Psychopath

The devil is and always will be a gentleman.

They say that the eyes are a window to someone’s soul.
But what if they are empty?

Scarlet Waters, a teenager who is being stalked down by her future husband, is slowly noticing everyone around her is dying. Drained of all hope and clueless to her serial killer's wishes, she plays straight into a pair of loving arms.

She falls helplessly in love and begins twisting her morals to be with this man. Everything that she stood for in the past is altering and she is forced to become disturbingly submissive to this beast.

However, you shouldn't fight ten enemies with nine bullets because damaged people are dangerous- they know how to survive.

She has one question for you:
How exactly do you breathe when your kisses are filled with pain?

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5. Mourning

Of course, the mourning was ubiquitous.

Not only had three teenage girls been sentenced, another one was dead. It would have been disgusting not to even spare a thought about Isabella.

Madness began to seep into my mind, twisting and curling each of my thoughts into a more psychotic idea than the last.

My first hint of madness was my uncalled for rage.

Little things triggered me into fury- a red and hot blanket of oppressive pain. Selfishly, I flipped at Isabella’s funeral service. It was a dramatic montage of her life, white mesh and fake diamonds scattered around the room with expensive jewels. I proclaimed,

“If you knew Isabella well enough to be at her funeral, you would know that she hates the colour white!”

Of course, my words caused upset and more grief. However, I wouldn’t stray for the truth as long as I was in the clear; and after all, Isabella deserved respect, even if I lost her, her life.

Looking back now, I shouldn’t have leapt towards Isabella’s mother, thrusting my finger at the Hearse she was seated in. As it drove away, I chased after the car, screaming and accusing her of an unfair trial. Something within me snapped at the idea that Isabella’s mother purposely sent both girls to prison because she disproved of Isabella’s sexuality.

“Why didn’t you sentence me?” I remember hollering through the window at her. Mrs Waters couldn’t even look me straight in the eye and she shivered, cold and unresponsive. I remember the glint in her eye which stuck with me for a few dreams.

Fear.

Mrs Waters never used to fear anyone when Isabella was alive. She regularly chased out thieves and beggars from her shop, not being afraid to holler down the street. A round, perky woman who worked in the local bakery with her loving husband. Isabella had frequent holidays and was spoilt rotten at Christmas, living the life that I wished I had. For a total of Nineteen years before her sudden demise, I was envious.

However, stage two of my mental decline was that things began to look more and more out of proportion.

Tables melted into tigers. Thick, mahogany beasts, striped with scratches and dents from battles – a dropped glass on a table- as it wobbled, struggling to stay strong. Walls exploded into shadows the minute the light flickered out, casting ghastly monsters towards my bed. And paranoia ruled over me.

Patterned things frightened me the most. Swirly, textured flooring which played cheeky tricks on your brain, draining all meaning to what the object actually is and forcing you to interpret something.

I didn’t do well with hints, I wanted to know what something was without having to over analyse. If I couldn’t detect an object from an animal, I would be forced to remain in my own little world of self-interpretation. This world was hideous because I couldn’t just leave without answers. I demanded answers.

After the funeral there was a wake. Not surprisingly, I was uninvited and was hailed a taxi to get myself home, drinking myself into forgetfulness that night.

I dreamt of eyes, that night.

It wasn’t unusual for me to dream about eyes. For some reason, I had been addicted to these squelchy balls that remained in the socket of your head for years before Isabella’s death.

My dream twisted in and out, stopping and starting with a lack of answers. In my dreams, the person’s eyes I saw usually started off welcoming but then they would blink, and an unresponsive mist clouded over them.

 

Firstly, my eyes appeared into focus. Once soft, caring eyes that oozed a cold warmth filled my mind. They were a hazily- red, sharp and defined by my long, thin eyelashes which curved up high. Blink. The homely feeling died and dissolved into a burning hatred.

After me, a set of dark, threatening orbs usually forced its way into my head. I could never detect whose eyes they were, but all I knew is that they were alluring, dangerous and unwillingly attractive to me. These were the only pair that didn’t change after they blinked because the dull sparkle was already there.

Isabella. Her crystal, blue ones reflected all around, soon after. Warmly welcoming me in before they shut off all together. Suddenly, they screamed anger; fury, as if she was blaming me for something. Was it her death? Was Isabella’s eyes accusing me of her murder?

Sarah and Kylie obviously followed after. Both of them shared green and brown freckled pupils as the murderous glint sparkled. They were mad at me. Perhaps it was because I escaped all punishments? However, their eyes didn’t look like they wanted an apology, they were blood thirsty, eager to be released from prison and seek personal revenge.

Mrs Waters was the last pair I saw that night. Tear stained yet unresponsive. She looked like she had been to hell and back as fear radiated around the dark orbs. Mr Waters, though I only met him a few times, stood next to her, eyes reflecting the same as his wife.

I was scared.

These dreams kept my paranoia high and I became desperate for people to like me. I couldn’t afford any more eyes to join my list of mistakes as these mental images, as I was certain of, were a warning, a message… a promise.

After all, eyes are never quiet.

 
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