First Hand Witness
So, you want a first hand witness? Well, now you've got one, the problem is where I start this story. I guess maybe with the children trapped in a small room. They scattered about the room, in all four directions, trying to get away from whatever being that may have walked through that door. The walls were covered in blood, the shiny crimson fluid decorated the walls in small splatters, beautiful, almost in its spontaneity; little bodies were strewn around the room; and the stench of rotting flesh from all the grotesquely bloated corpses; and, finally, the children, just walking bags of flesh and bone. In the corner, there was a pot and as I made my way past the ocean of children and bodies, I peer inside. Behold, the gruesome contents within− water of a brownish hue, red almost, and eye floats to the top and stares at me with an accusing stare.
My eyes light upon the closet in the back of the room. "How cliché," I think to myself. "Don't you know what happens to the people who open the closets in horror movies?" The children attempt to become one with the walls as I hold my breath and throw open the door to the closet. It was like an out of body experience. I could see a hooded figure wielding an axe and the figure began to hack violently, aggressively, and ruthlessly at the small children around. The small faces of these miniature humans are filled with tears, pleading, and blood. It doesn't stop running until there's nothing left in the body; and now there are lakes of blood pooling around my feet. The maniac takes the scene in, but does not pause his ever violent dance around the room, waving the axe like it was a delicate conductor's baton instead of a stocky, chunky, biting metal blade attached to a hard, wood handle. Then, just as soon as it started, it was over, with children's bodies flung in every manner all around the room, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. There was but one small child left. The sounds he was making were pitiful, "Please," he whispers. "I want my Mommy. Please let me go to her." The axe in the maniac's hand shakes with the silent denial of it all. All the child's pleas are rebuffed.
Then, the child's cries are cut short by a swift strike of the cruel blade; the walls are decorated with a bright new coat of beautiful scarlet paint. The killer drops the weapon, the killer of the innocent drops to the floor along with the wielder of the hateful object. Suddenly, I feel the cold metal of a gun press against my lips and it slides smoothly into my mouth. I feel myself trembling, and then the door to the room burst open and I'm dragged away from the scene of it all.
The next thing I know, here I am. Telling this story right from the beginning. The place to start was in fact with the room. The place those children have in my heart are as trophies. Their cries for help are my music. The pain, suffering and pleading are my movies. Yes, I will be straight with it all; I did watch those children be slaughtered like cows in a slaughterhouse, and nothing brings me more pleasure to say so. This was all my doing. I most definitely witnessed these acts. In fact, I witnessed them first hand. It was, after all, by my own hand that these children are no more. I have just told you the story of my first delightful killing spree. Beautiful, wonderful, isn't it? Well, anyway, we're not done with my story yet. We have four more anecdotes to go.
A/N: Well, here's another one of my horror stories that I was scared to hand in at school for fear that I might be sent to guidance. Anyway, all you lovely fictionpress readers have the lovely opportunity to read my rejected horror stories. Read and Review please!