Young Writers Society

I sit alone on my front porch. It’s raining. I can hear the hard pitter-patter of raindrops on my rusted awning. The memories of the people that I’ve killed haunt my eyes, almost like they’re on television screens, replaying their gruesome murderes like some late night horror flick. The sounds of their screams run through my head like a wildfire, destroying everything in it’s path. They’re almost like one nuclear bomb, taking everything out with one big boom. They cycle, on and on. I can’t stop them.. I simply can’t.

That doesn’t mean that I don’t mind them, though. Sometimes when I’m alone, it helps to hear their screams. It helps to know that I’m not alone in this miserable world. It fills me up to hear their voices in my head. It doesn’t make me feel so solitary.

I sit up from my chair and grab the door handle. I take a minute to breathe and I enter my house. I let my soaking-wet feet step on the tiled floor, guiding me into the bathroom. I catch sight of myself in the spider-cracked mirror. I see the three scarred over claw marks across my left eye. Or was it my right? Oh, who knows with mirrors these days. Those scars. I can remember the first day I got them.

Lauren Robbinson. A name that didn’t do her justice. She was the ideal bride. Beautiful, fair-skinned and blonde, with a long, heavy dress that was looked almost impossible to walk in. She did, though, run for quite a while after her poor groom left her at the alter to cry and boo-hoo in front of her loved ones. I saw the whole thing.

She cried and cried for what seemed like hours until she stormed out of the church. She ran a few blocks before I caught up to her. I felt so bad for her. The love of her life left her and she was all alone.

I knocked her out easily. A konk on the head was all it took. I carried her between a few alleys, and she was home with me. When she woke, no matter of binding could hold her. Even with that ridiculous dress on, she fought through her bindings and managed to get passed me long enough to make it to the door. I grabbed her by her veil. She scratched me across the face, successfully breaking the skin.

“That wasn’ t nice!” I spat at her, throwing her back into the chair that she had gotten up from. She tried to fight me, but I managed to tie her back with some handcuffs. I stepped back to wipe the gashes on my face. Damn brides and their manicurists. What in the hell did they put in those nails? Razor blades?

I heard the sound of struggling and I instantly knew what she was trying. She wanted to stand by picking up the chair. That wouldn’t work, though. I smiled menacingly because I knew that I was already sixteen steps ahead of her.

“It’s bolted down, sweetheart!” I turned around anid wiped off my knife with disinfectant. Didn’t want to catch any diseases from any past uses, now did I? I stepped forward, watching her struggle.

“Just do it already!” she screamed at me. “You’re going to do it anyway, so why not just get it over with!” I laughed to myself and continued walking forward slowly.

“Because, pumpkin,” I said. “If I just ran at you, it wouldn’t be as dramatic or meaningful. What’s life without a little drawn out...” Just then, I ran at her. I stabbed my knife into her throat. “Surprise!” She tried to scream, but that just made her bleed more. I laughed maniacally and stepped back, leaving the knife in her throat. I danced in circles, rejoicing in another successful kill.

With only seconds left, I could hear her struggle. I turned around to see her convulsing in the chair. I laughed. Even as she’s about to die, she’s stil fighting. Such strength, such bravery. Such stupidity.

“Ooh,” I said to her. “You’ve got a little something.. uhh..” I pointed to her throat, where blood was rushing out crazily from. “Don’t worry. It’s not that noticable.” I ripped the knife from her throat, making blood gush out like a waterfall. I laughed and watched her die, slowly, just to be sure. When her heart officially stopped, I unlocked the handcuffs and dragged her to the back of the room.

I opened the curtain revealing an elevator shaft, one of my own design. It was thirty feet deep, and only a ten feet wide. At the bottom was a concrete floor, with a sheet of metal on top. I laughed and tossed her into the shaft.

“By the way,” I yelled down to to her as she fell the first few feet. “Be careful not to land on your-” With a splat, I take a gulp and laugh. “head.”

I washed my face and gave myself a smile through the mirror. The spider cracks make my face stretch to all parts of the mirror. My smile is expanded immensely, making me chuckle. Oh, how I adore mirror tricks. It takes something so seemingly normal and makes it so...abstract.

I dry my hands off and walk out of the bathroom. It’s down a hallway to my basement door. Beside the door is a closet. I open it to see only two items. A long, black leather trenchcoat and a pair of leather boots. I slide the boots on an pause for a minute before putting the trenchoat on. It can get a little chilly downstairs. I keep it that way. We don’t want flies finding their way to the meat, now do we?

I walk down the stairs softly, letting myself hear the intricate pats of my boots against the cement steps. There’s a door at the end of the staircase. When I reach the door, I pull a silver key from one of the pockets in the trenchoat and open it. I shut the door behind me and make sure to lock it. I walk down a few hallways. There aren’t any other rooms down here except one, but I have the hallways just to get that labrynth factor. It’s not that elaborate, but you can get confused easily if you don’t know where you’re going. Luckily, I know exactly where I’m going.

I reach another door. This time, it’s a metal door, with an electronic padlock on the handle. It’s like a physical padlock, but more science-y and will lock after I shut the door again. I put in my code easily. 24-24-24 The code changes every year, going up with every coming of my birthday. It’s a lovely way of remembering my age.

The door creaks and I can start to hear some sound. The room only inches away is completely sound proof for obvious reasons. I wouldn’t want anyone hearing my friends play, would I? Of course not. It makes it all the more fun that it’s just my friends and I here. This is our place. This is our playroom.

I open the door, take two steps inside, and then shut it behind me. It seals and I hear the click of the lock returning. I can now hear the voices in full. Screams fill my ears and I feel a sort of full-feeling in my gut. I turn to look at my friends.

They’re beautiful. All twenty-four of them. They’re lined up in a grid, in six rows of four, bound to metal chairs by their hands and feet. Black silk blindfolds cover their eyes. I can hear them screaming and it eases my muscles. It makes my body calm.

“Greeting ladies and gentlemen.” my tone is relaxed; laid back. The cries get a little quieter, some becoming completely silent. I walk over to my “workstation”. Blades line the wall, all shapes and sizes. These. These are my real friends; my real babies. I take one of the longer ones off of the shelf and caress it in my hand.

“Do you want to play with the others?” I ask the blade as I stroke it. I know that it can’t talk, but I like to think that the screech that it makes as I drag it across the floor - the sound of metal and metal pressing together - is just one elongated yesssssss. I respond with a nod and I step forward to look at my first victim. Just as I’m about to rip the blindfold off, I stop. No. No, no. It’s my birthday. I can have more fun than just a quick cut. What’s life without a little entertainment?

“I can’t believe you all could make it!” I yell, joy in my voice. I run over to the nearest person and pull off the blindfold. “Angie,” I say. “So good to see you!” I move onto the next person. “Jeffrey! How’s the Mrs.?” I repeat the cycle, person after person; looking deep into their eyes, taking in their fear. After I’ve uncovered the last one, I run back up to the front, knife flailing in my hand.

They have all gone quiet, almost like their tounges have been ripped out. Not yet, anyway.

“Do any of you like music?” I run up to one of my prisoners, whose name I know to be Norman. Norman Arnorld. “You like music,” I say. “Don’t you Normy?” I cup his jaw in my hand and sway it around a little. He starts to scream, but I smack him across the face. “Keep it together, Normy!”

I let him go and take a dramatic spin, prancing back to my previous spot. I smile menacingly. Here. We. Go.

“I do believe it’s time to cut the cake.” I hear a few gasps. “But we can’t do that without a song. C’mon. Sing with me.” I start slow.

“Haaaappy birrrthday toooo me...” I sing, closing my eyes. “Haaappy birrrthday tooo me.” I step forward swaying my knife around. “Haaappy birthday dear Normy!” I point the knife at his throat. “Haappy birrrthdayy toooooooo-” I slice it against his throat and my voice goes menacing. “Me.”

Screams and cries echo the room as I take another swing, successfully decapitating little old Normy. Well, he wasn’t that old - or little for that matter - but still. I hold his head in my hand by the hair and wave it around.

“I got the pinjata!” I scream as I continue to wave the severed head like a flag in the middle of a parade. “Who wants the first-” I throw it directly at the woman sitting directly next to the now headless Norman Arnold. “Smack!” She screams and take in a breath of delight. I give her the most sinister look and then take the knife to her eyes. I pluck them from their sockets; first the left, then on to the right. They fall onto the floor like the little grapes at the end of the vine. Never do stay in the package, do they?

I move on to the next and I realize her age. She’s youthful; around the age of 17. Just a wee baby, isn’t she? I don’t give a sign of caring because I simply don’t. She’s my birthday present. Well, one of them, but that isn’t the point. She’s going to die and I’m going to have fun with it. I give her a smile and stroke her blonde hair.

“Happy birthday.” I whisper as I cut her throat, simple and quick. Something is getting so tiring about having this quantity of victims. It’s so much.. work. Not that I’m not having the absolute time of my life because I am, but c’mon now. Can you imagine the mess that I’m going to have to clean up. I roll my eyes and grab the two female’s bodies. I drag them to my elevator shaft and prop them against the door.

I hum as I skip over to Normy’s corpse and drag him over to the shaft as well. I look around for something fun to play with. I’ve already had too much fun with the blades, so I look away from them. I still have yet to buy any firearms, so put an ‘x’ on that. What to do? What to do?

“Help me!” a middle aged gentleman says from the middle of the array. I roll my eyes and walk over to him. I nudge a few of my party guests and tap him on the shoulder from behind. He yelps. I giggle. Oh, he’s going to be a riot!

“Excuse me, sir?” I ask, trying to respect my elders. He’s balding, with crow’s feet and a track suit on. It’s pathetic. I can’t wait to dispose of this jackass. I walk around him so he can see me better. When I know I have his full attention, I speak. “I know the party games aren’t that festive, but you’re being a little loud.” I grab his chin, shaking it roughly. “Just because you’re a party pooper doesn’t mean that you have to ruin everyone else’s time!”

"Why are you doing this?” he asks, frantic. I roll my eyes. Was this ibisol even listening to the words that have been pouring from my yapper? Seriously. People these days. Can’t have a party without a few poopers to ruin your fun, right?

“Let me tell you a little story, Mr-”

“Lewis,” he replies, fear ripping from his tongue. “P-P-Patrick Lewis.”

“Okay, Patty,” I start, continuously rolling my eyes. “Let’s wind back the clocks to my childhood. Good times, good times.” I grab one of the now empty chairs and sit in it. “My mother was a drunk, and my father, well, he worked a lot with the secretary in his office late at night, so family wasn’t the main label on our trio.” I rest my elbow on the chair and my chin on my fist.

“One night,” I continue. “It’s my birthday. Mom doesn’t care because she’s too tipped on the sauce, and dad’s just getting home, so we don’t have a celebration. I yell and yell because the kids at school all had birthday parties. I wanted one, you see.” I play with my hair a little as I speak. “Mommy ignores me and goes to bed, and dad just watches television in the living room.” I wipe my eyes, alluding tears. I’m not really crying, but just to add a little “pah-zazz”, might as well give the story a little flare. “Mommy doesn’t want to hear the television’s loud volume,” I say. “She comes down the stairs and messily shuts it off - messily being an understatement - sucessfully starting an argument with Daddy.” I stand up, moving the chair over a little bit.

“Daddy fights Mommy,” I snap, making fist movements. “I watch him hit her, and when he finally gets the tic-tacs to grab a knife, I understand something. Can you guess what that is, peanut gallery?” I look to the others. They don’t respond. “He enjoys hurting her. He enjoys causing pain. It’s like a drug to him.” I roll my eyes as I get no reaction from Patrick. “To save you all the meaningless bullshit that is the criminal justice system,” I say. “I’ll sum it up for you. Daddy kills Mommy. Daddy goes to jail. And you know what?” I slap Patrick.

“What?” he asks, spitting out blood.

“I STILL DIDN’T GET MY GODDAMN BIRTHDAY PARTY!” I run over to my blade on the ground and I examine it. Nope. It’s dirty. I throw it to the side and grab a fresh one from the wall. I run up to where Patrick is and press the blade against his throat. “So if I want to have a little get together with some party guests,” I snap. “I’ll do just that! I’ll play games. I’ll be merry; joyful, even. And you want to know the best part?”

:”Please,” he replies. “Tell me.” I take a second to breathe. I can’t just kill him. No. No, no. He’s really pushing my buttons. He needs to go out like poor little Normy. No. Much better. Much bigger.

“You, sir,” I say. “Have some real tic-tacs.” He nods and I laugh menacingly. I have an idea. It’s genius. It’s brilliant. I get loud; real loud. I make sure every single person can hear me. “What’s a party without a gift basket, right?”

“What are you going to do to me?” he asks.

“Before everyone here parts into the next life,” I say. “They should carry with them some of your bravery.” I press the knife harder against his throat. “I’m going to give you to them. Piece. By. Piece.” Everyone screams this time; not just poor little Patrick. I take a deep breath and tighten my grip. “Let’s all sing to Patrick. Let’s praise him for his bravery!”

Haaapppy Birrrthdayy tooo yoooou...