artist. A brilliant scientist. A scholar. The truth is, as I ponder these questions after completing the majority of my life, I realize it doesn't really matter. Am I welcomed into the afterlife based on awards or prizes? Or will I remain a nothingness in the vast universe. The one thing I have come to realize as I completed each level of my life, I contemplated these questions time and time again and never got the answer. So maybe it's time to stop asking.
"Trust me, if you walked one minute in my shoes you'd want to run as fast as you can" Those words burned into her mind. Etched deep within her amygdala, the most primitive part of the brain, as the screeching alarm bells blared in her mind. Sharon had never experienced such a sensation. It was all encompassing. Crippling. She wiped at her forehead, beads of sweat raining down quicker than she could dry them off. She felt an overwhelming sense of dread but nothing in her environment had changed. She was perfectly safe in her one bedroom condo. The entire building was only accessible to other residents. There was no threat. She was safe. Despite this knowing, she clutched her chest, each breath getting shorter and shorter as her mind raced a hundred thoughts at once. What is this? She screamed. Nobody answered but she remembered the words "you'll want to run as fast as you can" and so she did.
**let me know if the experience that Sharon is feeling is easy to figure out
He comes out at night, after eight to be precise. He's paunchy, middle aged and balding. The suit that adorns his body is creased and raggedy and smells of tobacco smoke. It's December 24th, the snow has been falling all night and Old Saint Nick is hungover. "Nick, we gotta go or we won't make it in time" the high pitched voice of Rudolf, Nick's right hand reindeer pierces through Mr. Clause' alcohol induced headache. Santa lets out a tired groan, his throat crackling from the previous night of cigarettes. "Caaan you guys juust go without meee?"Santa grumbles incoherently. His blood alcohol level still rather high. "Nick, you try and get out of this every year! You know the world looks for you AND your reindeer" Rudolph lets out a long sigh and scratches at his bright red nose. "You really oughta get some help for the drinking, you're a public figure" Santa begrudgingly lifts his out of shape body out of his chair, leaving behind old Dorito crumbs and stacks of porn magazines. "Alright, let's get this over with, I don't know how this holiday is still in style in 2024" Rudolph called out to the other reindeers who were sleeping in the back room. "Prancer, Dancer, go get the sleigh" As the two lesser known Reindeer trotted outside to get all the gifts to attach to the sleigh, something jumped out of a nearby bush towards Prancer. With gun laws having been quite lax in the North Pole for some time, Prancer had been carrying a pistol in his saddle for many years. Quick to startle he grabbed his pistol and aimed towards the bush. Pop, pop, pop. Three consecutive shots. There was silence for a moment and then groaning. Laboured breaths intertwined with gurgling sounds. "What did you do?!" Shouted Dancer, as they both approached the bush. Rudolph, having heard the gunshots ring out came galloping towards his seasonal coworkers. From a distance he could see a trail of blood and two legs with red velvety pants and big brown boots sticking out from the bush. "Shit" he sighed. "Looks like Christmas is cancelled" The three reindeer gathered up Santa's corpse and threw him in the back of the sleigh. "Christmas is never cancelled" exclaimed Dixon, the reindeer nobody remembered existed. He threw more gifts atop the bloated body of the Christmas icon. The reindeer made their way out of the North Pole right in time to deliver all the children's gifts on Christmas Eve.
A bakery, with its freshly baked cakes and pastries. The warmth and sweetness emanating from each window, exiting through the chimney to tickle the noses of everyone who walks by. The aroma, so inviting even the most cynical of humans can't help but feel glimmers of joy. Memories flow through the minds of many as they gather the whiffs of the sugar and dough in to their nostrils. No need for speaking, the olfactory sense as keen as a bloodhound. Silence, the need to feel at ease in one's own mind and in one's surroundings can be a beautiful and serene thing, akin to the smell of a freshly baked birthday cake.
On the other hand, silence can be rancid. It can veer abruptly from replenishing to repugnant. It can induce feelings of panic. It can stir feelings of rage. Blood boiling and hearts racing. Silence can smell like putrid sewage. The kind you experience when close to a garbage truck. Foul. Eye watering. The kind of silence that occurs when someone has said something so hurtful, so wounding that one is void of any words, any response. The type of silence when two people, once in love no longer seek to speak to one another. The animosity cutting through them like knives to fresh from the oven bread. This silence is like inhaling the scent of trash. Suffocating and overwhelming.
Silence can be a beautiful reprieve. Muffins and pies and jubilation. Or it can be a painful reminder of the volatility of this existence. Decaying, revolting refuse. Yin and Yang. Good and Bad. Happy and sad.
I'm not going to regale you with sob stories of how I have so much to live for. I don't. Life has always felt like a burden to me. If I'm being honest, I've thought of taking myself out throughout the years. So, here I am speaking directly to you, a self professed serial killer who has me directly under your control, asking you to reconsider your plan for me. I share your disdain for humans. I don't necessarily desire having them as hostages in abandoned houses, torturing them slowly as you do, but I understand your sentiment. I sympathize with the desire to rid the planet of a species that continues to destroy and consume. I see merit in your cause. I ask you to reconsider your plans for me as I believe if you spare my life I can be a great asset to your endeavours of eliminating more and more people from society. I have often wanted dreamt of living a life like yours. I just never had the grit for it. I envy your courage. For years I have fantasized about doing what you have flawlessly done and continue to do so successfully. I've seen you on the news, I've been mesmerized by your accomplishments. In all honesty, I am honored to be one of your subjects. But, I could assist you in better ways, I can expand your enterprise. I can bring them to you, help you to conceal their whereabouts. People believe me to have a kind nature, I easily blend in and easily blend out. Nobody would suspect me of helping in something most consider so sinister. I _will _be your servant. I'm not simply asking for mercy, for you to keep me alive without a purpose. I propose you allow me to survive if only for the chance to prove my loyalty.
Her body begins to tense, fists clenched. An overwhelming heat consuming her from within. As a volcano bubbles before erupting, she too is close to an explosion of monumental proportions. She bites her tongue, tasting the bitterness of blood as she struggles to contain her mounting anger.
He stands still, behind the brown and white counter with the marble backsplash he despises. His wife, albeit estranged, a woman he once adored glares at him. The piercing glare of her eyes searing his skin. He feels his heart pulsating, beating faster and faster at the thought of his wife's wrath. He inhales a deep breath, his chest rising.
"This is the last time I allow myself to listen to your lies" Hissing and emphasizing the word _lies _at him "Where is it?" She continues, leering at him.
He begins to speak but she cuts him off. "Let me remind you who owns everything. Not you, not your fucking mistress. Me!"
"I don't know what you're talking about" the stuttering voice of her husband declares.
The window in the kitchen is open, the wind picking up as the tension rises between the two. She slams it shut as she walks over to him. Her face scrunched in disdain. "If I don't have the envelope in my hand within five minutes, you know who I'm calling"
His eyes dart around the room. He knows who she will call. It's not worth the risk. "Fine, you really know how to ruin people's lives. One day you'll get yours" raising his voice slightly but in a controlled manner.
Fishing into his pocket clumsily, knowing time is of the essence, he pulls out the envelope. Her eyes widen, eyebrows raised. Her lips pursed, her face visibly enraged but a calmness washing over her as she sees it. As he leans over the counter to hand her the envelope, he grabs a lighter from his pocket. A glimmer of mischief within him.His jaw is tight, his hands trembling. "Do not do anything stupid" she warns him while grabbing her phone. The flick of the lighter was instant and the envelope went up in flames. The smell of chemicals emanating from it. "Nooooo!" Her wails of agony echoing through the kitchen. Trying to put out the flames, she frantically grabs at the package, clawing at it with her fingers. Screeching as each ember detaches on to her skin. She slumps to the floor as the burnt out remnants float to the floor. The intoxicating white powder now black soot. The scent of smoke filling the room. "There, you got your prize" grunts her husband as he walks away for good.
It didn't always feel this good, this necessary. It started out just as a fantasy. I mean, I always thought about how it would feel to be that in control. The feeling of being _in charge _fully of someone's destiny. My hands around a neck, squeezing until the light of their essence dimmed. My heart beating excitedly with each force of strength. Smashing metal to bone, hearing the splitting of a skull as someone pleads for mercy. Tantalizing. It gives me pangs of pleasure that I cannot quite describe. A feeling so euphoric, only a few really understand.
I've known for a while that this was a problem of mine, a dangerous hobby I would have to keep secret. So I did. But keeping secrets is hard. You just want to burst and share with the world: I like to kill people. Problem is, that's taboo in this society. I know there are others _like me, _but we have to keep a low profile. No meet ups or support groups for people killers. We just live our lives in secrecy, either resisting our urges or fulfilling them. Usually a bit of both. We become bank tellers, lawyers, doctors. We work regular jobs and some of us even have families. We assimilate most of the time because we have to in order to survive.
I was in grade two when I first learned humans don't all come with a fascination for the macabre. We're not all wired for murder. I personally thought the black rotted carcass of the cat I brought to show and tell would be a hit! Not so. As I excitedly approached the front of the class, grinning ear to ear with my trophy in hand, the gasps and cries from my classmates rang out. "Johnny Sinclair, what in heavens name are you holding?" yelled my teacher Mrs. Jones. Her wrinkled hands cupped her cheeks, her mouth hung open showcasing her overly yellow teeth. She stared at the cat, the colour disappearing from her skin into a greyish hue. "It's a dead cat" I gleefully exclaimed. At this point the dried blood on its matted fur was pretty evident. The stench of days old death even more apparent. An emergency consultation with a child psychiatrist was booked shortly after that days show and tell.
"Your son displays strong characteristics for sociopathy and psychopathy" the matter of fact words spoken softly to my mother, her hands bunched tightly in fists as she listened. She bit her tongue, causing a small drop of blood to appear. She wiped it away, looking frazzled as her thoughts began to race. Dr. Marshall was a seasoned child psychiatrist, he worked alongside specialists in the field of psychiatry and wrote his thesis on childhood psychopathy and the risk factors that lead to serial homicide. The doctor glanced down at his folder, jotting down notes as he spoke. His gold Rolex watch shimmering from the glare of the window. He looked up, locking eyes with me, then my mom. "Typically, children with these characteristics begin with a fascination with the death of animals" he paused, watching my mothers expression as he continued "We don't fully understand the mechanisms in the brain that lead to this fascination but we have found direct correlations between this behaviour and the potential for more extreme acts down the line. Killing people, I thought to myself. He must be referring to the act of killing people. __ He was bang on, I mean, he did specialize in this kind of disorder of the mind. I had already begun fantasizing about the kills. A real kill, a human being kill. My eyes darted from the doctor to my mom, noticing the discomfort my mom was experiencing. She was nibbling her fingernails to nubs. She always did this when she was nervous. I felt bad that she now knew her son was severely troubled. I wasn't one for empathy, even at that young age..but I could understand that it was difficult for a mother to hear. "I would suggest an intensive program at our boarding school for disturbed children" Dr. Marshall unfolded his legs from under the desk and stood up, a tall man with a looming presence. "My son is not disturbed, he is eight years old and a curious child!" My mother rarely raised her voice. She was a delicate lady, petite and soft spoken. I rarely saw her upset. "Maam" the doctor interrupted. "Don't maam me! My son is a good child and he will not be sent away to some school for fucked up children!" Grabbing my arm, my mom pulled me up from my seat and pointed to the door. "Johnny, go wait outside" she demanded of me, her eyes welling up with tears, her face reddened by her anger. My face outstretched into a wide grin as I looked at the psychiatrist and walked out the door.
Mother and I didn't talk much about that day with the dead cat. We didn't really discuss why we had to move. I knew it had to do with everyone feeling unsettled by me. They all saw the darkness in me. I felt the way they glared at me, judged me. "You're my good boy Johnny, but you have to act more like the others" she told me on the day of our move. She patted my back and kissed me on my forehead. "Don't let the thoughts win" she whispered to me as we headed to our new home.
When we arrived in Maryland from New York, it was quite the shift in our surroundings. New York, with its bustling city life and plumes of haze from pollution was a far away land in comparison to rural Maryland. The majority was farmland, with mom and pop stores and small family businesses that had been around for generations. Mom and I liked it. It had small town vibes and was a much deserved change. I knew I'd have to try and be like other kids my age and for the next few years it worked. In fact, I managed to make some friends and suppress my urges, atleast until high school began.
Maybe it was the hormones, with their excessive surges of testosterone. Or perhaps it was the change in dynamic of starting at a new school. The moment I entered St. Joseph's High School it's like something within me reemerged, something that had been dormant for many years. The darkness. Each night after school I pull out my journal and write:
"Dont let the thoughts win" mom told me when we first left New York. But, why not? I held them in for this long and if I'm being true to myself, I don't want to pretend anymore" I scribbled frantically in my journal, feeling a rush of tension as my pen wrote out each letter._ I need a release, I need a fix"_ __ __ Every night I fight with my urges. I lay in bed each night, the sound of the wind twirling outside my window. I dream of the girl in my science class. The popular girl with the wavy blond hair who had a voice that grated on my nerves. A twang so bothersome I didn't know how anyone tolerated her. I long to destroy her. I imagine myself grabbing her mound of hair from behind. Startling her to the point she freezes in fear. I wrap a dark black blind fold over her eyes. She tenses as she feels the fabric tighten against her eyes. She screams, the terror echoing through the night. I cover her mouth with my trembling hand, muffling the sound of her cries. _This feels right, I _think to myself in the midst of my fantasy. I drag her to a wooded area where I finally get to fulfill my desire. I grip her neck firmly with both of my hands. Her skin is clammy with sweat, her heart pounding so strongly I can feel it through my fingers. She starts to kick furiously at me. Her legs scissoring at me at a frantic speed. "Fuck" I grunt, as she kicks me hard enough to knock me off balance. I stumble backwards and trip over a rock lodged in the dirt. She pushes her hands into the ground, gaining her balance to try and run. My adrenaline rises, the energy propelling me forward to grab her as she tries to escape. She's breathing hard, loud gasps escaping her mouth. I can taste her fear, it fuels me. Each breath of her terror , laced with pheromones that ignite the desire deep in my soul. I catch her, pulling her towards me as she shrieks with despair. Strands of her hair threading through my fists as I pull her head towards my face. "Shouldn't have wasted all your energy" I mutter into her ear. She writhes in my grip, whimpering as she realizes her fate is in my hands. Literally. I twist my knife into her back, feeling the rush of blood drip from under her shirt and onto my hand still gripping the knife. She gags as the blood bubbles into her throat. Her body releases as I let go of my grip. Her blood staining my palm. Slowly, her body slumps down to the ground. I kneel down and peer into her face, staring deep into her eyes as the life fizzles out. I know it's twisted that I want my face to be the last one she ever sees. But, that's part of the power. I open my eyes, expecting to see my blue bedroom wall, posters of hard rock bands glued to one another. But, I'm outside. I'm in the woods. I seemed to have lost touch with fantasy vs reality. My hands, covered in blonde strands of hair and dried crusted blood. I looked down at my shirt, it was ripped. She had pulled it desperately when she tried to escape. There, next to the tree lay her body. She had shifted slightly to the right. Her limp body still in the dirt. The knife still twisted in her spine. "Is this real?" I asked myself. "Sure as fuck looks it" I replied back. The lines of fantasy and reality were now blurred and I was conversing with myself. My fantasy now a reality I couldn't escape.
Striking. Their eyes, glaring at me with an insatiable appetite. There were three of them as far as I could tell. Glorious, wild beasts of the woods. Fur as silky white as a fresh snow fall. They stood frozen, attention up ahead, looking for their next meal. Any movement on my part and I would be their next reward. I slowly shuffled my feet backwards, lifting each leg cautiously through the fall leaves that had fallen. I crouched down behind a half rotten log to remain hidden while I watched. The beady eyes of the beautiful canids continued to scour their surroundings for danger and for food. Suddenly their ears perked up, like satellite dishes readjusting. They'd heard something, and so had I. My heart begin to speed up. Pumping the blood through my veins in a hurried manner. A hunt was close. I didn't want to see an attack but this was a moment that felt exhilarating. It was magnificent, standing probably six feet tall. Dark coarse fur covering its statuesque body. Legs, long muscular legs. A moose on its own is a powerful creature, but against a family of canines, it may have its work cut out for it. Predator meet Prey. Let the chase begin. The wolves move quickly, leaping through the bush, eager for their prize. Yelping with each movement as if demanding their prize make it easy. The moose, in its glory, moves even quicker. Lurching through the trees, deep within the forest. Propelled by its instinctual need to flee, to survive. In its panicked fleeing, it fails to notice another wolf, one seperate from the three in the pack. The lone wolf latches on to its calf. A guttural groan escapes it as it trips and falls. The other three wolves are now approaching, stalking in perfect precision. I close my eyes, holding my eyelids tight as the sight of a kill is more than they can handle. Screams. Howls. Yelps. Nature has fed the wolves of the night.
The room was forgotten, desolate. There was a window that had been boarded up, allowing not a shred of light to pass through. The musky odour wafted like a grey fog through the vents, its pungent odour an insult to any human nostril. As the door began to creak open, a sickly black cat meowed frantically and ran out. Edging forward, she thought to herself if she should really go there again. Into that place. That room. Dizzy, she stumbled towards a dilapidated wall and took a deep breath. She was getting the spins again, her body wanting to shut down, avoid feeling at all costs. The room started to move around her, she hunched over to keep from passing out. Calm down Liz, she coached herself. One breath. Two breaths. Inhaling slowly, cautiously. Exhaling, 3...2...1. Repeat. She stood back up, nervously pulling at her shirt. Liz was always on the anxious side, in a rotating state of unease. This was different, this was where it all began.
It started when she was fifteen. A Junior at Williams Myers high school, Liz was a reserved girl. She was kind and soft spoken, well liked by those around her. Her eyes bore the pain of a life filled with dysfunction and chaos. A brunette, she wore her hair long and reckless, barely running a brush through it most days. Her skin was pasty white like a cotton ball. Smooth with not a trace of a pimple. Her mind was an elaborate map of analyzing and coping while trying to be a normal girl.
Carla befriended Liz, despite there being no obvious commonalities. They clicked in an unconventional way, especially for high school. They quickly became close.
"Liz, let's go check out the building over by Warner street later. Chris will bring some booze, you could use some time here on Earth". Carla's loud booming voice rattled Liz out of her daydreaming. Carla was the opposite of Liz. She had a large presence socially, she was considered popular. Her long curly hair always sat on top of her head in a bun, thick black scrunchie surrounding it. She was opinionated and rarely held back, a sarcastic sense of humour her forte. "Yeah I guess I can come for a bit" Liz answered. She never liked the building on Warner. It was a tear down, slated for construction of a bunch of high rise condominiums in the next five years. It gave her the chills, she didn't know why. "I wouldn't mind a drink" Liz said, agreeing to check out the building.
The two girls made their way to the building. Warner Street was a crime riddled area of town. It was well known for drug dealers, the opioid crisis was rampant and garnered millions of dollars in corrupt crime money. Cigarette butts littered the sidewalks. The air was heavy with pollution and had an overpowering stench of trash that had long been neglected by the city workers. "Walk quick, don't look at anyone" Carla reminded Liz. With her head always in the clouds, she sometimes would be caught staring despite not really being aware. Monkey mind.
Carla knew a shortcut that helped them avoid the heaviest concentration of the homeless. The homeless were known to get violent during their drug induced rages. Carla and Liz were young but they weren't morons. They knew they were vulnerable but also had that teenage sense of invisibility. Carla had a fishing knife in the waistband of her tight blue leggings. She'd never used a knife before but wasn't afraid to learn. "It's over there, Chris will be by in twenty" Carla pointed to a large brick building. Twelve stories high. They entered through the back door that lead to the stairwell. The paint of the railing chipped in most areas, rust settling in. Carla breezed up the stairs, the adrenaline propelling her, she was three flights ahead of Liz. "Let's go, move faster!" she shouted to Liz. A dark foreboding suddenly enveloped Liz. Goosebumps covered her arms as the tiny blonde arm hairs stood at attention. Her brain sent othe stress signals charging through her within seconds. She shivered as if a cold fierce wind had just blown through her. It was sudden, almost a premonition but she ignored it, despite everything inside her warning her to run. "Coming" she shouted, her voice echoing through the eerie cob webbed stairwell.
As Liz approached the door, she heard a scream. It was Carla. The echo of the scream carried through the building. Blood curdling. Glass shattering. The screams you hear in cheesey horror movies. Liz pushed her way inside, breathe in, breathe out. She inched her way inside, cautiously peering around the room. "Carla..." Liz whispered, terrified of what she may hear. The floors were creaking with every hesitant step she took. The building hadn't been maintained and likely would fail any safety standards. Liz knew the feeling of a racing heartbeat well, she was used to a subtle state of fear. This was way over the threshold. Her heart thumped vigorously as her mind raced relentlessly. One breath. Two breaths. __ __ There she was, feet dangling. The blood trickling from her torso. Carla's mouth was hanging open. Her eyes, once wide with wonder now were wide with a look of unimaginable terror. The last moment of her life was so terror striken, so bone chilling that her gasps would reverberate for decades to come.
The floors began to move, they spiraled and crashed furiously, a sickly warmth rushing over Liz as her mind failed to grasp what she was witnessing. It's happening again... __ The whites of her eyes rolled back, she could feel the high pitched siren ringing in her ears, penetrating her body. She resisted, trying to will herself to not follow the familiar pattern. The same pattern that lead her to Ward #4. It was too late.
"You must be Liz's mother. Please have a seat" Eleanor Slattery had aged gracefully, a youthful complexion, with dark red curls that hugged the silhouette of her face. She had put on some weight over the years but carried it well. She took a seat on the faded, brown, upholstered chair. "How did you find her?" Mrs. Slattery had a soft voice that was riddled with concern but also a knowing that this wasn't the first time. The Doctor leaned forward, his file folder open with a bright red stamp on the front. "Involuntary Hold, Ward #4" __ _"_Your daughter seems to have had another episode" began the doctor, his tone was monotone--he said that sentence pretty regularly in his line of work, and had become desensitized to the emotions of it all. We have again admitted her to the ward for further observation. It appears she created another murder in the depths of her imagination. She believes she stabbed her friend Carla mercilessly at a building on Warner St. Problem is, there is no building on Warner St. A concerned passerby found her alone under one of the overpasses on Hwy 90. "Who is Carla?" The doctor asked in a more interested manner than his previous question. Mrs Slattery sighed, pausing to think of how best to respond. "My daughter is Carla"
__ __