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  • Published: 30 Jul 2013
  • Updated: 31 Jul 2013
  • Status: Complete
*For the 24 Hour Competition*


1. A Broken Promise

The people were grouped together like clumps of multi-coloured flowers, swaying to the music. The seats they so dearly paid for were forgotten as they clamoured to the foot of the stage hoping to get, at the very least, a handshake from the guitarists and singers tearing up the stadium. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves: the young girls swaying their hips in hopes of attracting the bassist who was practically drooling at this point and the young men who looked on, jealously burning as brightly as the strobe lights. Yes, everyone acted as adolescents should: carefree and worriless.

Everyone except Phoebe Laine.

She stuck out as plainly as a humming bird among a group of hawks.  Her demure brown hair countered against the others’ ghastly colours of purple and orange. Her clothes were clear of any writing, only wearing simple jeans and a loose fitting t-shirt. Strangest of all, she stood against the back wall, trying to avoid physical contact with any of the other fans. Her eyes scanned the crowd, her feet occasionally tapping along with the music, as she tried to pick out a suitable victim.

Her body language might not have shown it but if you looked closely you would have seen it. In her mind she was not contemplating murder, but something much, much worse.

She shakes her head, trying to clear it, trying to feel the sensation in her hands when a potential victim was near. She thrusts her hands out, certain no one is watching, but the feeling doesn’t come. Her hands fall lamely to her sides in a dejected way as she walks out, leaving behind the crowd and its intoxicating music.

She shuffles out of the theatre, wondering why no one in such a large crowd would be of use to her. Her bangs fall in front of her face, blurring her vision but she keeps walking on. Discourage is running high and Phoebe has long since given up fighting it.

Not since she sold her soul.

 She breathes in the crisp autumn air while stuffing her hands in her pockets, knowing she’ll use them later and trying to preserve warmth in them. The memory comes quick and fluid and she winces as she remembers it.

It’s like pouring salt on my wounds, she thinks.  She flashes back to the warmth of her family: the long nights watching movies, dinners that were worthy of a five-star restaurant and deep heart-to-heart conversations with her mother. Her lip curls in pleasure at the thought of her beautiful family, and then she frowns at how she ruined it. How the monster she made killed them.

All for the Prodigium, beasts that promised her safety. Beasts that promised her freedom. Beasts that lived a life that was as intoxicating as the music at the concert. Beasts that promised her knowledge on her hands, hands that could pick out death.

She was fifteen was the Prodigium found her. She was sixteen when the Prodigium bought her. She was seventeen when the Prodigium made her kill her family.

Now Phoebe makes monsters.  Ones the Prodigium use as disposable, toy soldiers.

She makes a right turn, pivoting on Queen’s Street, and ducking into an abandoned pizzeria advertising free drinks after seven o’clock. Her soft boots tread lightly on the dusty rags she set up as she makes her way to the shining, steel table. State of the art medical tools line the stand next to it as Phoebe rinses her hands by the sink, preparing the biggest Fusion of her short life.

That’s what she calls them, Fusions. Fitting since the monsters she creates are modeled after the Prodigium themselves: animals and humans fused together in an unholy manner.

She did not find a suitable human today, though. She will have to improvise.


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