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Collection of short stories, each prompted by a single word. Ratings and genres may vary. Generally rated T/PG-13-ish to be safe [I'm open to word suggestions, just comment or send me a message or something.]

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2. Phrontistery

Phron∙tis∙ter∙y [fron-tis-tuh-ree]
Noun
A place for thinking or study
(Dictionary.com)
Suggested by Vixx from FictionPress

I heaved myself onto the metal slab, my bottom on the cold surface. I pulled my feet up and turned so I could lay down flat on my back with the cold seeping through my clothes and skin.

Staring up into the darkness, the isolate, cold darkness, I barely made out the lines of the ceiling. I could just about see where the light fixtures were. The typical tubes that, when turned on, emitted a bright white light that the staff could easily work under. But it was late and the staff had gone to their homes, leaving this place deserted and cold. Lifeless like the bodies it housed.

The bodies were stored behind me in the pull out drawers that kept them cool enough to slow their decomposing rate. Two of them were new.

The first was a woman with blue eyes, mousy brown hair, and tanned skin. She had her neck slit with a serrated blade, her liquid life spilling and seeping into the green t-shirt she had been wearing. She was twenty-eight, an accountant at a small business firm. She lived alone, no pets.

The second body was male, aged forty-seven. Greying black hair and dirt brown eyes. He was extremely pale even before death took him via seven bullets; four in the chest, one in the neck, and two in the head. He perished to blood loss, his three piece suit having been soaked entirely in his blood. A dark staining red on the grey fabric. He worked in a cubicle. His wife was cheating on him with a twenty-something year old. He had no children.

Another body was to arrive in three days' time. Another male, this one in his last year at the local university. He had dyed blue hair, although his blond roots were quite visible, and his eyes were a vibrant green. He played lacrosse and had recently broken up with his girlfriend of nine months. He caught her giving a teacher head.

I had yet to figure out what his way of death would be. Suffocation, perhaps? Knock him out via blow to the head, or go for simple chloroform soaked rag, and have him hung in a conspicuous place – a classroom at his university? - to be seen when the people awake.

Yes…

He'll have a somewhat loose noose around his neck and when he comes to…push him off a desk. If he's lucky, his neck will snap and it'll be over before he knows it, but on the other hand…he'll slowly suffocate, each second seeming longer than the last, as he claws at the tightening rope around his neck.

A grin was stretched on my face in the darkness. It was set. The college boy would arrive, be laid down in the very spot I was lying in, in three days' time. They'll find his body that morning when the first person enters his economics classroom at the university. They'll see his long dead body hanging from a rope attached to a fixture in the ceiling. He'll have succumbed to either suffocation or a broken neck.

I frowned.

That would make it seem like a suicide though until they run an autopsy but I want them to know immediately that it was murder.

Hm…

Aha!

A message will be left, carved onto his chest. A simple hello. Maybe a smiley face?

No.

No smiley face, just a simple hello carved in with the sharp blade of a knife. Perfect.

I sat up abruptly, grin back on my lips. It was set. I just had to gather supplies before the upcoming Thursday.

I quietly slid off the metal table and walked to the door, each step taken with confidence in the darkness. I reached the door and exited the room – my room, filled with my victims, and left the house of dead.

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