Confessions

Trigger Warning: graphic descriptions of blood and gore


16th June, 2007

Dearest Diary,

I write this to you from the faithful darkness of my prison cell. Footsteps echo in my ears and all I can think of is the infinite ways I could silence them. The prison guard slides a rusted metal plate into my cell. I won’t touch the food of the inferior. I am a higher being. The moss in the corners of the ceiling creeps closer to me every day…that’s all time is to me. Photographs of my trophies clutter the stone bench that they call my bed. I kiss them goodnight each time the pale crescent moon lights up the far end of my cell. The howl of a wolf cracks my dry lips into a smile.


I lift a picture into the pale moonlight. Delicate capillaries carry precious blood to Sarah Glendale’s flushed cheeks and her eyes look away from the intrusive flash of the camera. But they never looked away from mine. I remember walking into the 9-year-old’s room. The wind played with her wooden rocking horse. I thought to myself….


“Too bad she won’t. Ever again.”

I walk to her and the child backs farther into the doors of her closet. I sense her repressed fear and I smile into her sapphire eyes. "No" she commands me. I'm almost surprised. I could take her under my wing....but the thud of the window disrupts my thoughts. No time to waste. The voice speaks to me. Restless. "Blood." I'd regretted simply shooting her father and I'd made up for it with her mother. The child would settle the score in my favour.


"9-year-old bludgeoned to death", the headlines would read. "House and occupying family of 3 set ablaze."


That would do perfectly. But first; she stumbles into the moonlight, scraping her knees, but fighting to be brave. I ask her to take me to the family safe. She refuses, seemingly beginning to accommodate my calm, raspy whispers. So I change my approach. An infernal demonic rage erupts inside me as I spit and scream at her. She chooses to remain silent. I ensure she stays there. I swing the hammer with a careless but intentional strength. Swinging my entire arm before it makes contact with her head and I hear the glorious sound of her skull cracking open, the impact of her head hitting the ground awarding me with the bonus of having fractured her nose. But it’s not enough. I get down on my knee and grab her ponytail in my fist. Her eyes still open, lifelessly affixed on the floor. She coughs blood onto my shoe. “You wretched piece of garbage!”, my rage consuming me as I get back on my feet and kick her in the face, ensuring that the toe cap slams into her broken nose and draws more blood. The whiplash of her skull hits the door of the closet bringing her open jaws back to my foot as I push it deep into her throat and twist to fling the hammer behind me, perfectly aimed at the framed picture of the pathetic scum. The paper falls from its cage as the shattered glass falls to the floor and I pull my foot out of her mouth. I lay by her side mirroring the posture of her cold, soulless body as my stare pierces her torpid eyes. I think she's gone. I get up. Gather everything I need. The family picture, petrol from the garage and their worthless bodies. Feel for the lighter in my pockets. I feel the power coursing through my veins, and I long for the taste of their blood. Her mother’s probably dead…not that I could care any less. Give her hair some purpose, dragging her bloody corpse across the floor to her husband and child. Drench them in petrol and make it flow faster as I see the child’s father gasp for air.


“48.”


“49.”


“And 50…


….down, 4 more to go”


The sparks sputter and the flame of the lighter dances in my eyes. I hold the corner of the picture, twirling it between my cold, bony fingers. The heat creeps across their faces and the picture drops from my hand, falling slowly to their bodies. Her father’s scream competes with the wrath of the inferno as their bodies alight. I walk away.

My tongue is still playing with the dead skin on my dehydrated lips and I’m still smiling. But the moonlight doesn’t kiss my lips anymore. All that it illuminates is the stain that Sarah Glendale’s blood left on my shoe. I slide my shoe off and bring it up to my nostrils. The same voice from that night cackles in my ears and almost unknowingly pushes me to it. I lick, relishing every inch of the blood the infidel left on my shoe.


So I confess… I confess that I loved every second of every murder and much unlike what some might want to believe, I have no remorse.


Mortally yours,

Seth Torrance



Author: Praneel Kabra

Editor: Adwita Chaure


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