|Scars of a Death Wish
Author: R.K. Iris PM
She was executed-on paper only. They broke her spirit, made her a mindless monster. And now, as she puts back those pieces under a new name, a new life, they push her back into the fray-kill the man who started all of this, who murdered her mother. But, unlike long ago, she isn't alone now. Is the quest her chance at new friends, life and love-or is it an execution in disguise?Rated: Fiction M - English - Adventure/Romance - Chapters: 31 - Words: 89,361 - Reviews: 12 - Favs: 2 - Follows: 1 - Updated: 03-29-13 - Published: 01-27-13 - Status: Complete - id: 3096116
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: Hey guys! K. Iris here! This is my first story, Scars of a Death Wish, and I need all the criticism I can get! Please read and gimme them views! ;)
Those days in hell were like a story left unfinished. The days dragged like blank pages, and my maker—not that I believed in Him—was so unsure as to what the rest of my life would be like that He let one day flow into another, with no change in routine, in thought, in action, in anything.
The room I stared at always remained the same, day, night or otherwise—a plain room with brown walls stained with urine and excreta; a hard, uneven floor that held a wooden cot covered by a single sheet and a rock covered in cloth for a pillow; a small square in the wall that let in everything—the scorching heat, the freezing cold, the sand and grit, the harsh winds that rubbed the skin dry.
In that room I stayed. At first, I ranted and raved and schemed and plotted, my mind focussed on escape. Then I sat on the hard cot, my eyes searching for answers on that small plot of light that shined through the hole in the wall. My eyes continued looking, not for answers, but for solace in that square of light, until it became the only thing my eyes saw.
I ate nothing, drank nothing, felt nothing—how I continued to live I don't know.
Aeons later, the squeak of hinges made me look up, and escape found me in the form of an absent minded janitor.
He was the first.
I remember tasting blood as I grabbed shards of glass. These I impaled into the top of my fingers, giving me claws, giving me a way to kill.
With these I hunted. I remember nothing of the hunt, but of what happened later—Drenched in blood, standing on the mound of corpses, circled by men in black cloaks and hoods.
You might ask—what happened before? Well, I don't know what happened. I know those who do, but—
Dead men tell no tales.