Prompt 10

Prompt: Must be about mental abuse, deep, two characters, a hatred toward the police

Required Word Count: 650 word Minimum

Actual Word Count: 989

I'm not sure whether I like this, sometimes I read over it, and I think, 'oh, yes I like that', and other times I think, 'dear goodness, how the hell did I write that?' So, yeah, this is a bit of a weird one, for me at least.

Warnings: Murder(sort of), Suicide(sort of), Mental Abuse, Death

There’s something about ‘I hate you’ that isn’t quite clear enough. Not subtle enough, maybe. It’s about the contradiction, the confusion, I think. Must be clear, but subtle.

Means I’ve got to have a proper, intelligent target, to be understanding my clear, but subtle, meaning. Sadly, people in the police force don’t really fall under the category of intelligent. How difficult. On their behalf though, I’ve got to say that it is good luck on their part that they’re all undereducated fools. Makes them much less likely to become my targets, and all.

I’ve found one, though, a very good one. She’s young, just out of college. Smart, wears glasses, sarcastic, small, easy to catch, I’d guess. She’ll be perfect.

The girl wasn’t very hard to catch. No, not at all. Her partners’ stupidity and her own absent mindedness did her in. I’m slightly disappointed.

But, then, I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up, she does work for the police force.

Her partner is dead, I had no use for him, and she is locked up in the basement. Doesn’t really seem the best place for her, but the place is fixed up nice, no windows, lots of concrete, good door. It was a bomb shelter before. People I bought the house from were a paranoid, senile couple. Worked out for the best for me in the end. Especially since the door has a time lock.

It’s dark down there, since I keep the lights off. The girl, whose name I never actually bothered to learn, she seems to be afraid of the dark. I find that to be marvelous.

I go down there once a day, at twelve, noon, precisely. I bring her a plate of bread, broth and water. But she must say to me, while looking me in the eyes, ‘I am worthless’ before I’ll give it to her. The first day, she seemed tired, irritated, maybe a little amused. Cocky. Not so much now.

She’s not getting enough sleep, or enough food, I make sure of those things. Letting spiders and other things loose down there before I leave, and because of that, well, she’s not so cocky anymore. Her eyes glitter now, with a sort of tired, stretched hope. Like gum. Or rubber bands, still just barely hanging on, but stretched so tight that she’ll break any minute.

There was satisfaction before, when she didn’t believe what she was saying to me for her meals. She does now. Oh yes. Every day she believes the words more. I can see it in her eyes, like the ocean on the rocks, wearing them away. Except quicker.

So, tomorrow, I tell her, she will have to say, ‘they aren’t looking for me’, she doesn’t need to say that she’s worthless, not anymore. No, not now that she believes it. The first day, there’s that fire again, it’s hope, and it sparkles all pretty, like sun on the water, but it goes quickly, quicker than her self worth did.

Because that had to be the first to go you see. After she thinks she’s worthless, she’s much more likely to succumb to the idea that they aren’t looking for her; because she’s worthless. And all too soon, I can see that she’s looking at me like a goldfish again.

While she eats, I attach chains to the wall, and cuff them around her ankles, ever so careful not to cut her skin, no. It’s much to pretty for me to mar. I work on a mental level, preying on peoples weaknesses and imperfections, until they are works of art; just like their bodies are.

I’m an artist you see.

Tomorrow, she will have to tell me, ‘I will die here’, and she will. By her own hand, too, because, I cannot mar a perfect work of art. Knives, this time, I think. I’ve left ropes before, and buckets of water, pills. Now it’s time to try knives.

The knife, a small shiny thing by the stairs, I set it there before I come to her with the food, careful that she’s paying attention to what it is. Everyday I move it closer to her, and everyday she eyes it a little longer. Oh, yes. She will be dead soon.

One day, I walk down the stairs, and she is splayed across the floor, goldfish eyes looking at the bottom of the stairs, the shiny knife in one hand, blood leaking out from her, still. She looks very lovely, I think; but she isn’t smiling.

Too bad, too bad. I walk up the stairs, ever so carefully, and leave her tray on the counter, in the kitchen. The camera is on the top shelf of the cupboard, I take it down. It is clean; I’ve been taking it out every day, just waiting for when I could use it. Now I can.

But she must be smiling.

In the basement, I set the camera down, and am careful not to step in the spill of the girls’ blood. Carefully, carefully, I take the knife from her limp hand, not disturbing anything, and put it to one side of her mouth, and I curve it. She doesn’t bleed from her mouth, much, no heart beat and all, but now she is smiling, a little. I lift her head, again, carefully, and do the same to the other side of her face.

Her grin is very wide now, so, I lay her head back the way it was, and put the shiny knife back in her hand, exactly the same and step away. I pick up the camera and take a picture.

Perfect art now. Mostly; except, her smile looks fake.

Shame.

I will send her picture to the police department, a copy of it, and then I will find another girl.

Maybe I will have her say, ‘I will always smile’ first. Then, maybe, she will be perfect.