Young Writers Society

(A/N This is pretty long, but I didn't want to post it as separate chapters because I'm not sure if it's going to be a novel or just a short story. Also, I am aware how many times 'the inhabitant' and 'Dahlia Ashwell' are repeated. It was done on purpose I guess, oops)

1. 

The cell was white and bare, much like it's inhabitant. The walls were decorated by long scratches flecked with blood, inflicted by nails that had been dragged across the thick plaster in attempt to cure the boredom that was so apparent in the emptiness of the square room. Sometimes, the inhabitant of the cell would have nothing to do except sing at the top of their lungs for hours upon hours until their voice ran dry and hoarse like a little spring in the summer after days of endless heat. The inhabitant knew the singing got on the nerves of the guards, who had to stand and listen to it twenty-four-seven, and also knew they couldn't do anything about it.

The guards that stood outside the cell had been the ones who came and took away all of the inhabitants books and drawings after they refused to comply with any of the treatment offered. The head of the Psychiatric Hospital had hoped to write another best-selling book about one of his captive 'Psychopaths' but this inhabitant was dead set against it. Perhaps it was because they didn't want to be any more in the limelight than they already had, but it was most likely just because they heated the head of the hospital and liked to see him squirm.

It had been the head of the hospital, in fact, that penned the tabloid name for this inhabitant- the name that the inhabitant hated so much. Every newspaper article was printed with BONETAKER in large block capitals across the top of it and the BONETAKER spent hours tearing the titles off each paper they had collected over the span of their reign.

BONETAKER hated the name because it implied that they killed purely to take bones, but that wasn't it. The bones were just an added little touch to terrify the audience even more. BONETAKER preferred her real name, which was Dahlia Ashwell and was nowhere near as catchy or as 'scary' as BONETAKER.

Dahlia Ashwell thought of the world as her audience, though an unsuspecting one most of the time. They watched as she performed her part in the 'show' and reacted to the twists and turns of each episode. Despite hating the BONETAKER name, she couldn't help but smile every time she saw the papers in the shop on the corner. Of course, now she relied on the head of the hospital to bring her censored versions of the newspapers. They no longer allowed her to look at any pictures of victims or their families, which had pissed her off for a while until she realised she had the memories of the events in her head. And the memories would always be better than any shitty photographs taken by the reporters who told her story.

Today, Dahlia was singing to herself again, staring down at the bloody remains of her finger tips. 'They're coming to take me away, ha ha, they're COMING TO TAKE ME AWAY HE HE' echoed down the long stretch of empty corridor and the guards groaned as they glanced at each other. Last time she sang this specific song, it lasted for just short of a whole day. It ended when a nurse tried to get her to eat something and she bit the nurse's hand, leaving the poor woman several tooth marked scars, and Dahlia with what was essentially a muzzle for the next few days.

The singing wasn't awful, one guard had once remarked to the other, it's just repetitive. The other guard agreed, then they went back to ignoring each other. They often struggled to find things to talk about, resorting to just staring down at their phones most of the times, earphones in, attempting to drown out the singing.

Head of Hospital, Doctor Sean McGuire, was able to watch Dahlia Ashwell through the security camera's in her cell whenever he wanted, and on this day he sat making notes on her behaviour. He desperately wanted to write that book, get his share of money. 'DISECTING VINCENT GREEN' by Doctor Michael Hanley sat on his shelf and he carefully removed it, holding the heavy hardback in his weirdly small hands. This book was somewhat of a bible to him; Dr Hanley had been able to capitalise Vincent Green's crimes and make himself a profit out of a tragedy. It was a despicable act, and that's why Dr McGuire admired him so much. However, Dr McGuire felt as though Dr Hanley's act was somewhat worse than his own ideas for a book, since Vincent Green was a severely mentally ill schizophrenic who was coerced into murder by his young and also schizophrenic friend. They both believed several demons were after them. Dahlia Ashwell had no motive for her crimes, that they could find, and seemed mentally stable.

His own book was half way done, already having covered each crime and his first few psychological profiles of the killer. But what it really needed was interviews with the BONETAKER herself. An insight into the mind of 'Britain's youngest serial killer' that no one else would have except him. Dahlia Ashwell had not only refused to talk to Dr McGuire at all, but everyone else as well. She talked to no one except herself and sometimes the guards; nothing of importance to Dr McGuire.

Dahlia Ashwell was either going to be the making or breaking of Dr McGuire, and he prayed that it wasn't going to be the latter. He had proclaimed in many interviews that he 'had a certain understanding of the girl' but that had been a lie. Most of what he had said in interviews about Dahlia Ashwell were lies.

The thing that pissed him off the most about the girl: he wasn't able to diagnose her with anything. At seventeen years old, she was too young to have anti-social personality disorder, and since psychopath and sociopath were words no-one had used in the psychiatric field for decades, they were out of the question. In his opinion, she was just absolutely mental, but was determined to find something to label her as to make himself look better. He was still recovering from the consequences of that last patient he'd try to exploit for one of his attempts at a book. Shuddering at the mere thought of not being able capitalise Dahlia Ashwell's murders, Dr McGuire turned his attention back to the girl in the cell.

She was still singing, but was now laying on her back staring straight up at one of the many camera's that Dr McGuire had installed without permission form her lawyers or family. No one knew about these camera's save for himself and his trusted assistant Janet. But somehow he got the feeling that Dahlia Ashwell knew. It fell silent for a moment and then the girl shouted directly to the man who had been illegally recording her everyday. (Oh yes, he had been keeping the tapes and stashing them in a locked crate in his vault- the same vault he kept memorabilia, of sorts, from the many infamous murderers that had stayed at the hospital)

“I'LL GIVE YOU AN INTERVIEW IF YOU GIVE ME MY THINGS BACK.”

Dr McGuire was shocked for a moment and then smiled to himself smugly. It seemed as though the boredom had finally gnawed her down to the bone. Boredom was the worst kind of torture for people like her, and Dr McGuire was surprised she'd lasted this long.

“IN CASE YOU DIDN'T HEAR, I SAID I'LL GIVE YOU AN INTERVIEW IF YOU GIVE ME MY THINGS BACK.”

Her tone as calm, as if this was a normal conversation. Though, thought Dr McGuire, what is normal when you're in a hospital full of nutcases.

“IF YOU DON'T GIVE ME MY BOOKS BACK I'LL TELL EVERYONE HOW YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING ME.”

2.

Janet received an urgent phone call from Dr McGuire, despite his office being right next to the reception desk where she sat day after day, doing whatever he told her to. His voice was unusually excited and he commanded her to go to the storage rooms and retrieve Dahlia Ashwell's things. Those 'things' included many, many books, piles of drawings and DVD's that she wasn't even allowed to watch, but insisted on having with her. She was the only patient who was allowed that much in her cell, which was due to her having an extremely good lawyer just a few calls away.

The storage room was in the basement, and it was where anything belonging to past or present patients was held after it had been confiscated. Janet had always found it a little unsettling- Dr McGuire had insisted on hanging up all the drawings and paintings done by inmates in either their cells with crayons and chalk or in heavily supervised 'art classes' that were designed to let the patients 'show their inner thoughts and feelings.' Mostly, the pictures were of sexual acts of violent fantasies.

Dahlia Ashwell's drawings are different, and as Janet entered the room after exiting the lift, she could spot them hanging from the wall. Little A5 pieces of paper framed by Dr McGuire himself, because he thought that one day they might make him a fortune one day. They weren't master pieces, but Janet could see the passion behind them. There was one that always caught her off guard and she stood staring right into the eyes of a crying little girl stood in the middle of a busy room. It was beautiful, but Janet could never quite work out why. Perhaps that was why she was a receptionist and personal assistant in a psychiatric hospital rather than an art critic.

She retrieved the box of belongings, piling the paintings on top of it before quickly getting out of the room. It always gave her a weird feeling. All those boxes of things that used to belong to murderers and psychopaths and even the one cannibal who ate his girlfriend's heart for lunch. Dr McGuire was proud of having treated that man, despite him committing suicide by drowning himself in the cell toilet before the doctor could write a book about him.

The hospital corridors were as white and clean as the cells and Janet struggled with Dahlia Ashwell's box of books. She wasn't a particularly strong woman but hated to ask any of them men here for help because they were so patronising to her. 'You shouldn't work here, it's too dangerous and upsetting for a woman' was a phrase she heard almost daily. Sometimes it was extremely upsetting, having to file paperwork that detailed gruesome murders that these people had committed, or having to sit and watch as new patients were brought in, straight jackets and masks used as a precaution to restrain them from the possibility of harming someone else.

Janet remembered the day they brought Dahlia Ashwell in, almost 8 months ago now. She was still relatively new to the job at the time and no one had told her what was going on. They brought the girl in through the front doors, right in front of Janet's desk. She remembered watching as huge guards pulled this no taller than 5”2 girl through the doors, and as the news reporters outside yelled and flashed their camera's. The girl had on the usual straight jacket but the mask forced her mouth completely shut rather than just preventing her from biting anyone. As the guards passed the desk, the girl winked at Janet behind thick rimmed round glasses. She never would have guessed that she was the BONETAKER from her appearance and she almost didn't believe Dr McGuire when he boasted about finally having caught her. Though, of course, he hadn't been the one to catch her himself.

The memory of that single wink made Janet shudder as she approached the doors that lead to Dahlia Ashwell's cell. She always stayed as far away from there as she could because there was just something about a young girl that had murdered people that disturbed her more than any of the men behind bars that she passed each day.

Dr McGuire was already in the room that held Dahlia Ashwell's cell, separating her from the other patients in the hospital. He turned to face Janet as the guards let her, and smiled gratefully.

“Thank you Janet, it's much appreciated.”

Dahlia herself piped up, stepping as close to the bars as she could get “Yes, thank you Janet. It's been a long while, hasn't it?”

Janet placed the box down, allowing her muscles some rest. The girl behind the bars stuck her hand out between two of the long metal poles and pointed to one of the framed pictures on top of the box.

“Don't suppose you could pass that one to me? I've missed it a little.” Dahlia kept her arm outstretched between the bars, palm up. Janet, nervous still and not really thinking right, picked up the picture and reached out towards Dahlia. Dr McGuire grabbed her wrist with his small hands.

“Probably best not to give her a pane of glass, Janet.”

The doctor took the picture from his assistant and slipped the paper out of the frame before handing it back to Janet. She didn't see why he couldn't just give it to her, as Janet was so obviously frightened of this girl. Dr McGuire was just amazed that Dahlia was finally talking after eight months of refusing, and wanted to stand back and watch her for a while. Though, of course, that's what he'd been doing for months now.

As Janet handed the picture over, keeping her distance, Dahlia slid her fingers over the soft skin of the assistant. Her fingers were rough and scabby, dried blood coating what was left of her finger nails. These were the same fingers that clutched the knife that slashed at the victims. These were the fingers that tore off pieces of flesh, fingers that were once covered in the blood of innocent people. Janet felt sick just being near the girl, and as she let her gaze trail up from her hands to her face she found herself staring straight into eyes so cold they made her shiver. For just a moment, it felt like she was staring straight into evil itself.

Finally, she recoiled, pulling her hand away with a ferocity that made Dahlia laugh as she placed the painting on the floor and slipped her hands into the pockets of the jumpsuit that was slightly too big for her.

“Trying for a baby, Janet?”

The assistant looked pleadingly at Dr McGuire, but he was too busy noting this all down to really care about Janet. Disgusted, she practically flew out of the room and found herself scrubbing her hands clean in the staff toilets. She had no idea how the girl could know something like that from a touch, and it scared her. As she rinsed her hands under the tap she realised her engagement ring was missing, leaving a green circle round her finger. Cheap fuck, she thought of her fiancée, he'd said it was real silver. Too busy being distracted by anger towards her soon to be other half that she didn't give a second thought to where the ring could have gone.

“You ought to get a more talkative assistant, Sean, that one's no fun,” Dahlia turned her attention to the doctor who had apparently been 'treating' her. He looked up fro the notes he had been taking “Are you going to give me the rest of my things?”

“Only if I can ask you something first?” The doctor phrased it as a question but Dahlia knew she didn't really have a choice.

She sighed “Sure, fire away.”

Dr McGuire took a step forward, so he was almost face to face with his somewhat prisoner and let a smirk escape across his ageing his face “Why did you kill?”

This made Dahlia laugh again and she pressed her face against the bars, feeling the smooth metal against her cheeks as her glasses clinked at the touch “That's what you want to know, is it? Because you want to help me like you say you do or because you want to write a book and get famous? How many other patients have you filmed illegally, Sean? Or am I just very special. Do you like to make young girls feel special, Sean?”

She watched as Dr McGuire squirmed in his expensive blazer “Answer and I'll give you back your things, Dahlia. I can see the emptiness is getting to you.” He gestured to the bloody scratches on the wall “It's like torture to you, isn't it?”

Dahlia laughed. Dr McGuire seemed both so sure of himself and so insecure at the same time. For a moment, she considered just messing with him- it might not get her things back but it would be funny. But no, she decided, she would answer him. Seriously and truthfully. Because he was right, it was torture to her. She would take physical pain over boredom, any day.

“Okay. You want to know why I kill?” She beckoned Dr McGuire closer to her, and he crossed the floor without a second thought, his footsteps echoing like the years that he had lost studying his patients to no avail. He was so desperate for something, anything, that would get him his book deal that the potential danger that came with being so close to Dahlia never struck him. The girl placed her face in between the bars, having to stand on her toes to reach his height. They looked at each other, face to face, eye to eye and neither felt anything but exhilaration.

“I kill because God does.” It came out in a whisper, yet it felt to Dr McGuire as though she'd just spat the words out into his face. He blinked, and then took a step back.

“I didn't take you for much of a Christian, Dahlia.” He sounded almost disgusted, but was secretly extremely pleased at her choice of words. They would look just great on the cover of his book. In fact, that should be the title, he thought.

Dahlia let a smile spread wide across her face “Killing must feel good to God too, right? He does it all the time.”

Dr McGuire's face fell a little “You're just quoting Hannibal Lecter now aren't you.” He didn't phrase it like a question. He knew. In her box of things that sat next to him was the complete Hannibal Lecter series. Perhaps he could write about that- a fictional cannibal made her kill. Maybe that would be the selling point “You were serious about the first bit, weren't you?”

Removing herself from the bars, Dahlia shrugged “Do you believe in God, Sean?”

“If I answer that will you answer my question seriously?” He was beginning to get impatient. This book was not going to write itself and he desperately needed at least some exclusive statements from the BONETAKER herself, or it would never sell. She nodded.

“Yes, I believe in God. I go to church with my wife every Sunday.”

This answer seemed to satisfy Dahlia, and she grabbed hold of the bars, swinging herself back and forth, obviously getting more and more bored by the second “I kill- and you can put this in your bloody book, Sean- because it puts me in control. I see myself as being above others. All these little people with their silly little priorities that don't matter- they walk this Earth like they own it, or deserve it. They don't. I don't think any of them do – are you writing this down? Sometimes I just felt like I was cleaning up messes I didn't make. You know who I killed, but did you really know who? Because I did, and- oh Sean, I think there's someone at the door.”

Dr McGuire twisted his head round, ready to tell whoever was standing there to leave. Dahlia was finally talking, he didn't need any interruptions.

Standing at the door, his face peering through the glass, was a man whom Dr McGuire instantly recognised. The scar on his cheek was unforgettable, stark white against his dark skin. Dahlia couldn't see who it was from where she was stood, but she was intrigued. How often did she get visitors that weren't announced first?

The man pushed the door open and stepped inside of the room.