Dead Connection.

This place. This cold, quiet place. It's dead. Like the people I killed. Like the people I called, stalked, and stabbed to death. I stabbed them all, fifty seven times to be exact. All of them. A smile tickles the corner of my lips as I remember the best murders.

Kelly

Another long Saturday night. Greg sits in the lounge as I begin dinner before I leave for the work party.

"Kel, hun, what's for dinner?" he asks from the beige suite.

"Just some stir fry, I have the work do, remember?"

"Oh, then you get ready, I'll finish the dinner,"

"Thanks, babe," I walk into the lounge and kiss Greg.

My room is cold. I don't remember leaving a window open. My cellphone rings.

"Hello?" I ask. There is only heavy breathing on the receiver.

"Who is this?"

Suddenly I notice that the breathing is not coming from the phone anymore. Steps. A movement in the partially reflective window glass. I know I am not alone. I turn swiftly and see a small girl in a black coat. A large blade slides out of her sleeve. A short horrific scream escapes me before I am stabbed. The girl smiles as the knife's blade digs into my skin, her deep green eyes blazing. I can do nothing, nothing to stop this act of violence. The girl continues smiling.

Brett

I was eleven when I was murdered. Murdered by a six year old girl who smiled brightly when I first met her. Then she called me. Her breathing was strained, like she had asthma. Then she came to me at school one day behind the equipment sheds. fifty seven stabs and one minute of her squeaky laughter. It wasn't that bad. I already had hundreds of scars on my arms. The blood barely showed through my black t-shirt. I wish I could relive those moments. Stop her. If only. The stabs kept coming and coming, her laughs did too. Thats when I blacked out. And. I died.

The Other

The Mirror reflects my round, pink face. My deep green eyes dig into every imperfection they have strained to find. My too round face, the dimple in my chin. Those imperfections are what caused this all. I hear a whistle. Dogs barking. Sirens.

They found me.

Not enough time.

Number eight. That number. That murder. That would have to happen now. But how? Who? The people making the sirens?

You, It says.

"Shut up!" I scream.

No.

"Please?"

Only if you do one more thing for me.

"No! No more! I want to go home!"

Then go, see what your parents think of what you've done. My thoughts are racing. This is the longest conversation I've had with It. It usually just told me who, when, and where. Who being the person I had to murder. When being the time I called them. And where I had to kill them. This is going to be the last time I ever listen to it. In the three hundred and sixty five days I have lived after my sixth birthday, I have killed seven people. Now, it will be eight. The last victim, me. My Knife glints a couple of feet away. It glints blue and red. The colour of thier lights.

Last chance.

Go.

Go now.

So I do. I grab my knife and push to stab myself fifty seven times. It keeps me alive long enough.

It always does. Especially in my athsma attacks.

This time, It only spares me for the fifty seven blows.

Blood sprays from the final stab in my throat.