 
LIZZY

A Novel

By Casey Chaplin

Lizzy

Copyright © 2012 by Casey Chaplin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 9781489517333

For those who said I couldn't.

Dedication

Lizzy is dedicated to all those who helped me with this process, be it through inspiration or support, and I thank you all. This book's existence wouldn't be possible, literally, without the help of Rocket Hub and my dedicated contributors. But a few stood out. Firstly, Chris Nash – a hero among men; he's been a friend for years, and is the most creative guy I've ever met. He's an accomplished filmmaker, writer, and actor, so look for big things from him in the near future.
Chapter 1

DARKNESS; IT'S THE FIRST THING I remember. I felt as if I'd been reborn back into my body; I felt strange. I wonder if this is what it's like to have an out of body experience. My name is Elizabeth P. Walker, but you may call me Lizzy; I was twelve years old, living in a suburb of Chicago. I feel older now, much older, but I remember everything so well, as if it's happening right now – maybe it is. After all, it is indeed my life, so why shouldn't this be happening? Why can't this be real?

Darkness.

However, as often with darkness, it doesn't last forever and often gives way to the light, and this light brought forth a familiar sight; my kitchen, I felt as if I'd been here before, in this exact position, it felt very familiar. Everything about it had a very déjà vu feel to it, and then I hear it – an all too familiar, yet unwelcome and distant voice to me.

"Elizabeth!" My mother incessantly shrieked from the front hall. She almost never calls me Lizzy. I hate that about her.

"Elizabeth," she said as she passed through the threshold of the kitchen doorway, where I sat at the table. "Oh there you...What, what the hell are you doing?" She yelled out, overacting as usual. Though, I suppose she has some reason to be angry. "I made those rolls for dinner. You know damn well that we're having the members from the country club over tonight." She screamed at me, as she often did.

However, this particular case had her worked up more than usual. She had baked these dozen or so dinner rolls for her precious socialites that she had invited over for a luxurious - and obnoxious - dinner party tonight. I had destroyed all the bread.

I had picked them to pieces. Not eating them, but rather just dissecting and probing into their life form. I had been sitting at the kitchen table, my feet dangling an inch or two above the floor, and with that banshee squawking, I continued to pick at the very last piece. My mother was infuriated.

I haven't the slightest clue as to what came over me; where the urge to destroy my mothers work came from. It just simply rose from my subconscious. All I remember is starting on the first one, and not being able to stop.

I had wandered into the kitchen, most likely following the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread. It goes without saying that bread straight from the oven has an intoxicating smell to it. I just wanted to sample one, just one. But when my hand wrapped around that first one, the urge came over me. It was so strong; fighting it would be an inevitable failure.

Without realizing it, I had grabbed the whole basket in one hand, while still thumbing the bread in the other. It didn't weigh much, and I only had to carry it a few feet. But in that short time, it felt weightless; probably why I didn't notice it.

I set the basket in the middle of the faux-wood table and began my path of devastation. I sat there, with the roll in my hand, eyeing it before my thumb broke though the warm flaky shell and into the warm gooey innards. I remember a sensation flow through my body as my thumb penetrated further into the centre of the bun, it was something I had experienced only once before... It was amazing.

Soon my index finger followed suit and pierced the protective shell. I began not only to feel about the inside of the bread, but had proceeded to picking and plucking the cloud like substance that had been so warm.

The roll, a simple inanimate object, felt as though it was alive in my hands. The way the dough fell between my fingers, it was like it was moving on its own. However I know this not to be true, but my young imaginative mind told me that I had hurt this creature. And when the warmth left and the life subsided, I felt somewhat sad... but more curious than ever.

I became more and more intrigued, so I placed the roll aside, respecting its loss of life. But the respect was indeed overcome by my morbid curiosity. I carefully grabbed another bun from the top of the pile, trying not to induce an avalanche of baked goods. This roll felt more or less the same as the last, but there was a slight difference. Its texture was unique from the last, thus suggesting that it had individuality about it; that these rolls were as alive as you and me.

Once again, I knew this was foolish, but I needed to know. Would the warmth – the life – fade from this one like the first one? I carefully broke open the shell. That once delicious aroma hit my olfactory nerves, but this time it was nauseating. Perhaps in my semi-conscious mind I had truly believed that this roll was indeed alive, and I had just killed it. The scent that left its body was akin to that of rotting flesh. Nevertheless, I pressed on. Pulling and peeling with surgical precision until once again, the gooey warm entrails became cold and lifeless. With far less respect than the last, I threw the roll aside and reached for the third.

Roll after roll, I had that same sensation come over me. It was inexplicable, yet I began to think to myself is this what it is to die? When I die, will I feel it as though I'm going cold, being torn apart? I hope my death isn't like how these baked goods met their end. It seems like it would be rather painful.

That was an intriguing thought. If these rolls were alive, as my imagination tricked me into thinking, was I causing them pain? I wondered that as the warmth left yet another roll.

The concept of death has been studied since the beginning of intelligent man, perhaps even earlier; it's been pondered over and theories have been hailed and scrutinized. Yet I could grasp its basic understanding at the ripe age of twelve through the dismemberment of some dinner rolls. Could something as complex as death be understood by something so simple?

Also, would the torture and desecration of these buns make me a murderer – a sadist? After all, I was getting an enjoyable sensation from this act. It's terrifying to think about, nevertheless the thoughts continued to come. The thoughts of a twelve year old girl: Truly frightening.

No matter my feelings and perturbed thoughts, I continued onto the next piece of bread. I soon had felt the warmth leave over a half a dozen fresh rolls. I sustained the thought of the bread being alive, and the more I picked and pried through its hard shell into its gooey entrails the more I felt as though I were killing a living being.

After all, most living things have an outer shell of protection. Many insects have an exoskeleton, reptiles and amphibians have their scales, and even humans have their skin. All of it though is merely superficial. A gash on the skin will heal and leave a scar; but a lesion on the lungs could prove fatal. The superficial does have its merit, and that's for simple protection.

Though, even with all these thoughts, I didn't cease my murder of the rolls, for that's what I think this is. After all, if the crust is indeed its protective shell then the warm cloud like dough must be its organs. I wondered if the rolls felt this torture.

"Elizabeth Walker!" I hated when she used my full name. It was bad enough when she used Elizabeth, but when she used my surname, it sounded as though she was in disbelief that I was her daughter. The feeling was not a pleasant one.

For as long as I can remember, and for somebody my age that's an extraordinary amount of time, she has been disappointed with me. It's clear that she and I are nothing alike. She had evidently hoped for a girly girl; somebody preppy that she can take shopping and out for makeovers. I couldn't be further from that perfect daughter, and it destroyed her. I believe the only reason she talks to me is because I am not fat. If that were the case, I'd be up for adoption.

"What the hell have you done?! This is such a waste – AH! You didn't even eat any of them, what's the matter with you?" She ranted and raved like a lunatic who's forgotten her medication. This action happened to be a trademark of hers however, I've learned to appreciate the ability she has to question, accuse, and re-question without waiting for a response, all in one breath.

I had not the chance to respond before she called my father into the room. This was her tactic when she knew the cause in front of her was lost. And for whatever reason, she believed me to be afraid of him, though he has never been a tyrant to be afraid of. I always attributed this to the fear she has for her own father. It's clear that he ruled his household with an iron fist, and that's all she knew growing up; constant beatings for even the most minor infractions, and nothing but criticisms for her minute flaws.

I also have grown to believe that my mother is jealous of the relationship my father and I have, and she continuously hopes he will punish me, but he never does. I suppose this is another reason for her resenting me.

"What is it, Carol- oh..." He said as he wandered into the room. He wasn't a very imposing figure, but he did run short on patience at times. His eyes widened at the sight of the slaughter house of dinner rolls that lay before him. At first I'm sure he wanted to laugh at the mess - he was whimsical in that sort of way – but it was after all a mess, and one that need to be cleaned, and surely he would be the one that was ordered to clean in. I sympathized with him for a moment.

"Lizzy," He muttered in a sympathetic tone. "Why did you do this? I mean, all these rolls just...destroyed..."

I was generally an honest girl; I didn't like to lie, no matter how harmful the truth may be; but of course we all lie at one point or another – this just wasn't one of them. "Well, I don't know really. They smelled so good, and I was gonna eat one, but it was so warm. I just wanted to see if another one was that warm because I got sad when the warmth left the first one. Then another and another, I guess I got carried away." I explained to the best of my abilities. Remember, I said I would mostly tell the truth. After all, if I told them I thought they were living creatures, and I happened to be playing God with them they would surely send me to a shrink.

"So it was an honest mistake then?" He asked with all the naivety in the world. He truly wanted to believe I could do no wrong.

He glanced at my mother. Her face was tight and gaunt, ready to explode if I gave the answer she knew I would.

So naturally, I lied. "Of course, dad. I just got carried away."

"Well, no use getting upset over...destroyed dinner rolls. We can make more." This was a typical answer. He could never blame me, even if I held the proverbial smoking gun; such as in this case.

Perhaps that's why my mother went off like she did. After all, I was guilty – and it was obvious, too. Her face turned a bright red, bordering on cherry coloured. The growl that escaped her mouth was akin to that of dog warning off the intrusion of an unwanted guest. This clearly caught my father's attention. He explained to her that it wasn't the end of the world and that he would remake the rolls before the dinner party. This did little to ease her tension. However, at this time they were already running late to their engagement at the country club.

It was at that particular moment that the door bell rang. It was quite a coincidence as it appeared that my father would have been decapitated by the wrath of my mother. Hell has no wrath like a woman scorned; I hope I never live up to that title.

Perhaps it was a little too perfect that the bell rang when it did. It effectively saved my father's life, for all intents and purposes, though in the process may well have ruined mine.

Chapter 2

I KNEW THAT IN MY YOUNG EXISTENCE I was a different kind of girl. I didn't play with Barbies, nor did I want to ever put make-up on. I never once even thought about playing dress-up or house. I had deeper thoughts, or what I considered to be deeper thoughts anyway. They were about life and death. I had empathy towards others and their feelings, but I never felt their joy; only their sadness.

In fact, I often imagine their happiness as a disease. Perhaps it was jealousy, I cannot say for certain. But when a friend, or a family member or even a complete stranger seemed happy, I resented them. I thought about how they would feel if that joy were to be suddenly stripped away from them. I then thought about ways that I could do just that. I never acted upon it; not yet anyway...

My father and mother approached the door, I stayed in the kitchen. I had no interest in seeing Samantha, my perky-preppy cheerleader of a babysitter. I had a slight view of the front foyer thanks in part to a well placed mirror angled just right to bounce a view of the front door right to where I happened to be sitting. So, it was somewhat shocking to me when I saw who I saw on the other side of the threshold when my father opened the door. It was definitely not Samantha.

Samantha, as I said was a cute preppy girly girl. The person in the doorway was not. In fact, the person in question couldn't be further from a preppy cheerleader looking to make a few bucks to sustain her addiction to Speed. This was an elderly man.

I had seen him a few times before around the neighborhood. I've never spoken to him, but he would sit by his window and watch the streets. I noticed him while I was walking home from school one day. I don't believe he looked right at me, at least we never made eye contact, but he still creeped me out. Although I may have had some odd thoughts for a twelve year old girl, I still was just that: a twelve year old girl.

The way he stood made me think of Quasimodo, his back slouched as if he spent his years tolling a bell in a church tower, though this could be skewed by the mirror. He didn't present himself overly well, either. His shirt was mis-buttoned, and his pants didn't quite meet his shoe line, exposing two dark coloured socks; but I was sure one was a different pattern or colour. His shoes were normal enough, simple brown loafers. I felt the need to get a closer look. This strange man standing at the door reminded me of a disfigured creature from a Clive Barker story – a monster.

I proceeded from the kitchen into the front hall, attempting to be stealthy in the process. I wanted to see him, but I didn't want him to see me. I'm sure I presented myself in a defensive stature, which could make him feel uncomfortable. I didn't want to offend the monster since I had the inane fear that he might want to eat me.

However, it appeared that my stealth ability falls short of that which an assassin would possess. I was discovered, quite quickly I might add, by the monster standing in my door. He didn't say anything, but he glanced in my direction and made solid eye contact. Eye contact which I could not hold. I'm certain that I looked away instantly, but that instant felt like an hour. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, a chill came over me, and I could feel the beads of sweat begin to form on my forehead. I went from curious to terrified in that instant our eyes met.

The human body is indeed a curious thing. We have our built-in instincts, such as the fight or flight response. I always figured that most sensible people have the flight nerve fire, and they would run for their life. However, in some cases, when it came down to it, the fight stimulus would take over. Often, I assumed this would turn out poorly. But in extreme cases, such as the protection of a loved one, or in a life or death situation, it would become the most power weapon available. I would soon find this out.

It wasn't until our brief, yet everlasting eye-contact ended that I realized how old he actually was. From the few times that I had seen him through the window which he peered, I had known he was older; but he appeared nearly ancient. His hunch wasn't nearly as bad as my first impression made it out to be, but his face was older than I expected. It wasn't that he had wrinkles, and seen perhaps too few suns; it wasn't that his hair was thin and white; it wasn't that his bones looked as brittle as glass...It was his eyes. They had more age about them than any other part of his body could even fathom to show.

The rest of his body was very fitting; he was an older man who probably worked as a manual laborer his entire life, and as many laborers of his age, he probably didn't have a whole lot of money either, so he ate what he could, leading to all sorts of diet related symptoms and issues. But it was his eyes, they were like nothing I had ever seen, I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

His eyes were gray and cold. They projected a sadness which, at the tender age of twelve I could pick up on, but not quite comprehend. All I could understand from them is that they were frightening. The gray seemed unnatural, like nothing on earth could possess such an exotic colour. Once again, he appeared more of a monster than a man. But of course, this was foolish. Ghouls such as Pennywise didn't exist in the real world. He was just a neighbour stopping by, or so I thought.

"Lizzy, this is Mr. Gabriel. He's going to be watching you tonight," my dad said. I'm sure I gave off some hint of fear, as I could clearly feel my heart drop. I felt light-headed, and had to steady myself on the doorframe.

He looked at me. I didn't make eye contact, but I could feel his gaze upon me. It must have appeared harmless, or my parents would have picked up on something. Clearly, their instinct wasn't as astute as mine had been.

"C'mon, don't be shy. Say hello." The words came from my father again.

I looked up and met this Mr. Gabriel's gaze. He had been staring – watching me. I shuddered; I knew that this one was visible as my parents exchanged looks. My mother's was surely irritated, but I caught my father's glance. He had a slight look of concern.

"Hello," I muttered in the politest voice I could muster. It must have sufficed as it generated a smile on Gabriel's face.

Although I was clearly distraught, my mother intercepted any sort of move my father was going to make in terms of protection.

"Elizabeth, don't give him a hard time tonight; for god's sake, just listen to him and behave," my mother said, without an ounce of concern or paternal love. Everything in her world was fine as long as the rules were followed. She didn't care about anybody or anything else, so long as her order was kept. It was my father who often showed the love and concern of a parent.

"...And," he continued off my mother's orders, "the emergency numbers are on fridge And, Lizzy, you know my cell. Don't be afraid to call if you need me."

He did that often. He would use me instead of us when it came to emergency matters, like he knew his wife didn't care. She had a cell phone, but I can't remember the last time she answered one of my calls. Also, I had noticed he did not inform me to give Mr. Gabriel the cell number, and I knew it wasn't on the emergency list. I did just that, and kept the number to myself. Gabriel didn't push the matter.

It seemed with that, my parents had left. My mother went to the car, but not before reminding me to behave. My father left me with a kiss on the cheek. He shook Mr. Gabriel's hand and passed over the threshold of the front door. It clicked behind him.

"Hello, Lizzy," he said in a cheery voice. He had an accent, I couldn't pinpoint from where, but it was clearly of a British nature Scotland? Perhaps Ireland?

It unnerved me slightly that he called me Lizzy. Though I did prefer that name to Elizabeth, it sounded strange coming from him. It wouldn't do, not if I were to spend the evening with him.

"Elizabeth, actually; my dad just likes to call me Lizzy," I lied. It was only my mother who ever called me Elizabeth – her and now Mr. Gabriel.

He eyed me curiously, "Ah, very well then, Elizabeth." He smirked as he said those words. The smirk was terrifying. It was sinister and scheming. His eyes seemed to become darker than before as the grin forced them shut. He reminded me of an evil Cheshire Cat from Lewis Carrols' Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

His transformation was almost complete. He first appeared to me as Quasimodo, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. However, even under Quasimodo's grisly exterior, he had a kind heart and soul. Mr. Gabriel seemed to have become transfigured beyond that of a kind hearted monster, but rather a demon, surely as ugly on the inside as he is on the out.

But perhaps my imagination had gotten away from me again. After all, he is just a meek old man.

We stood in the front hall for what felt like an eternity. Nobody broke the silence, and even though I avoided eye contact, I could feel his gaze penetrate my protective shell. Then he spoke.

"Do you like tea, my dear?" he asked. It seemed like every nuance of his speech perturbed me in some way. The term my dear is a harmless phrase used to speak to younger women when trying to be nice. It's akin to saying lad, son, sweetheart. Yet, the way he spoke those two words shook me to the core. Still, I answered him.

"I do, but only with lots of honey." I didn't lie, there was no need to. Once again, I calmed my nerves. I wouldn't let my imagination get the best of me He nodded and continued to smile. "Very well then. To the kitchen?"

He held out his hand in a motion implying I should lead the way. I promptly did so. I walked towards the kitchen with my head down. It's not a long walk, but I realized the aftermath of the dinner roll massacre had yet to be cleaned up. I felt a wave of embarrassment come over me just as I passed over the threshold into the kitchen.

Although this slaughter was for all to see, Mr. Gabriel walked into the kitchen nonchalantly. The mess didn't faze him; it was as though he didn't even notice. Perhaps he thought it wasn't his place to say something, but it was like he didn't see it. And if he did, he certainly didn't care. His focus was elsewhere.

I pointed him in the direction of the tea kettle while I took out two cups complete with saucers. He filled it and placed it upon a stove burner. He sat at the table, across from where I had taken up residence.

"Mr. Gabriel," I asked, "why did my parents ask you to watch me tonight? What happened to Samantha?" A legitimately asked question in my mind.

"Well, Elizabeth. I'm not too sure why she's not here. All I know is that your father knocked on my door earlier this afternoon and asked me to come over and sit for them." He paused and looked over at the kettle on the precipice of boiling. He looked satisfied and continued to speak.

"I like to help out a neighbour when I can, and to be honest, I don't believe I've spoken to your family since I moved in, about three years ago now. It's far too long to ignore a neighbour, if you ask me," he said with his coy British accent, all the while maintaining that creepy grin of his. The kettle hissed; our water had boiled.

Mr. Gabriel readied the tea: he poured the boiling water into the cups that I had placed on the table, but instead of asking where we kept our tea bags, plucked two from his cardigan pocket. I was wary of this at first, but once again, I had managed to get control of my imagination. I kept telling myself that he's a man, not a monster.

He must have noticed my apprehension toward the mysterious teabags, because he smiled...again. "You're wondering why I've brought my own tea?" he asked in a statement making sort of way. He already knew the answer, but needed me to ask him either way.

"Yes, I am. We have perfectly good tea here," I said.

"Aye, I'm sure you do. But it's not as good as this," he said with a wink. That unsettled me quite a bit. What should have been an innocent and playful wink came out as something semi-seductive and just plain weird.

Swallowing my fear to proceed speaking with the man, I trekked on. "Why do you say that?" I asked in a timid voice. It's was becoming harder to keep my spirits up. Something was off; I just couldn't place it yet.

"Well, you see, I made it myself my dear," he said as he plunked one into each cup. He began to stir and I followed suit.

"Honey," he said. I looked up in a quiet frenzy. All I could think is now he's calling me honey. From my dear to honey. However, my fears were ill-placed. He was gesturing to the honey on the counter. Filled with a relief, I nodded. He stood from his chair to get the sweet treat, and I exhaled the largest breath I've ever held in. I didn't know why I was so anxious, everything was tight; it felt like my heart was being closed in, like all the muscle decided to cramp and hold on as if it were on a sinking boat, desperate not to fall in the icy waters below.

When he returned with the honey, I took two huge scoops and plopped them into my cup. He drank his tea as is, no milk, and no honey. He had said he made it, and I was somewhat curious as to how – and why – he made it.

"Mr. Gabriel," I said in an inquisitive tone. This turned his gaze from relaxed to intense, I couldn't explain why. "How, and well, why do you make your own tea?"

He smiled, nay; he emitted a sort of excitement that can only be matched by a kid on Christmas morning. "You see, I was indeed a tea maker in my youth!" he said with so much excitement. I then took a sip of the tea: he must have been good at his trade.

"I learned from the best in England, and we English know our tea." I took another sip. Something was beginning to feel off again, but I felt lucid and... nice. He continued to speak, but I began to drift off. I could hear him, but listening had become tough. It wasn't until I heard him say my name that perked up enough to listen.

"...Lizzy?" My eyes opened wide, and with that, I passed out.

Chapter 3

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT WAS surprising to say the least. I remember what happened to me; that is to say, I can recall certain events that may or may not have happened. After I had taken that final sip of tea, I felt slightly nauseous and a bit light headed. The light around me began to illuminate my surroundings into a blur of streaks and distortion. Sounds became low and drawl, I could hear what Gabriel was saying, however I only made out one word, a name – my name - clearly. Lizzy. It echoed in my mind like a never ending scream in the deepest chasm, I couldn't rid of it. And then, there was black.

I remember the blackness. It wasn't like a sleep black, but rather the black of death. I couldn't think, I couldn't feel. However, that may have been for the best. I could recall being moved, however. This was in close proximity of when I lost consciousness.

After I was moved, remembering anything became impossible for an unknown amount of time. And then I came to... sort of.

Slowly, sound returned to my ears, but not the friendly sound of waking on a Saturday morning or to a favourite song on the radio. The sounds that I heard were akin to that of a monster movie. They were distorted, like when I had first passed out, but there were more. I could hear everything, as if I had just become enlightened. I could hear a labored raspy breathing; I could hear my heart beating, and something crumpling, like gravel being stepped on; I could also hear something like a roar.

I wanted to open my eyes, but I couldn't. They felt so heavy, like they were glued shut. I wanted to see what was happening, for I still could not feel anything. I still felt weightless and heavy all at once. The sensation was remarkable. I wondered if this is what it was like to be a bird in flight.

How I wished that I were flying. Birds always appeared so free and careless, not to mention weightless – much like how I felt at that moment. However it was short lived. I blacked out again.

This is where it became rather strange, though at first I didn't realize how strange. I dreamt. My brain felt as though it shut off, but yet I thought and dreamt in a very conscious state. However, I couldn't tell if I was dreaming or hallucinating – either way, everything felt very real.

I was in the woods; the greenery around me was scarce however. It was as though everything died, there was no life, except for a few weeds that sprouted from the dry earth below. The weeds must have sucked what little life happened to reside within the shrubbery; drained like a leech.

I didn't move at first. I simply stood and observed my surroundings, and the one thing that stood out was the sound – there wasn't any. The inherit absence of audible noise was disconcerting. Not a cricket nor a bird; not rustling from critters in the dead underbrush. Silence.

The second thing I noticed was indeed the lack life. Every tree and plant withered away, so perhaps everything with life in it did the same. I looked to the sky in hopes of seeing a bird float over head. Nothing.

However, the sky caught my attention. Besides there not being a bird, or a moth, or a fly above me, there were no celestial bodies. The sun was gone; and the moon hadn't risen. The stars were hidden by some unseen force. It was black, dead black.

By all accounts, I should not have been able to see my nose at the end of my face. But I could see clearly, for what seemed miles in front of me. The tops of every tree both near and far, were made visible by some unknown light source.

While looking at the dead jagged branches of trees down the path, I could see a structure that appeared man made. It was but a spot on the horizon. It had angles and out reaches that were not made by nature. It was a castle. My eyes widened with excitement.

A castle, I thought to myself, how wonderful – I wonder if anybody lives there. After all, I was young and hopeful of a princess or a royal family residing within the sturdy brick walls. However, what if there was nothing there. Everything else was devoid of life, why should this castle - if that is even what it was

\- be any different? Nonetheless, I had to press on. It was my only choice, and the path was clear.

For as far as I could see there was nothing but death, a glorious death. It's not often that death is spoken of in such a magnificent way; however this wasn't a disturbing death. No, this felt like the kind of death that knew nothing else.

That sounds like a foolish statement, for how can something be dead if it never lived?

The inherent absence of life should have sent a chill down my spine and sent me running for the warm safety that the fetal position offers... but I didn't. As I said, it's as if nothing here has ever lived, so this form of death is all it knows; the death is vibrant.

I could hear the foliage beneath my feet crack and break with every step that I take. Much of the branches and leaves are dried out and so brittle that they merely turn to dust at the notion of being touched. I felt like I was freeing these dead things from their perpetual stage of death, and sending them to some wonderful afterlife where they flourished and knew what it was to live: to be reborn.

I continued my trek for some time, and it was as if the scenery never changed. All the trees looked alike, the ground looked alike, and the skyline looked alike, but most discouraging of all was that the structure which I hoped to be a castle never seemed to get closer. I marched on however, if nothing for more than something to do. There was nothing around, so I walked in an unknown direction in hopes of reaching some landmark.

Time didn't seem to move in this place. The absence of a sun or moon showed no progress through the day or night. I had no shadow either, which suggested that whatever this mysterious light source was, it was coming from directly above me, and never moved. Nevertheless, I continued walking and walking and walking; and I continued to make no progress. And thus I began to give up. My twelve year old will had hit its breaking point. Nothing in front of me, and as I soon discovered, nothing behind me, not even my footprints which I knew I had been making. I was stuck in a Sisyphus-type state. Just like the mythological figure, forced to push a massive bolder uphill for all of eternity; I was forced to walk this path of nothingness forever.

But why?

Was it because I tore up the dinner rolls that my mother had baked? I began to recall all the memories my prepubescent mind could. I hadn't been the perfect child. There were many accounts in which I did something dastardly and gotten away with it.

Could it be when I found Mrs. McCerny's cat in a tree, but neglected to tell anybody? After all, how was I to know that there was a bee hive in that very tree? Is it really my fault that the stupid cat was too curious and upon discovering the buzzing hive, she attacked it?

I suppose it was.

Omission is just as bad as committing, is it not? It was at this point that I didn't know what to do. My brain was filling with thoughts of regret and remorse as I flashed to all the naughty things I had done. But at the time of the events in question, I didn't feel saddened. I often felt nothing, perhaps a bit of joy on the rare occasion. But mostly I was curious. Was I no different than that stupid cat? I couldn't help but think I would eventually come across my proverbial bee hive, poke it, and be stung to death.

I was in such a trance of deep thought that I barely noticed it, a rustling in the woods behind me! I snapped to attention and spun around as quickly as I could. But there was nothing. Was it my imagination? Maybe in my subconscious I longed for some contact that I imagined the noise. Then I heard it again, it was right in front of me, close too, but there was nothing in sight.

Again, there was a rustle of leaves, but I couldn't see it, there was just the sound, it made no sense. Then again, nothing seemed to make sense. I waited to hear it again, and when I eventually did, I did the unexpected, I turned around.

I may not be able to explain it properly, but it worked. When I spun around, I was face to face with...nothing. The fact of the matter was, whatever this was that was standing in front of me had no face, instead it had a bandaged and bloodied mess where a face should have been. We stood, staring at each other, though I couldn't see its eyes, or if it even had any, I felt it was looking right at me. If I didn't know any better, I would have thought it was as startled by my presence as I was of its. That soon changed.

Before I could take a breath, a sonic boom seemed to erupt from this being. It held its arms out wide and tilted its head back as if it were screaming. However, there was no sound. The invisible blast shot me back into the wooded area, sending a cloud of dust thick enough to obscure my vision. I had lost sight of the creature, which wasn't as friendly as I hoped.

As terrified as I was, I had an overwhelming feeling of relief as well, knowing that I wasn't the only living thing in this strange world...Well, I had assumed this thing was alive.

I heard the rustling of foliage again. I looked towards where I had heard it, but thought better of it turned to face the opposite way. This was the wise choice as I saw the thing moving in closer, and its movements were like nothing I had ever seen before. It was a solid form, but moved liked a ghostly visage, disappearing and reappearing in a different spot. It looked as if the rustling came from the leaves that were sprayed from the shockwave the creature made when reappearing, kind of like the tremor after a bomb is ignited.

I could see it coming towards me in its static like disappearances and reappearances. I did the only thing I could think of: I ran. But much like how time and distance had been halted, it became evident that I had also been brought to a standstill. No matter how far I ran, I made no progress. The creature materialized closer every time, and though I was clearly running, I wasn't going anywhere. I was stuck in a loop, abiding to the strange laws of this world. But the creature, it continued to pursue not held by the shackles to which I am bound.

This is when something rather peculiar occurred. The creature, which was as close as he could have been to me, stopped and just loomed over me – staring. It progressed no further. It was close enough that I should have felt the warmth of its breath on my face – that is to say if it had any breath. For whatever this odd creature was, it did not breathe, at least not in any conventional sort of way. We were both frozen – at a stalemate. I was too afraid to move, and it just stood there as if stuck in time, as if the laws of this world finally caught up to it.

I was mistaken.

In the mere seconds we gazed at each other, something happened. A spot of what looked like blood seemed to be protruding from its chest, yet there was no wound. It fell to its knees, and the dead brush around it pillowed out in a cloud of ash. It began to fall forward, I darted out of the way to avoid being crushed, and as it fell forward, I saw what caused its demise. An arrow.

Seeing the creature's lifeless corpse on the dead brush brought back memories from my short-lived past. This makes the memories that much crisper in my mind. This was not my first experience with death.

***

The courtyard was characteristically cool, as it was mid- October, and the wind had its usual chill about it. Autumn in Chicago often had the children bundled in coats heavier than needed, and I was no exception. My mother was never very fond of me, and blamed me for many a thing, but she would not suffer the humiliation and the persecution of child neglect, not on my behalf anyway – I was hardly worth it to her.

So bundled I was, along with all the other students of my school. It was recess. It's a time for everybody to take a break from the lessons, not that many of us were overly interested in American history and the topics that were taught. I believe recess was more for the teachers, so they wouldn't go mad. However, on this occasion, a few educators may have needed a sabbatical.

"Lizzy!" I heard Malcolm call out from across the grounds. I had decided to spend my fifteen minutes of freedom on the swing set, slowly swaying forward and back like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

"What?!" I shouted back from the swings.

"You've got to see this!"

"See what?" I responded back. I could see him now; he was crouched over something on the ground. He stood and waved me over.

"Bring it here if it's so important, Malc."

Frustrated - as frustrated as a twelve year old can get - Malcolm rose and began to jog the fifty yards towards me. By the time he got to me, he was out of breath.

Malcolm had been my one true friend since the first grade, and he had always been on the chubby side. It was unfortunate for him, as kids can be truly cruel. That is perhaps why he and I became as close as we were. He had little energy and less pride, and I had a very lethargic nature about me. My pride was quiet.

The boy grabbed my hand and yanked me from the swing, leaving it swaying in inertia, as if occupied by some transparent spirit going on one last ride before passing on.

"Just come, it's so cool," he said in excitement.

I would be lying if at this point I said I wasn't excited about the prospect of Malcolm's discovery. After all, he and I had the same tastes in many things. We both found the antagonist in many stories the more interesting of characters, albeit for entirely different reasons. He was innocent, almost sickeningly so.

"Look!" he said in wonderment. He had a reason to be excited. For on the ground lay a bird, neck snapped and head twisted nearly 180 degrees around. The thing had flown into a nearby window of the school; Malcolm must have been the first to discover it.

"Stupid thing." I said.

"Why is it stupid?" asked Malcolm.

"It flew into a window and killed itself, what's not stupid about that? I mean, if you ran head first into a wall and knocked yourself out, I'd call you stupid, too."

That answer seemed to satisfy him after a bit of thought.

I knelt down beside the dead bird, its feather ruffled, but not blown away. This, and the fact that the entire creature had not been disposed of by Frank, our custodian, led me to believe that it had just recently done the deed of accidental suicide.

"What should we do with it?" Malcolm rightly asked.

Truth be told, I didn't know what to do, so I ignored his question. He didn't ask again, he merely observed it as I did. But I knew I didn't want anybody else to find it. This was my and Malcolm's dead thing, and nobody else's. I peered over my shoulder and then up at Malcolm.

"I'm gonna hide it," I said to my round friend.

He looked at me in a sort of shock mixed with disgust.

"Why would you want to do that, Liz?" he asked.

"Well, because, Malcolm... I want to see what happens to its body after it's been dead for a while. Haven't you ever wondered what happens when you die?"

He looked blankly at me for a second, as if to take in the fact that one day he will die, as if the thought had never crossed his mind before. Poor fool, so naive and innocent.

"Nevermind," I said. I looked over my shoulders once again to make sure Malcolm, the bird, and I had our privacy. I felt sure that we did so I snatched the bird with my bare hands. I sensed the repulsion churning inside poor Malcolm as I unzipped my bulky coat and stashed the bird inside its left breast.

"Come on, Malcolm. We gotta find a spot to hide this thing before somebody sees us." He still looked in a bit of shock, but soon snapped out of it.

"Umm, how about under the tree in the back? Nobody ever goes there and the trunk of the tree's grown all crazy. Maybe we can cover it with some leaves until school's out." Malcolm always had an air of sneakiness to him.

"Great!" I said, more gleeful than I had been in months, years even.

And so my old friend and I used the over-grown roots of that old oak tree to our advantage. We stuff the carcass of the dead crow under a particularly gnarly looking grouping of roots and covered what we could with brush and leaves from the cold October ground. That bird would change my outlook on life forever.

***

Shock still arose in me. Not because of the sudden demise of the strange creature that lay before me, but it seemed that the whole situation had caught up to me. Thus, I sat surrounded by nothing but unfamiliarity, with an invisible savior armed with a bow and a quiver of arrows.

I was amazed at my quick recovery from the shock. The last few moments unfolded as if in slow motion and now the fast forward button had been pushed. Emotions now swelled in me. The absence of shock was not a relief as I felt tears well up in my eyes and my heart begin to pound against my breastbone like a person trapped in a burning house.

Panic is a sensation that one does not envy. It's scary, and I have no shame for admitting that.

Remember, at the time I was but a twelve year old girl, a mere child. And although I was rather mature for someone of such age, I was still just that – a child. Frightened, lost, and alone. Three of the most terrifying elements any person can face. And there I sat, encircled by nothing but apparent death and dilapidation. Or so I thought.

"Bloody fucking Krags," said a voice unknown.

I sat up straighter than I thought I could have; my eyes wide open and my ears doubly so.

"Hello?!" I shouted frantically. "Who's there?!"

"Hmm, oh...A child,"an omnipresence muttered.

"Interesting."

"What's so interesting about it, really? I mean, I can see a lot more interesting things than me here," I rebutted.

"Perhaps to you, young one," he said from a distance. "But a child is something I see less of than death and decay." And in an instant, his voice was next to my ear. I could feel the air around my head change with the warmth of his breath on my neck.

Startled, I spun quickly, but was met by no one – nothing was there. I heard a chuckle some way off in the distance now. Could this be the same menace I just faced, only this one with a form of intelligence? Was everything in this place evil? I couldn't comprehend what was going on. And then he spoke again.

"What's your name, child?"

I felt as though answering would be unwise.

"Your name!" he said, slightly more aggravated.

I remained silent in hopes that he would simply get bored with me.

"Your name, now!" he pressed. Boredom was not in his repertoire.

"Elizabeth!" I shouted out in fear.

"Hmm. Elizabeth is it?" he responded, his voice sounding raspier now.

"Yes..." I said as I tucked my head between my knees.

I felt the air around me change yet again, but I refused to look up. I heard rustling in the brush behind me, but still I did not glance back. I was beginning to think this was a dream, and I could control my environment. But that didn't seem to be the case.

"Aye, you have every right to be scared young one," he sounded Irish now.

I didn't respond, but I felt a small squeak escape my lips.

"But, I am not of the list of things you need to fear," he said in a very comforting tone.

I felt a hand fall upon my shoulder. My first instinct was to jump up and run away without looking back, but something inside me felt as if this creature was safe. I looked up at my mystery savior.

He wore an outfit made up of what appeared to be an Elizabethan noble's wardrobe; but not neat and tidy, rather, it looked as though he had been cast out of his rank and thrown into the wilderness to fend for himself with nothing but the clothes on his back. His collar was without a ruff, it seemed as though it had been torn off, which was a shame – his shirt appeared to be made of silk as well. Everything about him seemed a little off. Maybe because one breeches leg was torn completely to the hip, and his exposed leg was covered mostly by a sock, and the remainder of his thigh wrapped in perhaps what was once the ruff around his collar, modified of course.

The more I examined the man, the more interested I became. Perhaps it was due to the fact that I couldn't see his face. The only thing were his eyes, they were exposed. He wore a rag of sorts around the majority of his face, covering the bridge of his nose to the highest point of his collarbone. He was beginning to give the impression of a wild-west outlaw combined with a character from a Shakespeare sonnet, or even Shakespeare himself. But the most fascinating feature of him was his eyes.

It was really the only piece of his body that I could see, everything else was covered by some sort of fabric or another, but his eyes shone with a yellow hue to them, something I've never seen before. I've heard of blue eyes being described as oceans, browns eyes with deep soul...but these eyes were a marvelous yellow, as if looking into the Sun from a space shuttle. They moved and flowed with a majestic movement that drew me in. They should have been terrifying, but they were not. They were comforting.

"It's not polite to stare, m'dear," he said, snapping me back to reality. I hadn't realized I had been staring so intently for so long.

"I'm sorry," I said earnestly.

"Not a worry, young one, yer clearly not from around here."

"Well, no, that's true... I'm not really. Actually, I don't even know where here is."

"Hmm, you needn't worry about such things. Here or there, it doesn't matter, as long as you're somewhere," he said with such confidence, I believed him.

"Now, where is it you're from?" he said, more or less completely contradicting his previous statement.

I paused to think for a moment, probably looking rather foolish. "Chicago," I finally blurted out.

"Chicaga," he said in a mixture of his two accents.

"No, Chicago," I corrected.

"Chicago, you say. Well, I can't say I've heard of this place" he responded.

"Well, it's real. I've lived there my whole life," I said matter-of-factly.

He jumped back, as if offended. "Well, if you're entire life says you're from a spot then who am I to disagree. But just to clarify, how long has your whole life been? He asked.

"Twelve years," I said standing up now, sort of proud – and arrogant.

"Twelve mighty years!" he yelped. "My now, I believe I have calluses on me feet older than you. I wouldn't believe them if they said they were from this...this...where was it again?" he finished.

"Chicago," I said, solemnly.

"Right! Chicago. I wouldn't believe them if they said they were from Chicago," he said, glaring at me with those super- nova eyes.

A moment of brilliance struck me. I looked at him with a slight grin and a raised eyebrow. "Well, would you believe them if they told you they were from the bottoms of your feet?"

He paused and leaned back, as if shoved by a force of wit. Raising his hand to his chin, he pondered for a moment before rebutting.

"Aye, I probably would then." He stood up straight and looked down at me, not with menace, but with a sense of pride. "Very well, let's get you back to this Chicago place... In fact, I think I know just who can be sendin' ya on yer way. Follow me!" e said with a hop in the direction he intended to go. I quickly scurried up to his side, and as I met him, he dropped his arm and held out his hand to prevent me from passing. He looked down, and watched me from the corner of his eye.

"But stay close, and do not wander. This is a dangerous place, and once lost, you may never be found," he said, beginning our journey on that eerie note.

Chapter 4

THE REST OF THE DAY, I COULDN'T concentrate. My mind was engulfed with thoughts of the bird. Unfortunately I had a window seat, and my gaze was rarely taken away from the tree in which we had buried the bird. The mighty oak tree was framed in the window with a perfect sense of gloom. The branches hung ominously this time of year, so weak and fragile in appearance. It was quite a sight. The wind took the heavier limbs from side to side, while the smaller twigs and branches broke off and flew out of view. I couldn't help but think the wind would blow the cover of my bird. A gust could easily come hurtling down removing all the leaves and exposing the corpse. I felt anxious at the thought; a knot tightened in my stomach and I suddenly felt ill; I rested my head on my desk.

Most often people would feel ill at the sight or thought of death – but I felt unwell at the thought of losing death. The bird was mine, and I suppose a bit Malcolm's, too. But he didn't feel the same way about the stiffened creature as I did; I could see it in his face. As fascinated as he was with the bird, the idea of death still frightened him. Perhaps the prospect of sharing the bird was more exciting for him, and now that he's done that, he'll not care anymore. Nevertheless, that won't ruin my fun and excitement.

The knot passed and the excitement returned with thoughts of what I could possibly do with this bird. I hadn't thought about it until now: what was I actually going to do with the bird; where would I even take it? I couldn't bring it home. If my mother saw it or found me with it, I would most likely be put up for adoption after she burned my hands and clothes to sanitize them.

But I couldn't just sit outside with it, what would I do then, merely look at it? No, that wouldn't do either. Besides there's too much exposure to the elements; the wind could pick up and carry the bird from my grasp, or it could begin to rain causing the bird to become soggy, thus causing its decomposing exterior to melt and break away.

With that thought, I felt a tingle of anticipation in my chest. I wonder what the inside of the bird would look like. Would it be filled with blood still, would the organs still be intact, would the bones be broken? I didn't know, and suddenly I found myself nearly standing and gazing out the window.

I was saved by the bell, so to speak. It was three o'clock; the final bell had just rung saving me from the embarrassment of tumbling towards the window prematurely. I gathered my things hastily and headed towards the door. I heard the teacher say something, but I wasn't paying attention to what it was, or who it was directed at. I hurried through the rows of desks and chairs being careful not to hit one and fall head over heels. I got to the door, and now I had tunnel vision. I couldn't see anything except for flashes of the bird, lying under the foliage just outside and across the yard. I began to jog, my legs pumped beneath me with excitement as I maneuvered around the other kids walking through the hall. Everything was but a blur now, even noises, I felt like I was under water.

Then I heard a specific and familiar noise. It was muffled at first, but the second beckon was clearer. It was my name.

"Elizabeth!" Malcolm shouted from behind me. It appeared he had been jogging after me, and now he was out of breath.

"Malcolm, what- what are you doing?" I said, snapping back to reality.

"I thought we were gonna walk home together, I told my mom you'd be coming over," he responded.

I pulled my overweight friend to the side of the hall, into an alcove and checked around to make sure there were no eavesdroppers – I wanted to share my secret of the dead bird with absolutely no one.

"Malcolm, did you forget already?" I said to him.

He stared at me blankly for a moment, but I got the impression he was playing dumb.

"The bird, remember...," I reminded him.

The poor boy looked down at his shoes to avoid eye- contact. He was ashamed, but of what I couldn't quite figure out. "Oh...yeah, I forgot," he said in monotonous voice. I knew he was lying, but I played along nevertheless.

"Well, come on then, we have to go get it before a cat or something digs it up and takes it away." I said, compelling him to come with me.

Again, he avoided eye contact and kicked the invisible dirt around his feet, but I knew Malcolm, and I knew he would be convinced to come.

"Al-Alright...," he said very unwillingly. However, I ignored his tone and pretended he was as excited as I was. It was indeed very selfish, but the thought of dissecting the lifeless corpse in one way or another was overwhelming, and it's not something I wanted to experience alone.

I grabbed him by his hand and pulled him along behind me, like an excited child dragging her less than enthused parent through the toy store towards the newest – and most expensive – play thing. We worked our way through the crowded hallways and eventually out of the warmth of our school, to the bitter courtyard that was our playground.

The wind had picked up since our last recess, and the sun had begun its descent towards the horizon making the temperature drop rapidly; this had made the biting chill of the wind that much more apparent. I had been in such a rush, I neglected to stop at my locker and collect my things – namely my jacket. The burgundy red sweater and the thin white blouse I wore to school that day did little to negate the effects of the wind.

I began to shiver. But I didn't care; my prize was just beyond the frigid field.

I still remember the sensation that went through my body as I approached the corpse of my winged salvation. The feeling at the time was similar to the excitement felt on Christmas morning, however as I grew older, I realized it to be more akin to that of an orgasm.

I shivered with anticipation as Malcolm and I neared our destination. In my excitement, however, I neglected to notice my friend's ever increasing pallor. He did not share my lust for the unknown that is death.

I knelt down in front of the makeshift hovel that protected the bird from the elements as well as prying eyes. The sense of anticipation arose in me even more the closer I got to it, and as I reached down to begin wiping away the leaves and small stones, I was interrupted by a hand on my shoulder.

"Lizzy, are you sure...?" Malcolm asked as he cautiously rested his hand on my shoulder. We were not very embracive as friends, perhaps it was our pre-pubescence, but we had never even so much as hugged. His touch on my shoulder felt beyond foreign to me, especially in that particular moment. As innocent as it was, it was almost as if his touch was the first brick in a wall rapidly being erected. I could do with him never touching me again.

"Am I sure about what?" I asked in response.

"About the bird. I mean what if it has a disease or something?"

I thought about that for a second. What if the reason the bird flew into the building was because he had Rabies or a form of the avian flu? His worrying was warranted, I gave him that.

"Fine. Give me your backpack," I demanded.

"What!? No way, where's yours?" he asked.

"Come on, I left mine in the school, and you know Frank locks the doors like two minutes after the bell." I pleaded, "Just let me use it. I'll give you mine tomorrow, we'll trade."

"But your bag's pink!" he pointed out rather justly. The pink bag may seem out of character for me, even at twelve. We have my mother to thank for that purchase. She thought, as a young woman, I could use a bit more femininity.

"Well, the pink suits you more than it does me anyway," I half joked. He didn't find the humor in it.

"Shut up," he said.

"Sorry, sorry...but can I use your bag, please?" I resorted to begging at this point. As much as I wanted to examine the bird further, I didn't want to get ill myself.

"We can tell your mom that you set it down in the hall, and the next thing you know it was gone. I'll back you up, I promise." There was a hint of desperation in my voice, and Malcolm hated to see me upset.

"Fine," he reluctantly gave in. He took the pack off of his back and handed it to me on the ground. I uncovered what was left of the brush and foliage that covered the small hole in the ground. And there it was. My miraculous Aves corpse, just as I had left it. I quickly took off my sweater and threw it over the bird. With the layer of protection from any harmful viruses, it felt sanitary enough to grab the bird and place it in Malcolm's backpack. He was none-too-pleased.

We were close now to discovering what lurks inside the dead. Would it be lush, red, and radiant; or would it be black and grim with decomposition. I couldn't wait to find out.

As Malcolm and I left the tree and ultimately the school yard, I thought more about where I could take the bird. My own house has been ruled out, that was obvious, and Malcolm's mom had been expecting the two of us at his house right after school. We had nowhere to go, except for one place that suddenly sprang to mind.

"Hey Malc...," I said with a sweet, but devious tone.

"Yes...?" he said slowly as if not wanting to hear the rest of what I had to say.

"Whattya say we look at this thing closer in your tree house?" I asked.

"Lizzy! Why?" he said almost whining.

"Because, where else are we going to?"

The chubby boy stopped walking. I hadn't noticed until I took another step or two. I paused and looked back at him. I stood there and threw my arms to the side and shrugged; I jutted my head forward as if to say "What's the hold up?" But he didn't make eye contact. He merely stood there looking at his shoes.

"Malc, what's wrong?"

"Why do you care so much about this bird, Liz?" he asked.

I thought about it for a moment. I was unsure of what to tell him. The truth would surely scare him off, but he would see through a lie. But I lied nonetheless.

"I dunno... Curious I guess? We never do anything fun, I thought this would be a nice change," I said. At this ripe age I had already learned the secret to lying – don't lie more than you have to, always leave some form of truth in the deception.

He looked up at me with a glint of anger in his face. "Nothing fun? So looking at a dead bird is something fun to you? Why don't we ask my mom if we can go rent a movie or something instead of doing whatever to that crow?" he asked with honesty.

"Because movies are lame. This is something hands on. Besides your mom's not gonna let us get anything good, it'll be like Care Bears or something. C'mon, it'll be fun." Again, I knew he would do whatever I asked. It was mean that I used him like that, but at that particular moment, I didn't care.

"Fine," he caved.

The wind became more ferocious the longer we walked. The icy needles pierced the exposed skin of my hands, and ripped through the sleeves of my blouse as if it weren't there.

The only saving grace was the training bra my mother bought me. It gave slightly more insulation across my torso, but it still faired below my liking. Although Malcolm didn't live far from the school, it didn't seem to matter this time of year, with no sweater or jacket, the usual ten minute walk felt like an eternity.

During the walk, I devised a plan to hide the bag from Malcolm's mother, after all she was meant to believe that it had been stolen at school. Malcolm, who was a horrible liar himself, was reluctant to agree, but he did for me.

When we arrived at his house, I carefully opened the gate to his back yard and quietly placed the sack with my treasure behind several garbage bins. I knew those would be there, for Malcolm's father had a habit of renovating anything and everything and the nearby bins were of convenience, in fact they kept no fewer than three tall disposal bins at all times. I also knew that his mother was very similar to mine – always having to keep up appearances, so the trash bins had to be hidden away from the world; shunned for their sole purpose. Oddly, I can relate.

While I was hiding the backpack, Malcolm would go into the house and tell his mother that I had forgotten something at school; she doesn't know about Frank's strange traditions of afterschool lockdowns.

Malcolm told his residing parent that I would be along in a minute and that he had waited for me, but eventually got cold and headed for home. This would lead to a lecture about proper morals and such, but he was used to it and was able to tune them out. That was one trait Malcolm and I had in common.

I waited a few moments behind the garbage bins, shivering, tucked into a small ball for warmth while trying to protect myself from the fierce wind. The thoughts of the bags contents still consumed me, even amidst the freezing temperatures. I was excited, and I began to shake even more. It could have been the cold, but I believe it was from the pure anticipation of opening my Pandora's Box.

When I felt the appropriate amount of time had passed, I walked towards the front where Malcolm's mother stood in the door way, waiting for me. When she saw me, her eyes widened, she opened the door and ran out towards me. Apparently, I had looked frozen to the bone, shivering and staggering as I walked with my arms folded in front of my chest; another instinctive tactic to keep the warmth in. When she met me on the side walk, I felt rather foolish. We had only been a few feet from the front door when she rushed, but she had embraced me in her arms to warm me up, as if I were her own. I simply couldn't picture my own mother doing that. The wretched witch would sooner slam the door, lock it and throw a sweater on in front of a window just to make a point. Maria, however, was indeed warm, and strangely, for a moment I relished her embrace – it was nice, but I believed that inside the house was the warmer of our options.

Inside, Maria wrapped me in a blanket she pulled from the couch.

"Elizabeth!" she yelled with concern. She, like my own mother was not too fond of calling me Lizzy. "Where's your jacket young lady?"

"At school," I responded, truthfully.

"Well, why's it there and not on you?"

"I forgot it. Didn't Malcolm tell you?" I asked, shooting Malcolm a cold look from the corner of my eye.

"He said you went back to the school, but didn't say what for. But that doesn't explain why you're not wearing it," she stated.

"Frank. He doesn't let people back into the school after the bell goes. 'Once you're out, you're out,' he says," I told her, doing my best at a male's voice as I could muster.

Maria stepped back for a second almost in shock.

"Who could do that to a child out in the cold, I'll have to talk to the principal about this Frank...Who is Frank?" she said, melodramatically.

"The janitor," Malcolm and I answered in unison.

Maria stood straight up and looked at Malcolm as if to say "You couldn't give this poor girl your jacket?" but returned her gaze to me.

"You all warmed up now?" she asked. That's when I realized that I was quite warm, but a shake remained. It was evidence of my excitement over the bird.

"Yes, thanks. I am, actually," I said, but Maria took notice of the shakes.

"Mmhmm, then why are you shaking?" I had to think quickly.

"Oh that... Umm," I was interrupted by Malcolm, thank God.

"Hey, Mom, we have any hot chocolate?" Her attention snapped from me and focused on her son.

"Umm, I think so. Actually, good idea, that should warm the both of you up," she said. Maria waltzed into the kitchen to begin making said hot chocolate. I walked over to Malcolm with the blanket still draped over my shoulders.

"Thanks, I was drawing a blank," I said to him.

"No...problem? I just wanted some hot chocolate," he said, honestly.

I rolled my eyes and handed him my blanket.

"Well, anyway, thanks. I couldn't think of anything," I said."Wait, you weren't shaking 'cause you were cold?" he asked.

"No, do I feel cold you?" I said as I grabbed his arm which was the same temperature as my hand.

"No... so why were you shaking?"

"None of your business..." I paused. "So, when do you think we can go sneak out to the tree house?"

***

I had been walking with this creature of a man for some time now; so long, in fact, that it felt rather like an eternity. I was beginning to feel weary and a little weak in the knees, and it only worsened with every step I took, until my legs finally gave out beneath me. When I collapsed, I made a quiet but audible thud and the brush around my fallen body spewed up in a cloud of ash. This caught the attention of my companion.

"Aye, this is no time to stop and take a nap," he said in a cockney accent now. His accents were mystifying; I had never heard anything like it before.

"Sorry," I said, "I'm exhausted..." I rested my head on my folded arms.

"Oh," he said with slight concern. He walked over and knelt down beside me.

"Well, this not be a good place to rest, we're close to the border lands."

"The border lands...?" I questioned in a tone that implied I didn't truly care.

"Aye, not a very safe place to be, all sorts of nasties from one place or another trying to invade the others land. It's much like a war that never ends," he answered.

This caught my attention. I lifted my head just enough to see my cohorts face.

"I don't think I can...I'm just so...tired..." I said, nodding off. To sleep in such a place wouldn't be fathomable to a normal person, however I felt as though I had no choice. It was as if the castle in the distance was housing a wizard who cast a spell of sleep over me. I feared the only way I could awake is if a kiss from a prince graced my lips. If only that were the case. Unfortunately, this world was more akin to a nightmare than a dream, and I would sooner be eaten than kissed awake.

***

When I awoke, there was no handsome prince on a glorious white horse with golden hair flowing gracefully in the wind, rather only my fellow traveler, and I was in his arms. There was no spell; there was no trickery of any sort. I had simply fallen asleep, overcome with exhaustion, which I found to be peculiar consider I was already in a dream, or so I thought, anyway.

"What happened?" I asked in a groggy tone. My friend apparently had not noticed I stirred awake and he looked down in a quite surprise.

"Well, you fell asleep. Children! I'm glad I was never one," he spurted out in a tone of discontent. A curious statement, I thought.

"How could I have just fallen asleep?" I asked. He stopped, and set me on my feet.

"Well, m'dear, I have no idea. Ask yourself, you were the one that had fallen asleep, not I," he said, making a valid point. "But, take notice of your surroundings, dear. This be the most dangerous place of all. This is the Forest of the Dead. Be thankful this isn't where you decided to fall into Morpheus' grip." He was intelligent or at least well versed on the Greek Gods of old, knowing that Morpheus was the Greek God of sleep and dreams.

I heeded his advice and looked around – and the scene was quite grisly. The trees stood tall and grey against the everlasting twilight sky, their branches crooked and sharp in the silhouette of the static sunset, and hanging from every branch was a corpse equipped with a hangman's noose around its neck. The body's dangled from the limbs, swaying in the still air, dripping spots of blood on the dead grey ground below.

As we wandered through the Forest of the Dead, I noticed the pools of blood below the trees; they were not mere puddles of the occasional stray drop, but rather massive moats around the base of the trees, as if the trees fed off the blood.

"The Forest of the Dead; dear Elizabeth, you don't want to find yourself here alone, the fate of these men and women is everlasting," he said in a voice full of solemn regret. "These bodies are not dead, as the namesake of the forest may imply. Ney, they are alive, forever to be tortured. The nooses around their necks aren't made of rope; they're made of the tree itself. The thistle-like bark tightens and releases at will, bleeding the body's dry, only to be replenished, and then drained again. This will happen for all eternity. Only one knows who these men are, Elizabeth, and nobody dare ask in fear that they will join the ranks of the never ending dead," he said as he looked to his feet in shame.

His once fiery eyes turned a cold blue, as if the suns in his orbital bone had been eclipsed by a moon of terrible sadness.

The Forest of Death was a unique experience, and although I should have been terrified by what I witnessed, I was not. If it weren't for my strange friend, I would have surely climbed one of the trees to further inspect one of the hanging men. I wondered if they were still conscious. I figured they must have been, considering they were being tortured; after all, what would torture be if the victim couldn't feel it.

My suspicions of the hanging men's consciousness was confirmed by the occasional blood curdling screams that came from both near and far. When I asked my companion why so few scream, he explained that many of them had been hanging so long that they're used to the pain by now and have learnt that screaming was futile. Either that, or they've screamed for so long, they've destroyed their vocal cords beyond any sort of magical repair, like that of the blood replenishing.

I felt sorry for them, the thousands of razor sharp needles piercing their skin every few seconds. Having to see their own blood pour from open wounds and run down their bodies and flow to the ground below; watching it being absorbed by the earth and recycled into God knows what, it must have been devastating.

I wondered if they could hear the flesh being torn from their body, the slow ripping and tearing as the thistle pulls out to release the pool of crimson. I had a shiver pass through me as I thought of such things, the same sensation I had weeks ago when Malcolm and I found that dead crow.

In fact, I had pondered on such things for so long that my partner and I had wandered out of the Forest of the Dead onto a wide open plane; a field so vast in size that it went to the horizon and beyond. I was in awe of the sheer size of the meadow that I nearly missed the colour of everything. The ground, the grass, the shrubs... all of it was dark red – blood red. Even the sky had changed here, it was the first time since I arrived in this world that the sky had changed from its bleak twilight setting. Although the time still seemed to be at a standstill, being in the twilight hours, the sky now had bright white stars that looked so close they could be plucked out of the sky like flowers.

Another interesting scene was the celestial force that was present. It was as if the sun and the moon had converged into one glorious ball on the horizon. Half moon and half sun, but as big as I've ever seen either. But in the foreground of this stunning landscape was the castle that seemed so far when I had first arrived. My companion stopped at the brink of the scenery and held out his arm so I couldn't pass. So lost in wonder, I had walked right into his blockade.

"Elizabeth, are ya sure you're ready to discover what's in that tower?" he said, grimly, all the while looking straight ahead, almost afraid to take his eyes off of it.

"Yeah, I think...Why wouldn't I be?" I asked, innocently.

"You may not enjoy the choices given."

"Choices? How do you know there'll be choices?"

"I know the man who lives in that very castle. There's always a choice to be had, and neither of the friendly persuasion." He spoke now in his raspy Irish voice.

"Neither?" I asked.

"Aye, he only gives two; sometime something as simple as a yes or no, sometimes something more elaborate like a riddle with two outcomes... Or the third..." He trailed off.

"What's the third?" I asked with some enthusiasm.

"The third, dear Lizzy... A task," he answered.

"That hardly seems like a choice," I said in response.

"Aye, but it's the one with the most choice. You could flat out not accept the task, you could accept it and fail, or you could lie by accepting it with no intention of completing it," he said somberly.

"Well, when you put it that way, I guess it does have some choice to it," I said, admitting my mistake.

"So, Lizzy, again I must ask... are you sure you're prepared for what you'll meet in that fortress?"

I thought for a moment, but came to the only decision that seemed reasonable.

"What choice do I have? You said whoever lives in that castle will give me a choice, but I want you to give me one too. What if I'm not ready, what if I don't want to?" I asked with the intention of leaving this place eventually. My newfound friend paused for a moment, but his gaze still fixated on the massive structure before us.

"I cannot offer you a choice, and for that I will forever be regretful." He said with such sadness, I felt it within my core.

"I guess I'm as ready as ever then... Let's go." I said, and with that my companion lowered his arm to his side, and we departed for the castle in the distance, through the field of blood red, into the celestial twilight.

Chapter 5

THE TREE HOUSE IS ONE OF THE renovations that Malcolm's father wanted to do for as long as I can remember. He always said a boy needed a place to hang out with his friends in private, away from prying eyes. The only thing is, Malcolm had few friends. In fact, I was the only other person from our school to have even stepped foot inside it. I may have been the only one who even knew about it. The lack of widespread knowledge was probably for the best. I felt other boys from class would just use him for the privacy; abuse his kind nature in general. Sort of like what I was doing.

No matter the lack of attendance in the skyward clubhouse, it served its purpose well in the case of privacy. The tree house had been around for close to half a year, and Malcolm and I had used it a handful of times, mostly to appease his father who put a good amount of effort into it. Rarely did we partake in anything exciting, mostly just talking or looking out the window to see Malcolm's over-protective mother watching us like a hawk, afraid that her baby bird my flutter and fall to the ground. Nevertheless, the tree house would see its fair share of excitement before the day was out. On that fateful day, the tree house would become a grizzly scene of the macabre, more so than I could have ever imagined.

Despite the best efforts of Maria, who was adamantly against us going in that "Death trap," as she called it, in the

weather that presented itself, Malcolm and I sat across from one another, the bird in the middle, and two thermoses of hot chocolate to either side of us. We both stared at the bird, not knowing what to do. For all my excitement, I clearly lacked the preparation for such a procedure. Malcolm however appeared to lack the stomach to even be in the same room, given the bird produced a faint odor that could be perceived as nauseating. Fearing he'd never look at hot chocolate again, I promptly opened up my thermos and dumped its contents out of the window – I then did the same to his. The two aromas mixed in the swirling wind briefly after I had poured it to the ground, and soon dissipated completely. Malcolm's expression seemed less sickly after that.

My original intent was to perform a sort of autopsy, cutting the bird down the belly to see what its inners held, but we were without tools.

"So, what do we do with it, Liz?" Malcolm asked.

"Dunno. See how it died?" I replied.

"I thought we agreed it flew into the school and broke its neck," he rebutted.

"Yeah, but we don't know that for sure." My argument was valid, considering no death is confirmed without a proper examination.

"Lizzy, what are you gonna do?" Malcolm asked in a worried tone.

I couldn't help it. In the time we had been sitting there, my prize was laid out in front of me and I had been fighting the urge to tear into it with my bare hands, but the sensation could wait no longer. I didn't need to answer the boys query with words, my actions soon took over.

With the bird between us, I lunged with both hands, not caring about any disease I may contract, grabbing the bird's torso firmly. I brought it to eyelevel, staring at its head which was turned at an angle not natural to life. I could see Malcolm in my periphery beyond the bird, his mouth gaping and eyes yawning, but the bird soon took the centre of my focus again.

I held the bird such that my thumbs were directly on the creature's breastbone; I felt for the seam in the rib cage, found it, and pushed. My thumbs cracked through the hollow bones that made up this old crow's sternum leaving just a spongy area under the feathers and skin. My nails hadn't been sharp enough to penetrate the skin.

I transferred the corpse into my left hand and began plucking feathers frantically to get to the rough skin underneath. Surely the hide of a bird couldn't be too thick.

The more I pulled the feathers, the more violent I became. I plucked so furiously that bits of skin were beginning to fly off, and spots of dried blood started to appear. I paused for a moment at sight of the blood. I couldn't help but stare as if in a trance, it was fascinating to me that a long dead creature could bleed; even it was just the dried blood which once fed the feathers.

The bird's skin had been exposed, featherless and spotted with dried blood. A crooked smile crept onto my face, and then I dug into it with all my might, thumb nail first. I broke through the skin only slightly at first, but I kept at it. I began to grind my nail up and down, like a make-shift saw, slicing and tearing at the coarse, cold skin until finally I broke through. Who needs tools?

I felt the tiny broken ribs rub against the skin on my thumb, like shattered toothpicks, as I penetrated into the heart of the corpse. At first, it was moist and slimy, but not in a bad way. No, it was fascinating in its grotesque nature; in fact it was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. I was content, but not entirely satisfied.

I don't believe at this point Malcolm had realized what I'd accomplished. He was in a sort of shocked state. I don't think he could believe what I was doing. How could he be blamed, though? He didn't ask for any of what was taking place, and if I'm honest, I all but forgot he was with me. In my mind, it was just the spirit of the bird watching me tear into its once carcass.

With my thumbs firmly in its sternum, I set the bird level with the floor. Malcolm could now see what I had done, in case he didn't already know, but it was what I had planned to do next that really threw him off.

The bird floated level with the floor, about an inch off it when I pulled my thumbs apart. Bones cracked and flesh tore, some left over stomach liquid splashed up like a small explosion with the force I asserted. The sound was like nothing quite like I'd heard before. It was wet, like the ripping of a green leaf, or the snapping of a twig that hadn't fully dried out. No sense went unused: sight, touch, audio, were the obvious one, however, it was the smell that stood out the most. The smell of rotting decay suddenly overwhelmed the tight quarters – it was so intense that it could be tasted. Once the scent was in the olfactory nerve, it only took a brief moment for it to find its way to the tastes centre. It tasted like spoiled milk, possibly even rotten eggs, or perhaps a mix of the two. Malcolm vomited, and I barely noticed.

I was slightly disappointed at the lack of blood and entrails. Decomposition had been working its magic, and as it turns out, a bird's digestive system is very basic to begin with, but what surprised me more was the contents of it stomach, which I had evidently broke into.

Inside I found bits of twig, rocks, and small pieces of plastic – what it came from was unidentifiable.

My work was still unsatisfactory. The tiny bits of bone and the nearly dried up carcass wasn't enough to gratify my morbid curiosity, so I dug deeper into the corpse. My thumbs pierced the spine, sending that familiar snapping noise into the air. When it broke, it felt much like the wishbone breaking from a turkey after it's been cooked; only no wish was made on my end. My wish was coming true.

I felt my thumb hit the back of the bird; its skin had a rubbery texture from the inside. I had completely destroyed the animal's core bone structure. What was once a solid cadaver now barely had the consistency of a sock puppet. Its limp wings lay sprawled out over my palm, exposing what was left of its innards. It didn't disgust me, but it didn't excite me like I had hoped it would.

With its torso being of little significance after all, I turned my attention towards its broken neck and lifeless head. Putting the bird back into my left hand, I grabbed the sides of its head with my thumb and forefinger, and in one twisting motion had snapped the birds head to face me; a fascinating grinding sound was made audible, like that of knuckles cracking. That was slightly more satisfying.

With the birds head looking directly at me now, I focused on the eyes. Its eyes were small and black and although it was absent of life, still quite beady, and they reminded me of caviar. With the same fingers I used to twist the head back into place I plunge into the eyes socket. It was easier than I had expected. As my forefinger protruded into the eye, it merely popped out, bringing with it the optical nerve and a small string of muscle. This is what I had been waiting for.

At the moment that the eye dangled from the birds head, I heard a rather loud thud. Snapping back to reality for a moment, I saw that Malcolm did not share my interest in the dismemberment of our feathered friend. He had passed out.

I can honestly say that I was torn between helping my lifelong friend and further dissecting the bird. I still held the bird in my hand with its eye hanging a centimeter or so out of its socket, even with Malcolm passed out at my feet. However, I couldn't let my friend suffer, I wanted to help him. I plucked the eye and what tissue I could salvage from the head and placed it in my pocket. I was about to throw the bird out the side window, but something stopped me. I couldn't let it go.

The mangled body was of no importance to me anymore, but the head still interested me. I brought the bird close to my chest, and, like it was the lid of a Coke bottle, I snapped the birds head off. I looked at it for a second, some bits of spinal cord hung down the middle of the head like a ponytail of horror. Pleased with this, I stuffed the head into my side pant pocket and threw the useless torso out the window. There was just one last piece of evidence that needed to be cleaned up – my sweater.

I hadn't been wearing it when I arrived at Malcolm's house, so I thought it'd be rather suspicious if Maria or Mike came across it in the rescue of their boy. I couldn't think of what to do with it, throwing it out the window didn't seem like a good idea as it could blow straight towards the house. Putting it on and hoping they didn't notice was another option, but it was covered in feathers from my frenzy earlier.

I did the only thing I could think of. I shoved the sweater in the supposedly stolen backpack, opened the front door of the tree house and threw the bag with all my might onto the roof of

Mike's tool shed. It wasn't exactly close, but as it turns out, my height advantage gave me the leverage I needed to land the back on the near side. I hoped nobody would see it, after all, why would they when they heard my blood curdling scream.

Yes, I screamed.

I had to make the performance seem authentic, and although Malcolm passing out worried me slightly, I didn't find it scream worthy. However, I needed to play it to full effect, and it worked. I heard Maria yell out from the backdoor, it was mostly inaudible thanks in part to the wind, which was howling its chilling howl. I screamed again to make the point clear that there was an emergency. Malcolm still had not woken up.

I heard the back door slam and two voices shouting at one another coming closer and closer. I dared not look out the window; I thought taking my eyes off of Malcolm would understate my shock. I let out one more shriek to put the final exclamation on the incident, albeit the weakest of the trio let out. Screaming didn't become me: it was noisy, attention calling, and in my opinion, very weak willed. None of which I enjoyed being associated with.

Just as my final cry for help left my lips, the door of the tree house burst open, and there was Mike, looking as if he had seen a ghost. Before he could say anything, he saw it. His one and only son laying unconscious on the floor; and he was there because of me, but that's something I hoped he never found out.

Mike rushed in, followed nimbly by his wife. Mike attended to his son, while Maria saw how shaken I appeared to be, and hurried to comfort me. She wrapped her motherly arms around me, and held me close to her bosom, so close, in fact, I couldn't see, or even hear what was happening with Malcolm. Mike, I assumed, had been on his knees tending to his son's head while trying to avoid the puke. His parental instincts must have taken over as he wasn't in first aid by trade or profession, or perhaps all the medical shows that saturated TV came to use so he was able to stabilize Malcolm in a makeshift, TV doctor manner.

The whole experience was rather traumatic for all parties involved. The wind was howling, the parents were screaming, and there was I, off to the side of all the action, not being able to see what was going on, relying solely on my overactive imagination to fill in the details. It sufficed, I suppose.

By the time Maria had finally loosened her grip on me, Malcolm and his father were gone. They made minimal amounts of noise heading out of the structure and down the ladder, so little in fact that I barely heard a shuffle or a bump. Maria looked down at me with worried eyes filled with tears, like a rain cloud too full to hold its precipitation any longer, and told me to follow her as she went down the ladder of the tree house and into the main house. I did as I was told.

Thanks to the head start, and our delicate descent of the tree house ladder, and by the time we gingerly crossed the back

yard through the bitter wind, which only seemed to have gotten worse, Malcolm and his dad were pulling out of the drive way. The portable phone on the kitchen table lit up and rang nearly immediately as we crossed the threshold into its warm embrace, safe from the numbing wind. Maria made a mad dash to answer it, as if leaving for a second longer meant her sons life. I had no doubt it was Mike calling from the car, it was only logical. I could only hear Maria's end of the conversation, and it was as I expected. She didn't answer with a hello, I'm not even sure if she made a noise other than a solemn how is he? The news on the other end must not have been to her liking as she broke down instantly. It was a possibility that result would have come no matter what was said to her. Maria was a soft woman, and even when she needed to stay strong, she crumbled.

I saw my best friend – my only friend, fall unconscious before my eyes. His pale lifeless body lay sprawled out before me, and I could only think of one thing... Hide the evidence.

Nevertheless, I did worry for the boy, as I mentioned, but not as much as I should have. I had other things to worry about, like the barrage of questions that were sure to arise.

It was a good thing that in all the commotion I was able to come up with a plausible story, at least a believable one. After all, there wasn't much to clean up. The sweater sat within the backpack which sat atop the shed, out of eyesight for now, but with the wind in the fall, I wasn't sure how long it would stay up there. Luckily nobody had noticed the small amount of blood and debris of the bird on tree house floor, and I was confident that it wouldn't be seen for some time. However, I was slightly concerned that Maria may notice it when she returned in few hours to clean the vomit from the floor. I hoped the wind would pass through the open door and windows and blow the feathers out. The blood was miniscule, and the rest of the entrails could be mistaken for muddy twigs, or some natural foliage – all of these things I hoped for, but in my mind seemed to make sense.

Maria had been on the phone with Mike the whole way to the hospital, granted, the hospital wasn't far away, but she had hung up the phone and turned her attention towards me. She didn't have a scolding look to her, as I feared she might. Guilt overwhelmed me momentarily, or perhaps just fear that I'd be caught.

"Malcolm came to when he was in the car," she said to me, breathing a sigh of relief. I could tell she was battling back the tears.

"Are you ok, Lizzy?" she asked sincerely. I had to at least act startled.

"Yeah... I think so... I don't really know what just happened...," I lied.

"Well, Malcolm past out, that's all. Nothing to worry about," she lied.

She looked to the ceiling, then back down at me. Clearly shaken with tears welling up in her eyes, she asked, "What happened?"

"I dunno," I said, looking down. "We were just talking about school and stuff when he went really white, threw up, and just fell over." I omitted the part about the desecration of the bird.

"Ok, Lizzy I'm gonna take you home and then go to the hospital. Tell your mom I'll call her later."

I nodded, and with that we left.

As promised, Maria called later that night. I had, of course, filled my parents in on what had happened, obviously failing to mention what had truly happened. I told them all they needed to know about Malcolm, the "stolen" backpack, and the forgetting of my jacket and sweater at school. Much like Maria, my mother was displeased with Frank the Janitor for not letting me back into the school. I hoped it would go no further, for Frank would surely contradict my story as I had not actually made the attempt to go back in the school.

My mother and Maria spoke on the phone for hours, Maria filled her in on all the details from the hospital, and I did my best to seem concerned. But, in all honesty, I worried more for my own skin. That bag wouldn't stay on the shed's roof for long, and when it came down, it would fall into Malcolm's yard, revealing a more sinister side to the tale I told everybody.

Setting phone on its receiver, my mother called my father and me into the kitchen. It was her intention to update us on Malcolm's condition. We sat around the dining room table. The same table I would later massacre a legion of bread rolls.

"So Malcolm had some tests done in the hospital... They said everything came back okay; nothing was abnormal," my mother said. "They said he was in shock."

"Shock?" My dad said. "From what?"

I panicked inside. What if he had said what we'd... what

I'd done? I would have surely been grounded for months, sent to child psychiatrists, been put on medication, the whole nine yards. Fortunately, my secret was safe.

"He didn't say," my mom said. "Actually, he hasn't said anything since he came to."

"Nothing at all?" my dad asked.

My mother shook her head no, and then turned her gaze towards me. "What were you two really doing up there, huh Elizabeth? What did you do to him?" she accused; she always blamed me.

"Nothing, Mom," I said. "We were just sitting there, talking when he got sick and blacked out. I dunno, maybe it was something he ate?" I lied, but I had to keep my story straight, surely she and Maria would talk later about what happened and compare my stories.

"I don't believe you. You're lying. You're a little liar, aren't you? Why are you lying? Damn it, Elizabeth Walker, what did you do to that poor boy?!" I told you about her ability to accuse and sentence; ask and answer all in one long winded rant – it was a skill to be sure.

"Leave her alone, Carol. What could she have possibly done to the kid?" My father: the ever-present defendant to my mother's constant persecution. This was our routine, I would do something wrong, my mother would scold, and my father would be sympathetic. Usually she would be indifferent to this, however on this occasion she shot him the wickedest look I've ever seen. He sat back in his seat and perked straight up.

She walked over to him and got within a breaths reach to his face and said, "So help me God, Dan... If she did something and you defend her, I'll leave. I promise you that." With that, she pulled back and calmly walked out of the room. I could hear her grab her purse, and seconds later the front door slam.

Most children blame themselves for the demise of a marriage, but this could have truly been my fault.

However, this was clearly not to be. My parents did not split up, as apparent by what I told you earlier... Before the dream that changed my life, but I will get to that, don't worry.

Chapter 6

IT WAS SEVERAL DAYS UNTIL I HAD seen Malcolm again – it was several days until anybody had seen Malcolm again. His mother said that when he had arrived home from the hospital, he dragged himself straight up to his room and wedged the door shut with something. He hadn't a lock on his door, a safety precaution I assume; so the way he did it remained a small mystery for some time. Of course he eventually told me, as we would use the same mechanism later on– but I'm getting a head of myself again.

I missed Malcolm but there was nothing I could do. Although nobody could prove I had done something to him, nobody wanted to risk me seeing him in case I induced the same state of shock again like a natural reflex of sorts. I understood and merely stayed away.

Nobody at school had known what happened either, which I was thankful for as children can be the cruelest creatures of all. Most of the teachers knew he was hospitalized, but none knew the exact reason. They all assumed he had pneumonia or something as it was the time of year for kids to get ill. Some asked me, as they knew he and I were close, but I just confirmed their stories of flu's and other illnesses. However, the remaining teachers and students who didn't ask or didn't speculate merely did not notice his absence.

I found that to be rather discouraging. Malcolm had been attending the same school as many of these teachers and students his whole life, and when he disappears for a full school week, few even bat an eye. We're all cogs in the machine, but apparently he wasn't an essential one.

As the days progressed without Malcolm sitting just to my right, and the complete ignorance at his absence, I was indeed becoming more and more infuriated with this society standard. Did they even know he existed? Would they even care if he had died? A week in school is an eternity.

However, when his absence was about to reach day seven, he returned. I felt a warmth in me flow, something I hadn't felt for a long time. It was a different kind of excitement than what I felt with the bird, it was a good feeling; a calm feeling. He strode into the room casually... solemnly. This wasn't the same boy I had shared my childhood with, he was changed. I could tell this just the way he walked. Usually he was slow and quiet... but his demeanor suggested a darker personality.

He sat in his usual seat to my right, but didn't even as much as glance at me. I watched him since he stepped through the door; I made no secret of it, in fact I had hoped he would notice me, feel me watching and turn to greet me, but nothing. So I broke the deadlock.

"Hey, Malc...," I said. He didn't look over. "How ya feeling...?" I said with a cautious undertone. I felt as though I had just addressed a stranger.

"Fine," he said without looking over. Perhaps he wasn't ready, he wasn't truly better, but his mother forced him out of his room and sent him to school insisting he's missed too much already and that he'll fall behind. It's something my mother would do after all.

"Fine... That's it?" Ready or not, I needed to know about my friend, I needed to know if he was actually alright.

"Yes, Lizzy. I'm fine," he said before shooting me a look of discontent.

"Fine... whatever," I said in a rather bitchy tone. But for the rest of the day, Malcolm was silent. A few teachers acknowledged his presence with surprise, but most just checked his name off the attendance sheet without a second thought and continued on with the lesson plan; again, this was unacceptable to me, but the majority of my concern was Malcolm's lack of emotion, especially towards me.

The next few days after Malcolm's return were much the same. He wouldn't look at me, or talk to me. It was strange; we sat across from one another at lunch, but never made eye contact. We walked down the halls together and sat beside one another in every class, like every other day had been... But I was beginning to feel like a lost puppy nipping at the heels of the first thing I saw and decided to call it mother.

This behavior continued only until the end of the day on the first Friday Malcolm had been back; he returned on Wednesday. Nothing about him had changed, and we went through the routine of ignorance throughout the entire day, that is until the final bell. We were at our lockers, which of course were side by side, when he broke his vow of silence. He just couldn't keep it in anymore.

"Why'd you do it, Lizzy?" he asked, looking straight into his locker.

"Do what...?" I asked.

"What you did to the bird," he said, monotonously.

I paused, I had forgotten about my mutilation of the bird's corpse. I still had the head at home buried in my sock drawer.

"I don't know, Malcolm...I was curious. I don't know why I did it. Really, I don't." My voice was almost pleading while I lied through my teeth. I knew why I did it, but again revealing my true intentions would deem me fit to label insane.

"Don't lie, Lizzy. You did it 'cause you knew I didn't want to be there. You wanted to see me get sick and pass out. You're no better than any of the other bullies here... No you're worse," he said. I could see tears well up in his eyes.

"No, Malcolm, that's not true. You know me better than that..." I tried my best to convince him. His accusations actually stung me, his words like the busy stinger of an annoyed bee. The last thing I intended was to hurt him.

"Do I really know you? Last week I didn't think you'd pull apart a bird's dead body, but you did. So what should I think?" He made a compelling argument. Who was I to argue with that logic, after all, if the roles were reversed, if it were me in his position, I would have probably reacted the same. I could make no argument, so I didn't. For the first time in nearly a week, Malcolm looked me in the eye. When I said nothing, he slammed his locker shut and walked away from me. I feared it would be for the last time.

What I did next was brash. If I didn't do what I did, perhaps things would have turned out different... better.

As Malcolm walked away, I felt an insatiable wave of guilt pass over me. Was I about to lose my only friend in the world? It was likely the case, so I ran after Malcolm. I shouted his name once or twice, and I noticed his head twitch back like a dog's ear when you call to him. But he did not look back. He simply moved forward as if in a trance. We both bumped shoulders with the other kids in the hall, but Malcolm was big – and when he used the force behind his weight, he was unstoppable. On the other hand, my slender form merely ricocheted from body to body. It took me the length of the hall way, down a flight of stairs, and out the side door before I caught up to him thanks to the traffic in the corridors.

When I finally got to him, I reached out and grabbed his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. He violently shrugged off my hand.

"Malcolm, wait." He stopped, but did not face me. "I'll tell you why I did it. But you can't tell anybody else, ok?"

He glanced over his shoulder. "Ok..."

"Promise!" I demanded.

"I promise."

I didn't want to tell him there. I thought it inappropriate, so we walked to a park near the school, on the way home. It was fairly secluded, and nobody would eavesdrop on a couple of kids sitting having a chat. So that's where we ended up, on a pair of swings, like we would do when our mothers brought us here when we were half the age we are now.

"I guess I owe you the truth at least, after what happened," I said, swaying back and forth ever so slightly. Malcolm nodded, barely.

"I dunno how to explain it, but I'll try," I said. I took a deep breath. "But haven't you ever been so curious about something that it totally took over your every thought?" I waited for him to respond, but he just looked at the ground.

"Malcolm, it was eating me alive. I needed to know why... how that bird died. I'd never seen anything dead that close before; it just took over. I couldn't think of anything else. I swear I didn't mean to hurt you or scare you." I had been looking at the ground while I was speaking, and when I looked up Malcolm was looking at me with a slight tilt to his head. He nodded as if telling me to go on, and so I did.

"When you showed me that bird, I was itching to get at it. I didn't think I would react like I did when we got into the tree house, but once I started, I couldn't stop. Curiosity got the better of me. I was curious about death...," I said honestly.

"Death?" Malcolm said in an inquisitive tone.

"Yeah, I know. Messed up, right?"

"A bit," he said with a smirk, the first hint at a smile I've seen from him in a week. "So you didn't do that just to mess with me?" he asked with the little smile still present on his face.

"C'mon, Malc... I wouldn't do that to you," I said honestly. The boy's smirk turned to a smile now.

"Yeah, I know. It was just so weird..." He trailed off. "I know. I'm screwed up. But are we good?" I asked. Malcolm looked to the ground, trying to act as though he was still mad. He was a horrible actor. "Yeah, we're fine," he said.

That was the bright point of my week. As we sat there on the swings, we chatted about what he had done for the week he was gone, locked away in his room. We spoke about little things when an awkward silence fell over the conversation, and we joked about times we had at the park from when we were first able to form memories. Many of my earliest memories included Malcolm. But since he had brought up the bird autopsy, I hadn't been able to think about anything else.

The conversations I had with my friend weren't sincere, for every chance I had, I thought of my fingers tearing into the bone and flesh of that crow. I wanted to do it again.

The day turned into evening, and dusk was upon us when we finally left the swings and parted ways. His family still was unsure about letting him see me, so our meeting was secret. It was Friday, and it was the last time I would see Malcolm for exactly two days. The very next day, I would have my fateful meeting with the storied Mr. Gabriel.

***

We passed through the darkly beautiful field of blood and stars in complete silence. It was as if my partner was afraid to speak. He looked straight ahead with his fiery eyes. His eyes... they were still a marvel to me. Before I fell into this dream-like world, I had a run-in with my elderly babysitter, Mr. Gabriel. He too had eyes of intrigue, but they were fearsome, piercing, and disconcerting. If Gabriel's eyes were that of pure evil, which I'm certain they were, then my friend here had eyes of unheralded righteousness. I was thankful to have him as my protector and companion... But I had not known his name. The thought had not come to me to ask.

We had approached a moat, running as red as I had ever seen. It was a dark crimson red and almost looked like motor oil; of course I knew that wasn't the case. It flowed with a strong current, almost like it had a purpose. It raged more aggressively the closer we got. My companion stopped, and I promptly followed his lead.

"What do we do now?" I asked.

"We wait," he said in a Scottish accent.

"Wait for what?" "A bridge."

"A bridge? I don't see a bridge."

"There'll be one. He knows we're here," he said with a haunting tone in his now raspy voice. He emphasized the He just before his voice turned over. He spoke of this unknown man before, each time with discontent. I knew there was an untold history here, but I felt prying would be futile.

It was at the moment I completed that thought that the ground began to shake ever so slightly. It was followed by an audible rumble, which promptly turned to a rather loud rumble. I was frightened and curious all at the same time, and I found myself clinging to my friend's leg with all my might, but when I looked up, he was unfazed. His eyes narrowed, and I swore I could see a flare protrude from his sockets.

The rumbling and shaking became more and more fierce. I closed my eyes and hid my face behind the leg to which I clung. I dared not look. My twelve year old logic suggested that if I could not see the evil, it could not see me, and therefore not harm me.

"What's going on?!" I shrieked from behind his thigh.

"Our bridge," he said, gravely.

He spoke the truth. I peeled my face from behind the safety of the leg and was able to bear witness to a large stone pillar raise from the cerise river below. It was just tall, long, and wide enough for the two of us to cross.

My friend looked down at me with a fierce intensity in his eyes, and then he spoke with an intensity that matched his glare.

"It's time." The way he uttered those two words had the power to move mountains.

With that, we began our approach over the deep red river below, and into the fortress that seemed so far away not so long ago.

When I first arrived in this desolate place, the castle was the only place that seemed to be salvation. Surrounded by death, it was the beacon of light that I was drawn to. Ultimately, it was always destined to be my final destination in this world, but I had hoped for a place of solace and peace. That was not meant to be, and it became more and more apparent the further we crept into the stronghold.

The walls were lined with veins and arteries as if we were inside a living, beating heart. They pulsated in a rhythmic motion; we were surely in the heart of this world. There were no windows... save one directly in front of us down the hall. The light that protruded through the window was enough to source the entire passageway, even though it seemed miles away. Yet another phenomenon that defied every bit of logic conceivable.

As we neared the front of the hall, I noticed movement on our flanks. I couldn't say for sure, but I don't think my companion noticed them. His gaze was focused straight ahead on some distant goal. I found myself gravitating towards his legs yet again, as if they were a sanctuary from the madness that surrounded me.

"Don't fear them, child. They can't hurt you here, especially not whilst you're by my side," he said in his Cockney accent. He had evidently noticed whatever it was that had been lurking in the shadows on either side of us.

The hall was a massive cavernous structure with ceilings towering at fifty feet, and easily as long as three football fields. Funny though, it didn't seem this gigantic from the outside; another one of the laws of this world, I thought to myself.

As we progressed, I could make out a silhouette of something rather large in front of us. At first, it was just a black mass, but then some structure took shape as our view was brought into perspective. The closer we got, the more it looked like a throne, and that is indeed what it was. However, the backlighting was so intense, I couldn't make out if anybody had been sitting in it.

We got within about thirty feet of the throne when my companion stopped me and muttered to me, "We go no further than this. Trust is not to be had here."

A curious statement I thought, but I would soon see why.

"František, you old bastard you," an unknown voice said from the enormous chair.

"I'm not here on my own behalf, Gerard." Said my companion, whose name was evidently František.

"Oh, I know, I know." Said Gerard, the man on the throne. "It's the little girl you bring that needs my attention. I was made aware of her presence when she entered our realm." As he spoke, one of those creatures from the woods approached his side; he patted it on the arm as if say "Good boy, you've done well."

"They're good little errand boys, these Krags. Shame you had to kill one, Franky boy." Gerard said.

"Do not call me that!" Yelled František, he looked away, fighting his emotions. "It's the girl; we need to get her back to her home world. She doesn't belong in this wretched place." František said stating my case. The man on the chair perked up now, he looked at the both of use quizzically, and then turned his gaze upon me, but he still spoke to František.

"And how do we know this? She is after all here, in our world, why doesn't she belong? Because you say so? I'm inc-" I cut him off.

"Sir, I don't belong here. I have a home and a family; I have friends and school." I pleaded with him. He eyed me further, deeper.

"Are you sure about that, Elizabeth Walker?" He said my full name. I recall being startled by this, but what he said next would be life altering.

"Family you say – a home? Yes, indeed you have a place that shelters you from the rain, but is it really a home. The family that dwells in that home is a broken one. Your mother always living to impress others because of her short comings in life; nothing was ever good enough for her father, so nothing can ever be good enough for her when it comes to you." He paused to see if I would react, I didn't. All I could do was stand and listen. Though, he must have seen a look of disgust in my face, for he smirked before he continued.

"And your father, he and your mother are always bickering. It never ends. But the bickering is all that you see. Full blown fights, screaming fits, and hysterical arguing takes place when you're not around, little Lizzy. It's no wonder your dad's fucking the bank teller girl. She's quite a catch after all. Besides, it's not like Carol's giving him any. A man has needs." I felt myself clench my jaw at those words, prompting him to continue.

"And friends? What friends? You mean that fat little boy you walk home from school with? The one you traumatized by disemboweling a dead crow right in front of him? You have no friends Elizabeth – but you weren't meant to, were you? You were always a loner, and merely felt sorry for porky Malcolm.

He reminded you of yourself, all alone in the worlds. So why not befriend him, at least it was somebody to relate to if anything, isn't that right?" I had begun crying at some point, I don't remember when it was exactly, but when he had finished that part of his tirade, I had several tears flowing from my eyes.

František put his arm around my shoulder for comfort, but Gerard was not finished.

"And it appears to me that you think you'll have a life if you choose to return to you world." He said with a chuckle.

"M'dear, your life is ending as we speaking." I shuttered at the words.

"That's enough, you slimy fucking scoundrel." František said in my defense, but I didn't want him to stop, I wanted to know what he meant.

"No, go on... I wanna know." I said. František looked down at me as if to ask if I'm sure. I looked at him and nodded. Gerard smiled, "Brave girl.

"Lizzy, if you choose to go back to your body, you'll discover something is different. Your body will be different; you'll feel like a part of you is missing. You'll experience an amount of curiosity at first, but that will give way to shame when you discover what has happened, and then all your emotions will culminated in an explosion of anger. Lizzy... You're being raped."

Rape is only a term I heard once or twice in my life at that point, but I knew full and well what it meant. Mr. Gabriel, the man I had feared the moment I saw him was indeed a monster to be afraid of. I should have known better. I should have told my parents right then and there that I felt uneasy about him. But in the end, child molestation stories are just that: stories. They only happen to people on the news, never to you. But I was wrong. My eyes and I stared at the teller of past, present, and futures. I was angry and the information he was giving me; I didn't believe him. After all, why should I? For all I knew this was a dream and he was figment of my imagination.

"You're lying." I muttered under my breath. I turned around and began to march towards the way we had come in.

"I wouldn't do that, Lizzy." Gerard said. I didn't stop.

"Lizzy, wait." František said; I stopped.

"You have told her yet, have you, Frank?" "No."He said, I could hear the regret in his voice.

"Told me what?" I said without turning around. Nobody answered me at first. "Told me what!?" I yelled as I turned around and stormed up to František.

"Go ahead, Franky, tell her." Gerard said with great anticipation and excitement. František shot Gerard a look, but then turned his gaze towards me. He dropped to one knee so he could look me in the eye. His eyes which have been mostly fiery orange were now a dark purple. They were filled with sadness.

"Elizabeth... once you leave this fortress, you may never come back in. The doors will lock, and you may never return.

You will be stranded in this world, lost, left to roam until you die; and even then your death will take a hundred painful years. You mustn't leave, not until you have been given your task."

The man which had been my savior now shed a tear, but it was not a regular tear. His eyes were made of fire, and thus he cried flame. The flaming tear rolled down his face, setting his bandana on fire. It burned away enough that I could see a part of his face for the first time. He was horribly scarred, all in long narrow streaks. He had been burned. František had spent many a nights in tears it would seem, burning himself for his sadness.

"How...how do you know all this?" I asked, it didn't occur to me until now how he might have come across all this knowledge; how he was still a living thinking being and not dead, or turned to one of those Krags, so I asked now.

"Go on, Frank, tell her. We've got time." Gerard said from his high chair. František Looked back at him, and once again turned his attention to me; his eyes still a deep purple.

"I know this because...because I was once in your position, Lizzy. It was so long ago now that I've lost track of all time. I was sucked into this world when the Queen, Elizabeth reigned supreme – the year was 1597, and like you now, I wandered my way here, to this castle, and like you I wasn't alone. I was with my brother." He paused to collect himself – I hung on every word. His ever changing voice stayed as one for the speech, his noble but raspy voice echoed grimly through these massive halls.

"We entered this castle and when we did, we experienced what you are now no doubt. Confusion, fear, sorrow... And like you, we came across a man sitting on a massive throne in a great hall – Gerard. He explained to us what had happened. He told us things about ourselves that no one else could know. And then he told us of our futures, and we could do nothing but believe him.

"He started with my brother, he stayed; he listened to what Gerard had to say. He accepted his task, but with full intention of disobeying, and when he stepped from the castle grounds, he was grabbed around the neck by a vine and was pulled into the Forest of the Dead. Lizzy, my brother is of their ranks." Another tear of flame rolled down his face, scorching his flesh as it fell. I sympathized with František, he had lost so much; he had lost everything he'd ever known, and to top it off, he was trapped in this strange world forever.

"But what happened to you? Why didn't you get hanged? You couldn't have completed your task, I mean, you're still here. If you finished what you were supposed to, then you should be free, back home, right?" I asked with sincere curiosity.

"Aye..." He said, "That is true, only thing is... I never received my task. When I had seen what happened to my brother, I couldn't stand by and let the same thing happen to me. Gerard warned me, but I didn't heed his advice. I left the castle, and when I did, the doors sealed behind me with a great flash."

"But how are you allowed in now, why are your made of fire" I asked frantically.

"Well, Lizzy, after wandering this place for as long as I did, I gave in. I stood outside these doors and begged. I pleaded and cursed and cried out until finally...the doors opened. I walked inside, and everything was as it had been when I left the first time, and there sat Gerard, as he is now. He had a smile on his face and explained to me my punishment for disobeying."

He looked down, as if not able to continue. That's when Gerard chimed in.

The man in the chair stood up, for the first time I could see him clear in the light. He wore an elegant green robe of silk. It was embroidered with golden string, as well as tassels that held beads made of gemstones. His hair was long and white snow, and he had a beard of the same nature as his hair. He walked down the perch on which his throne sat and put his hand on František shoulder.

"He had wept every day since he had left my castle. His sorrow was so great that even the Forest of the Dead has sympathized with him, the Krags let him be, and all the fearsome creatures of this place left him to his misery; a fate much worse than anything I could offer, yet I felt his torture could be enhanced." He paused for a brief moment, "So for his misery I bestowed upon him eyes of flame, so that when he shed a tear, he would feel the pain his brother does. It was only fair, after all, why should one brother suffer and the other not?

But I still felt disrespected. He had walked out on me, even after I offered him salvation. So I did the only thing I could have... I locked him in the plane for all eternity. He is the custodian of this place. He brings lost souls, such as yours, to me. He is the ferryman for all intents and purposes, and in exchange, I do not send him to hang with his deceitful brother." Gerard finished and František looked up at me, his eyes remained in that dark state of purple. He had wept some more, and now the bandana he wore as a mask was gone, burned to nothing, revealing all the burn scars that made up his face. I reached out and caressed his cheek in my right palm. I felt sorry for him. He seemed to smile when I did this, and his eyes turned a shade of orange. I turned my attention to Gerard now.

"So who are you then? Why are you here, why do you get to control everything?" I asked accusingly.

He chuckled, "Well, Lizzy, because I created this place. This world is of my own doing, does it not make sense that I control it?"

"But...how?"

"He's a sorcerer," František cued. "He's ageless, and has existed as long as time itself, and he is all knowing and all powerful. He created this place so he could have dominion all his own, for the rest of time." He looked sad again, but I felt this was because of fear. Surely František would never leave this place, and he would be Gerard's servant for all eternity.

"He speaks the truth." Gerard said as he climbed back onto his throne. "I left one passage way open though; those

who are in distress have the ability to find me in their subconscious, like František and his brother when they were trapped unconscious in a burning building... or like you drugged and being raped. The human mind is a powerful thing, Ms. Walker, don't underestimate its will for survival. If you are willing to do anything, and I mean anything to stay alive, you will be brought here. You are in a metaphysical state young one, and only I control when you may re-enter your body, if ever.

So now I must ask you again. Are you willing to walk out that door and suffer a fate similar to František's, or will you earnestly complete the task I have set fourth for you?"

I thought about it for a moment. I hadn't yet heard his task, but I wasn't sure I wanted to. If I couldn't complete it, I would be sent to join the army of hanging men, forever to be tortured and bled out. But leaving in the fashion of František would lead to an eternity of slavery, doing any sort of unknown deeds. I had to take my chances.

"Fine, what's your task?" I said. Gerard smiled, and

František bowed his head low in despair. I assumed he had hoped for me to stay, so I could be a companion to him until the end of time and beyond.

"Good girl. Your task, Elizabeth Walker is set out as such. When you awake from your drug induced coma, you will have full memory of this place, and its happenings. I will leave this with you as a sort of inspiration, so that you may never return and your task will be completed or you will know what fate you will suffer.

You are to take vengeance all those who have wronged you, young girl. In your short life, you have been ridiculed by your mother; made to feel useless and unwanted. You have been lied to by your cheating father who will end up tearing your family down the seams. You're loyal friend, Malcolm, has not been so loyal. He will share your secret with a psychiatrist, and that will lead you to a life of being institutionalized. End the treacheries of these deceiving people and your bond from this place will be broken, and you will never return – your mind wiped clean of all your wrong doings, and of my world all together. Elizabeth, is your will to be righteous, no matter the consequence, strong? Will you complete the tasks set out before you? Answer truthfully dear, I will know if you're lying.

I took a moment to collect my thoughts. I had a thousand emotions firing thought my head and my heart. I glanced at František who had his gaze intently focused on me. The sadness and pity in his flaming purple eyes was overwhelming. I had to agree to the tasks set out before me, and I was damn sure I would complete them. The transgressions committed by those closest to me sent a fury of anger through my body, and soon that rage overwhelmed all other emotion. I felt my core tremble.

"I agree. I'll do it." I said.

There was pause. Gerard and František said nothing for several minutes which in turn felt like forever, until Gerard spoke swiftly and simply.

"Very well." And with that, there was a bright blue flash. I closed my eyes out of reaction, and when I opened them again, I was laying in my bed.

Chapter 7

MY VERY OWN BED, IT HAD felt like ages since I nestled safely among my sheets in the warmth of my room. The feel was glorious; it was fantastic; it was breathtaking... It was indeed short lived. I was able to bask in the feeling for but a moment before the memories from my dream had flooded back to me. I remembered František, and I remembered Gerard, I remembered the Forest of the Dead, and celestial moon and sun being as one. It was all fresh in my mind.

Slowly, as I lay in bed other facets of the reverie came back; I remembered certain conversation as if they had just happened, although they felt old, very old. I remembered František's heart-wrenching tale, and the thought of his poor brother and his eternal damnation upset me some. I remember in the dream that I did not shed a tear for František, even as I felt the scars on his face, I remained emotionless. But at that moment, the moment in which it all came back, I shed a tear for his story. I felt it roll down my cheek and dangle on the precipice of my jaw for a instant before it fell to the pillow below, evaporating into the linen case like the first rain on a desert floor.

Not matter all the memories that had flooded back in that brief time, the most important came at the very last – my task. I was to take vengeance on those who have wronged me. But I was not given a time frame, or a specific order to things, merely I was meant to execute those specific four: Malcolm, Mr. Gabriel, my mother, and my father. Again, the instructions were vague. Was I to hurt them physically, or emotionally? Was I to ruin their lives like they ruined mine? Or was it to be more drastic then that... Was I meant to kill them?

I sat up in my bed with my feet dangling over the sides; I didn't check the clock before I hopped to the floor. The hopping motion was a bad move, for whatever Gabriel had put in my tea had left me groggy and nauseous. I stumbled to this side and propped myself up against the wall with my shoulder. There was a rush of blood to my head and suddenly everything became blurry; that didn't help the nauseous feeling. I rubbed my forehead with my thumb and index finger to help ease the headache that was quickly building in my skull.

I didn't have much of a choice at this point. I was going to vomit. Ignoring everything in my way, I jolted towards the door, swung it open and proceeded into the pitch black hallway. The darkness sobered me up slightly. Thoughts began to run through my head: What if Gabriel is still here, what if my parents weren't home yet and I was still left alone with that tyrant?

Yes, I know I had to ruin the people I just mentioned, however I was ill prepared to do so at that exact moment, I was frightened at the thought of Mr. Gabriel finding me first and doing other unspeakable things to me. An unknown amount of time had passed; it could have been hours, days, weeks or longer since I fell into Gerard's world, if it were just a few hours, then Gabriel would surely still be in the house. The thought hit me in the gut like a fist causing me to quicken my pace towards the porcelain wonder that was the toilet bowl.

The nausea hit hard a second later. I wasn't sure if I was going to make it to the washroom – in fact, I was sure I wouldn't. Before I could take another step, I had vomited... violently. I heaved once, but the feeling did not subside, I felt another wave come over me, and again, I threw up. I could feel the contents run down my chin, which just made the situation worse. For a third time in a few seconds, I had emptied the contents of my stomach on to floor below me.

Evidently, I had made varying degrees of noise from audible, to excessively loud once the vomiting commenced. I heard the door at the end of the hall forcefully open and saw a figure run though the blackness beyond the threshold. Given the lighting in the hall way at the time, I couldn't make out who it was. It could have easily been a hideous creature with malicious intentions carried over from my dream. I was powerless to retreat from whatever was heading towards me, and I succumbed to whatever it was, beast or man. The residual effects of the drugs had still not worn off, even with my intense vomiting, and I still had blurred vision and an amount of dizziness. I was stuck to the spot.

The figure in the dark rushed towards me faster now. The hallway was only a few feet long, but the feeling I felt was sorely inhibiting the movement of time. Its movement reminded me of the Krag and how it was in one spot, then without warning evaporated and reappeared nearby.

At me now, the being swooped down and grabbed me in its arms. I shivered and nearly let out a scream, but they were comforting arms, familiar arms. My first thought was František! But I knew that wasn't to be true; the arms I laid in were more familiar, they were that of my own fathers.

As comforting as his arms felt at that particular moment, I couldn't let myself get lost in them. The memories of Gerard's warning still were fresh in mind, and I had my task set out; completing that task would just be made harder by feelings of compassion. Nevertheless, I wasn't about to cause havoc to anybody in my condition, so I rested and relaxed as he held me close to his chest. The feeling of being held, I must admit, was comforting.

I could hear his heart beating rapidly against his breastbone; he was frightened as well. He was muttering something too, but I couldn't make it out; my head was pounding and everything he was saying was distorted and hollow. Although, I'm sure they were words of comfort and care, and his tone, the slight rumble of his voice soothed me much like that of a new-born baby laying on her mother's chest for the first time. I felt something I hadn't felt in a very long time – I felt loved.

A hand caressed my back, and another lifted my right arm under the elbow; we started to move. All my steps felt methodical as if I had to think carefully before each foot landed, and if I didn't, I would surely tumble over. I felt weightless so I couldn't judge where anything would go, I reached to the wall for support, but missed it, and my feet underestimated then over estimated the height of the floor. I was a wobbling mess – nothing more than a drunken sorority sister during spring break. If it weren't for my father's guidance, I would have hit the ground.

Eventually I was lead down the few feet of hallway that led to my room. I hadn't travelled very far, but it was miles from my stand-point. My room was still pitch black, I couldn't see anything between the darkness and my dizziness, and even with the support of my father in the instance, I felt lost. A stranger in my own bedroom, and in my state of mind, after what I had experienced, I truly believed, and feared the monster under my bed was indeed real, and that even my dad wouldn't be able to fend it off.

It was about that time when I felt my legs give way. Apparently I hadn't been weightless at all, but rather heavy, especially upon weak and jittery legs. Again, the secure arms of my father caught me before I had fallen completely. However, instead of guiding me, I felt my legs get swooped out from under me. In a split second I was horizontal in the air. He had picked me up, like a scene from a movie, and soon lowered me into my bed.

I closed my eyes and everything spun, I felt nauseous again. I took a deep breath, but that did little to subside the feeling. I proceeded to vomit again. I didn't remember leaning over the edge of the bed, but consequently I had. The puke hit the carpeted floor with a wet smacking noise, which in my state echoed and in turn made me feel even sicker. I felt another heave coming. I gagged, and let loose another fury of bodily fluids and various bits of protein; the scene wasn't a pretty one even from my dazed perspective.

Conversely, this time there was no wet splat, rather a hollow pounding noise. My mother of all people had brought in a large plastic bucket, no doubt so she wouldn't have to clean the carpet come the morning. More likely she would force me to clean the mess, though.

Lying in bed, I could hear my parent's conversation echo through my head; the words weren't clear enough to make out, but I caught the odd word. They were arguing, as per usual, but this time it wasn't obvious what it was about. My name was mentioned once or twice, food poisoning, the flu, and lastly, I heard my father bring up Mr. Gabriel's name, in a rather angry tone – it was after his muttering of Gabriel's name that I heard two words with clarity: "Kill Him."

I wasn't scared, nor was I angry at Mr. Gabriel for what he had done; rather I felt some distain for my father. He wasn't supposed to kill Gabriel, which was a part of my task; I began to worry that he'd follow through with his raging threat, or at the very least call the police which would bar me from completing my assignment – I could become part of the army of Hanging Men. Although it was never said my hand had to be the one destroying Gabriel, I assumed if anybody else did it the situation would be forfeit. I had to think of a lie, something to tell him to reassure him that Mr. Gabriel had nothing to do with my illness, but I was in no state to do so.

My mother seemed to convince him the persecution of Mr. Gabriel could wait until the morning. I saw each figure pass the doorway once more, heading back towards their bedroom. The dimly lit hallway gave my parents the figure of otherworldly creatures in my eyes. Their border's were blurred and softened, their legs appeared to be nonexistent as they floated past the door way, in a sense this was comforting, as if it had been a sign that they would soon be ghosts. I had felt a smile creep on to my face.

In the end of all things, which will indeed come later on in this manuscript; perhaps the most surprising event of everything was the perception shown by my father. His paternal instincts had kicked in, albeit late. He immediately pinpointed Mr. Gabriel as the cause of my infirmity and was prompt to engage and destroy the threat. Looking back, it was quite a feat on his behalf.

On the other hand, it was no surprise that my mother had no maternal instinct whatsoever; and if she did, she was totally able to ignore them. After all, it was her idea to have a complete stranger babysit her only daughter. Cancelling her afternoon get- together would be a crime against humanity. I apologize, I've lost my wit when it comes to sarcasm, but my point remains the same. My mother had always lived in her high school years, always trying to impress the head cheerleader and have that ever important in with the popular crowd.

Who'd have thought it'd be the death of her?

The next morning I woke up feeling less nauseous than the previous waking experience in the middle of the night, but I had a thunderous headache. Every blink, every motion, every movement of the ocular muscle caused a pain so extreme it nearly brought me to tears every time. I didn't get out of bed for fear of the nausea returning. However, the disorientation had seemed to dissolve away after I slept.

I slept a dreamless slumber. I half expected to be visited by František and his fiery eyes, or be called upon by Gerard as one last warning of what needed to be done, but alas, neither was meant to be. My sleep was as normal as it could have been. Everything was normal, as if I was never drugged, as if I had never met Gerard or František. It was strange, and at first I couldn't decipher what was real, and what was fantasy.

My father came into the room shortly after I had woken up, he sat in a chair beside my bed; a chair that was not in the original decorative layout of my room. He must have added it there sometime during the night.

"How ya feeling today?" He asked, holding a cup of warm tea which he tried to pass onto me. My eyes widened at the side of the hot liquid. Tea was meant to sooth, but I was repulsed; I couldn't let him see this.

I gently pushed the cup away and shook my head, "Better," I said, "But I don't know if I can stomach anything right now." He placed the cup on the night stand beside my bed.

"That's alright." He said looking to the floor, "Why were –are you so sick?" He asked clenching his jaw and biting his lip. This was my chance to clear Gabriel; although I was indeed rather ill, I had to think of something, and I did – I used the most reliable excuse I could think of.

"I think it's the flu." I said simply lying, I can only hope he bought it, but his face told a different tale.

"The flu? You were fine that afternoon when we left." He said.

"Yeah, I dunno. It started a little after you left, I threw up once or twice and then Mr. Gabriel gave me some tea and I fell asleep." Remember, the trick to lying is to leave a small amount of truth in the story.

"Really, tea? I mean you slept all through the afternoon and through the dinner party. Mr. Gabriel said you weren't feeling well and went to bed, but you must have slept eighteen hours or something."

"I don't know... don't people usually sleep a lot when they're sick?" I asked.

My father looked to the floor. "Yeah, but that long, that hard... There was a party here for Christ sake and you didn't even budge." He said while looking at the floor as if the Tell-tale Heart was beating under my bed.

"I was tired...actually daddy, I still am." I said in the sweetest voice I could muster. "Is it alright if I lay back down for a while?" I had hoped he wouldn't be able to resist my best attempt at cute.

"Yeah," He said looking away. "That's a good idea, you need your rest." And with that he leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. He was a good man to me; he would be difficult to ruin.

After my father left the room, I was able to finally crawl frantically out of my sheets. During the conversation with my father, I had noticed something moist under the covers, I had a suspicion what it was, but didn't allow my mind to confirm it. It flowed warm and slow, but it was there. If not for me lying in bed, I may not have even noticed it, after all, I didn't feel anything leave my body – no sensation like urinating. It was different, and extremely confusing.

While standing over my bed, I held the sheets in my hands with anticipation, not wanting to throw them back. The fear of what might be found overcame me. It could be anything, and seeing is after all, believing, so the logic that ran through my young mind was that if I didn't see what it was then it couldn't be real. I contemplated it, just ignoring whatever it was and just leaving it be, hoping it would fade away like a dream, but my mind was too curious, I had to see what it was.

Blood. There in the middle of my bed was a puddle of warm damp blood. My sheets had no absorbed it all yet, and so it glistened off the light from the sun that shone through the thin drapes hanging in my room. My jaw hung slacked and my eyes widened. How could that much blood come from me, especially when I felt very little? My hands shook subtly while holding the sheets, the shake soon spread throughout my body. Hands, arms, back, legs, all of it began to quiver, and suddenly I felt ill again.

Gerard was right. I was raped...violently.

I felt a panic engulf me. My stomach churned and my heart raced; I felt angry and ashamed. I didn't know what to do with this mess. My father was already suspicious, and this would surely verify his concerns that Mr. Gabriel had done something despicable, something unspeakable, and something so un-pure that the lowest levels of Hell won't even accept his kind. I knew what needed to be done; I was sent back to this realm with a purpose. I was meant to punish the wicked fiends in this cruel world that have wronged me; I fully understood that. Gerard's words now had meaning – no longer were they just words. I couldn't just ruin these people – they had to pay the ultimate price.

I was struck with a feeling of revelation after seeing my own blood... my own innocence smeared across my purple linins; vengeance must be reaped in the worst way possible.

I hadn't a clue on how I was to accomplish the four tasks set out before me, but I had a feeling a way would present itself when the time came, and surely Mr. Gabriel will feel the full force of my wrath. The things I wanted to do him began crossing my mind, the violence, the gore, the pain, and the suffering. I felt a crooked smile creep onto my face. Suddenly I was beginning to feel better.

Betrayal, disloyalty, pain; no person should have to live with such things, and at the age of twelve I shouldn't even know the meaning of those words. But I know them all too well. The knowledge that my best friend – my only friend in the world would betray me is both earth-shattering and mindboggling. I trusted Malcolm with every ounce of being I had, and he had never presented me with a reason as to why I shouldn't. The prophetic Gerard had told me otherwise though. He would betray me and my secrets to a psychologist, who would in turn breech the doctor/patient confidentiality agreement and speak to his parents about the ordeal with the carrion bird. Once exposed for my deeds, I would surely be evaluated, tested and retested only to be discovered as a psychopath. After all, what doctor would be able to stay objective faced with my exploits of dismemberment and destruction? My fate would be sealed the moment my file was opened. It would be a foregone conclusion.

Three days had passed since the night of my rape and torment – and my awakening. I was enlightened by the words of Gerard and by the tragedy of that was František. Poor, poor František, I still empathized with him. His eternal struggle, his everlasting servitude to some immortal being... I feared that I would end up like him, or like the hanging men, which is why my missions' completion is of the utmost importance.

Three days, that was my recovery time. I feigned illness for that time, and both of my parents bought it without question. I had lain in bed for a day before my mother had wandered in while I was in the washroom. She had noticed the blood. It was only a matter of time before that bit of evidence was discovered. By this time it has dried and hardened, but the mattress below remained slightly moist. After the first night, I had nearly forgotten about it, so when my mother confronted me with I was left speechless. I trembled with nervous energy as she scolded me with her eyes, but the fury dissipated and turned to sympathy. She assumed I had gotten my period. She had given me the perfect alibi, and I ran with it. I played dumb about it for the most part, even though we had learned about it in health class.

She thought I was rather young to be getting it, but she had heard about younger girls contracting it more and more often.

She promised not to tell my dad and save me the embarrassment. It was the first nice thing I could remember my mother doing for me. However, that single act of kindness did little to change my feeling about her demise.

Day two was of little interest. I was asked how I was feeling, if I could go to school again soon, and I agreed that the next day I would indeed be able to attend school. I had to prepare myself mentally though for how I would confront Malcolm. I had over heard my mother talking to Maria on the phone. Apparently he was still acting rather peculiar and they had booked him to see a child psychiatrist at the end of the week on Friday. I couldn't allow that to happen, I had to make my move on Malcolm before then, for after that, who knows what would become of me. I had to steel myself mentally for the next forty- eight hours as I anticipated them to be horrific. I was right.

Day three; I'm back at school now, and everything felt a little different, although nothing was. Perhaps I felt different and I projected that externally to my surroundings, morphing everything around me. After all, the lockers were in the same place, the people moved about the same, but I felt as though my purpose was shining through. I felt I had more of a confidence around me, and others may be reacting to that. I know that wasn't entirely true for most, but when I saw Malcolm for the first time since I was informed of my duty to slaughter him, I did knew something had changed. He was smiling.

Malcolm hadn't smiled since that day in the park, and that was the first time since the decimation of the bird. I had assumed that smiling was all but gone from his repertoire; this was a shock to me. I stopped in my tracks as Malcolm approached with that happy-go-lucky grin on his face. This was the Malcolm I knew, the Malcolm of old. I felt my heart pound heard against my breastbone in a state of nervousness. The words of Gerard buzzed in my head. I was supposed to kill a treacherous Malcolm... Not the boy who was my best friend. Memories engulfed my mind. Memories of him and I walking through these very halls side-by-side, of us laughing and joking around. Memories of he and I having fun all flooded my minds- eye; memories of things that happened back before he had found that bird and unleashed the beast within me.

The nostalgia became overwhelming. I began to tear up, I felt my eyes welling with water and despite my best efforts a single droplet escaped my grasp. I felt it run slowly down my cheek. The moist trail it left behind was as thin as a needle, but to me it felt like a waterfall. The tear caressed the corner of my mouth, I could taste its salty nature, and then it rolled to the bottom of my chin. There the tear dangled for a brief second, a second which felt like an eternity. Nobody around me noticed, save one person... the one boy I wanted to hide this all from. Malcolm.

The smile from his face faded. He looked more concerned; much like the boy I transformed him into in the tree house on that fateful day. However, the image of his him smiling walking down the hall in a slight hurry, like an excited puppy, just to meet me a second sooner remained fresh in my mind. My emotions were getting the better of me. I closed my eyes, and when I reopened them, Malcolm had appeared a few inches from me.

He leaned in close.

"What's wrong, Lizzy?" Malcolm said just above a whisper.

"Nothing..." I lied. "Just not feeling well again, is all." Malcolm clenched his jaw, and a look of deeper concern overtook his face. "Go to the nurse's office then. Here," he grabbed my hand, "I'll take you."

His kindness shot through my heart like an arrow. After all I had done, he had genuine sympathy for my blight, albeit a fake a one. He was truly my best friend. However, I still had a job to do, and going home wasn't going to help my cause at all. I stopped in my tracks, Malcolm halted when he felt my movement cease.

"I'm feeling better, Malc." I said in a soft meek voice. "I think I just need some fresh air. Come outside with me, just until the bell?" Malcolm nodded in agreement and he led me towards the side doors where nobody ever entered or left. This wasn't too far away from where he had shown me the dead bird...

Malcolm shoved the door open and we were instantly hit with that familiar icy wind. Usually I would bundle and cover my face with my arm for protection, but on that day I felt so warm under my heavy winter coat that the razor-edged wind was a relief on my exposed skin. I stood with my eyes closed, just embracing the cool morning air. I did indeed feel better.

"Sorry, Malc. The hall was too crowded. I just felt like I was gonna throw-up." I said truthfully.

"Yeah, it's ok Liz. You never did like being in that hall at the start of class." Malcolm responded.

"And what, you do? It's like a heard of sheep or something; everybody obeying the one cardinal rule... follow the bell." I felt the embers of rage burn inside me; my hand began to fist and constrict. I began to tremble as I continued.

"Well, what if there was no fucking bell, Malcolm? What if there was a fire in there and there was no alarm? Would they sit and burn because there was nothing to tell them otherwise? They're stupid. People are just stupid." I could feel my face becoming hardened with hatred. Everything around me began to annoy me. The chill of the wind, the dankness in the autumn air, the look on Malcolm's face as he looked blankly at me... all of it, at that moment, simply pissed me off.

"What?" I snapped at Malcolm as he just stood emotionless in front of me.

"Uh...Nothing, Lizzy...You're just...Different, I guess." Malcolm sputtered out as he turned his mindless gaze to his shoes. The nostalgia was beginning to fade.

"Different, Malcolm? How the hell am I different? Maybe you're different; did ya ever think of that?" I said fast and furious. Malcolm appeared shell shocked. He looked at me with that blank empty stare again. But then his body language changed. He went from passive to defensive in the blink of an eye. He shot his head up and narrowed his gaze at me. He looked angry, angrier than I could have imagined Malcolm ever being.

The wind howled as it ripped through the small alcove outside the school doors as Malcolm and I were trapped in a deadlock of stares. The sympathy that had been in his eyes not five minutes ago had diminished and transformed into something sinister. This look was not becoming of him. However, I did not break my gawk. I remained focused on him, the words of Gerard rushing through my head, reminding me of what he'll do to me on Friday; his betrayal.

The bell sounded in the distance, the second of two. We were late for class, and this revelation seemed to snap Malcolm out of his trance, he shook his head as if clearing the cob-webs. The boy I used to call friend then took up his usual stance; shoulders slumped, head down with his focus on the tips of his running shoes. He walked past me and muttered "We're late."

If he had of looked up, he would have noticed the grizzled look on my face remained, my gaze as menacing as ever. I stood staring at the door, but I had no intentions of entering the school again. I couldn't be bothered. I had more important things to worry about. I was ready to just leave and walk back home when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

"You're late, Miss." I turned around to reveal Frank the Janitor standing over my shoulder. I snapped out of my daze of anger and looked up at him.

"Yeah, sorry... I just wasn't feeling very well." I said in response.

"Well, what will it be? Home or school, I've got things to do and can't stand here all day chatting with you." He said with a condescending tone.

"School." I said, not knowing why. I had every right to go back home, for all anybody knew I was still getting over an illness. Nevertheless, school is what came out, and it must have spewed out for a reason.

Chapter 8

I KNEW I HAD TO BEFRIEND MALCOLM again. I couldn't leave things they way they ended outside, it was the only way I was going to be able to get close enough to him to do what I was set out to do. However, I couldn't let my emotions get the better of me either, as they did earlier in the day when I shed a tear while under the spell of nostalgia.

I got to class late, as expected, and the teacher didn't mind, she knew I was still recovering, and I took my seat next to Malcolm as per usual. He didn't so much as glance at me, which was fine; it was just as it was when he came back from his mental break-down. We ignored each other for the better part of the morning. We rotated classes as we usually did, but we spoke not to one another. We both kept our distance. My plan was to get a word in with him during lunch, rebuild that connection we had first thing in the morning before we stepped outside and he accused me of being different.

The first three hours of the day past agonizingly slow. But alas, lunch arrived as it usually did around the noon-hour. It wasn't hard to find Malcolm after the bell rang signaling lunch, as our lockers were side-by-side. However, I made sure to keep a safe distance between us, so he didn't get the impression I was following him. I wanted to ambush him in the lunch room, corner him in a sense so he couldn't slither away to another table. And that is precisely what I did.

As I expected, Malcolm sat alone at the far end of the last table in the lunch room. We had always sat in this spot, or one similar to it to avoid the frantic lunch room crowd. We had always discussed how much more mature we were than the other kids. They would pull pranks, make crude noises, and partake in obnoxious contests all just to show off to one another. It was foolish, and Malcolm and I would have none of it. In fact, we would make fun of many of them, the so called popular ones; the ones that reminded me of my mother, always trying too hard to fit in. It was sad, really that children and adults can be so similar despite years of maturing, growing, and wisdom.

I suppose I had always known that things were not well in the world, but now looking back on my adolescents I can truly see how pitiful things really were... And are.

I made my approach. The cafeteria was as crowded as ever, but I managed to maneuver my way through the waves of children without incident. I slid my tray of food along the table a few feet from where Malcolm was sitting until our trays collided gently. My childhood friend looked up to see who it was, he did not look grateful to see me. A quick glance was all the attention he paid to me before he began to gather his things on the red cafeteria tray, but I halted his progress as he was about to stand with a hand on his shoulder.

"C'mon Malc, we gotta talk." I said in all sincerity. The boy plopped back down into his chair.

"Yeah, I know...I just don't want to is all." He said without looking up at me.

"What do ya mean you don't want to? We can always talk, you know that." I said in response.

"We used to be able to always talk..." He said, trailing off as he spoke. "But everything's different now, Lizzy." At least he still called me Lizzy.

"No way, everything can easily go back to the way they were. I mean, we just have to forget about what happened; we have to start fresh." I said, perking up as I went on. I almost believed it myself for a moment.

Malcolm brought his head to eye level with me, "How...?"

He muttered. And without missing a beat I extended my hand to him.

"I'm Elizabeth, but everybody calls me Lizzy." I said with a smile on my face. Malcolm eyed me cautiously, certainly he couldn't have been on to me, he was never all that bright, and I was right. A second after his glare, he cracked a smile; it was his usual heartwarming friendly smile. His slight dimples appeared, and at most times I would melt and forgive him for whatever he had done. His smile was always my weakness, but on this occasion, I felt nothing.

"Lizzy, you're nuts." He said with a chuckle. He didn't know how right he was.

The rest of the day was fairly ordinary. Malcolm had warmed up to me again, and we chatted through the remainder of our classes, just as we had done before this fiasco started. During the quieter times of the day though, I began to think about the events that lead up to all of this horror. What if Malcolm didn't find that decrepit and broken bird in the yard of the school on that blustery day; what if I didn't care, or reacted as a normal girl would by being disgusted by it; what if my curiosity didn't get the better of me? Would I be in the position now? Would Mr. Gabriel still have raped me? Would I have been visited in my subconscious by an immortal sorcerer telling me my future and my fate? All these questions circled in my mind, and at the time, I couldn't grasp an answer.

The bell rang one last time that day, releasing the students from their prison of education, and they couldn't be happier. I on the other hand was filled with an anxious sensation. My stomach churned and my head felt light, something was coming over me, not an illness, but rather awareness. I didn't feel like I had control over what I was doing, I felt like I was on a rail. Somehow I felt like I knew what was going to commence in the next few minutes, hours, and days; I felt enlightened, as if the school bell was the trigger in a hypnotists act, and upon hearing it, I fell under his spell.

I was gathering things from my locker somewhat slowly so I could wait for Malcolm who was speaking with the teacher.

I had a feeling he wanted to ask me something, I could only hope he wanted to ask me to his house. I had to put my mission into motion before it became too late. Once he met with the doctor on Friday, I would be extremely limited in my availability to complete my tasks.

I looked over my shoulder just as Malcolm strolled through the threshold of the classroom. He spotted me as well and shot me a classic Malcolm smirk. As he weaved his way through the mass of students in the hall, I flashed a thought in my head: Maybe he wouldn't tell the shrink of our exploits? It was possible that he was back to his normal self and may even convince his parents that he no longer needs to be examined. But wouldn't that mean Gerard was wrong? Maybe he was just a dream after all.

"Lizzy?" Malcolm said, snapping me out of my spell of thought.

"Yeah, sorry, what'd the teacher want?" I asked

"Nothing, I missed a book report earlier in the week. What were ya thinking about?"

"Hmm, oh, nothing." I said, and turned hoping Malcolm would follow. "What book report?" I asked to keep the attention on him and off my thoughts.

"Oh yeah, you weren't here. Don't worry about, just a book report on something we were supposed to read Monday and Tuesday, no biggie." He said with his happy-go-lucky tone. I couldn't help but feel my friend, my real childhood friend, becoming himself again. However, I could see this as my in; whether he was truly himself or not, I needed to continue with my assignment as if nothing changed.

But things had changed; I didn't want to hurt him. I had no urge, no desire to see any harm come to my friend, for that is exactly what he had transformed back into. The feeling of anxiousness and hypnotism started to falter now, and I felt more like myself, before the rape, before the dream, before the bird. I, for the first time in weeks, felt like how a twelve year old girl should feel – carefree.

As we started on our journey home, Malcolm offered for me to go to his house, an offer in which I accepted whole- heartedly, not for the sake of completing my task of murder, rather because I authentically wanted to. It had been so long since I had been able to think clearly about everything, I wanted a break from life, and I had hoped that I could seek that refuge with my oldest of friends.

The walk to Malcolm's house was one I had done with him hundreds of times over the last few years; whether it was from school or from my house, but no matter the familiarity, something seemed off today. As excited as I was to finally have some time alone with Malcolm, there was a bothersome feeling in my stomach that I couldn't quite pin-point; perhaps it was the weather. Since we had left school the atmosphere had changed drastically; the wind had died down substantially and the sun began to se set earlier now that the autumn was approaching, thus making the sky seem gloomy and still. However, the most chilling thing was perhaps the lack of noise.

The streets were excessively quiet for it being mid afternoon; the trees did not move – not a rustle could be heard. The only noticeable movement came from high above in the form of an indistinguishable bird. Its soft screech was but a background sound, and its silent gliding sent a shiver down my spine.

In fact, that bird was the most unsettling thing of all, for it seemed to follow Malcolm and me, watching us. It could have simply been that it flew so high above that it didn't appear to move, despite the massive distances it may very well have covered. At the time, I was unsure, but it remained disconcerting nonetheless.

When we finally arrived at Malcolm's house, his mother, Maria, greeted us as per usual, but it wasn't the same as it had been in the past. She was often more of a mother to me than my own, however on this particular occasion she was distant, so distant in fact that she barely said hi to me. She evidently didn't trust me, nor care for my presence, and she made that fact quite obvious, but it's a situation that I've been used to for years. My own mother would regularly project herself in this way all the time; the shame, the disrespect, pain that knowing her daughter is nothing like she envisioned she would be. Nevertheless, I tried to have conversation with her.

"Hi, Maria." I said in an upbeat perky voice, using my acting talent to its fullest.

She glared down at me, unsure what to do. She clearly hadn't planned on talking to me, and it was obvious she had nothing today, for it took her a few long and awkward second to reply.

"Hi, Lizzy..." Those were the only two words she could muster within five seconds of thinking.

"How are you?" I said politely. Maria still looked down upon me with distain, but continued to humor me nonetheless.

"I'm well." She paused and took a breath of frustration. She did her best to try to hide it with a fake smile. "And how are you? I Malcolm told me you missed some school..." She said the words of sincerity, but without a hint of emotion behind them.

"Oh, I'm ok. I was just a bit sick, nothing to be worried about." I said with a smile. I looked around for a second, and then signaled Maria to come closer to me. She leaned in close to me out of pure reaction; there was no hesitation in her movement. I stood upright and smirked as I brought my lips closer to her ears, and then I whispered, "I'm a woman now, Maria." I felt her flinch; her ears perked up and her mouth must have been a gaping hole after the hinge in her jaw moved. She reared her head back slightly to get a better look at me. The smirk that had graced my face still remained as my eyes met Maria's. She looked shocked. I could only imagine what could be going through her head at that particular moment. But I wasn't done with my story. I leaned in towards her, and she followed suit. Curiosity had gotten the better of her.

"It was amazing," I whispered again, "The pain and fear of not knowing what was happening was exhilarating. The pressure and the weird after effect was something I've never experienced before." I took a pause to let it all soak in. "And then of course there was the blood. I guess the first time produces the most. But that's not too bad a thing, is it? I mean next time it happens, it won't be as painful. I'll already be worked in." I pulled back, and our eyes met again. She looked as though she had just seen a ghost. Her eyes were wide and glossy; her skin a shade paler than it had been when I first saw her, she was speechless – frozen in the moment.

"Lizzy!?" I heard Malcolm call from up stairs. "Are you coming or what?" He must have wandered off to his bedroom and expected me to follow.

"Yeah, I'm coming!" I yelled back to him. I looked at Maria, who hadn't changed, "Well, time to have some fun." I said in a mischievous tone, "Malcolm's waiting." I winked. I saw the slightest of changes in the woman's face; it went from confused and shocked to utter terror in the minutest of changes. The human face is capable of hundreds of different expressions, but it's the smallest ones that are the most telling.

I felt a smile creep onto my face as I walked past the crouched woman. I looked back at her, but she remained on her knees, defeated. I wasn't sure if she'd ever stand up again. I dropped a seed of fear into her head, fear of the unknown. She had no way of knowing what my intensions with her son were, and it was killing her – and that made me ecstatic.

But I couldn't have her interfering. Once past the broken woman, I stopped and glanced over my shoulder one last time; she was still hunched over. Spinning on my heels, I approached her from the back swiftly, yet nonchalantly, and once behind her, I drove my elbow into the back of her head. With a snapping sound, much like when I plucked the head from the bird's body, she hit the ground with a muted thud. That should suffice.

The short walk to the stairs was a nostalgic one. It was a walk I had done a hundred times or more; however the nostalgia I felt on this occasion was different that what I had felt earlier when I saw Malcolm in the hallway. It felt like it was the last time I would make this trek. My memory flashed scenes in my head of my childhood with Malcolm in this very house; birthday parties, family get-togethers, playing and just having fun. It was as if I was dying and my brain had been flashing though my life, but I clearly wasn't dying. White lights flashed as if transitions between memories, but alas I felt nothing but resentment for my counterpart in these flashbacks – Malcolm. How could we have such a tremendous childhood, such an unbreakable bond growing up together and have him just throw it away in one session with a fucking shrink?

When I approached the first step, I paused for a moment, thinking about how many times I had ascended these steps, and how it may never happen again. I remember the creaking sound that the emitted about half way up; I liked these stairs, they had a character about them that I could never appreciate until that very moment. I smiled at the first step, and then began my climb. Step after step time seemed to slow to a halt. My feet felt heavy as if lined with lead, every landing of my foot echoed with a boom through my body. I reached the creaking step and felt a satisfaction come over me. The creaking sounded more like a crack at this instance – it reminded me of the bird's ribcage collapsing beneath the weight of my thumbs. I shivered.

The shiver of was pure excitement. I stood on that step for a minute or two, soaking in the sound and the memory it released, it was enthralling. Just as the step groaned with the added weight I provided, it sighed with the relief of pressure. I made my way to the top of the steps, and greeting me face-to- face was me. A picture hung at the top of the steps of Malcolm and me. It was from our first day of the sixth grade. He had his arm around me, and we both had genuine smiles on our faces, though there was a hint of concern in both of our eyes. I remembered that day well. We were starting a new school, we were the minnow's in the ocean again, and we were unsure of what the future held.

My head had cocked to the side at the memory of this. I didn't like this picture – so I broke it. I walked up to it, lifted the wire off of the nail from which it hung, held it in my hands for a moment and then smashed it glass first onto the nail. A small cracking noise was made, but the glass did not shatter. The picture hung perfectly on the wall with the nail protruding out of the back. From my guess, the blunt end of the nail had been driven right through Malcolm's head.

I felt content, I felt empowered, and I felt confident. I walked down that hallway with a purpose, like it was the aisle on my wedding day and I was marching towards the rest of my life. I extended my hand and scraped my nails across the floral patterned wallpaper just hard enough to have the texture emit a small scratching sound. The further down the hallway I strode, the harder I ripped the wall. The pressure I forced upon it by the time I got to Malcolm's room was excessive. Bits of wallpaper had been trapped under my finger nails, and left in my wake were four jagged lines tearing through the decorative wall dressing.

When I got to the door, it was slightly ajar, so I softly pushed it open, and there on the other side of the threshold sat Malcolm in his computer chair. The gentle glow of the computer monitor illuminated his face exaggerating his features with shadows and a flickering blue light.

The now dated computer whizzed and whirled with every click of the mouse, which covered any noise I made. Malcolm was so fixated on whatever content was on the screen that didn't notice my approach. I treaded carefully so that I wouldn't make any sound; I did this subconsciously, for at that moment, I had no particular reason to be quiet. Perhaps I was practicing moving without being seen – it would be a skill that would become useful in the future.

I must have been in the room close to a minute without Malcolm being aware of me. That is until I had been behind him for a few seconds and my reflection bounced off the monitor in between loading screens. He had been playing a computer game. There was no doubt in my mind that Malcolm would have been a great computer genius when he grew up...

"Lizzy!" He shouted when he saw my reflection. "How long have you been standing there?"

"A few minutes." I said cold and monotonous.

"Well why didn't you say anything? Geeze you scared the crap out of me." He confessed.

"Dunno; didn't feel like it I guess." I said staring down at my old friend with intensity in my eyes. He took notice to this and began to cower with a disgusted look on his face.

"Can you at least stop looking at me like that?" He asked still leaning away from me in his chair.

I continued to stare blankly at him. He kept his gaze upon mine, as if he was too nervous to look away. The look of disgust on his face no longer remained; it was now an expression of fear. I said nothing.

"Lizzy...?" He waited for me to respond, but I didn't.

"What are you doing?" Again I just stood there with a little smirk on my face, holding my hands behind my back. Poor Malcolm looked like he had seen a ghost. Still looming over him, I broke the trance.

"I was just watching you play the game is all - looks like fun." I said. His face lightened up slightly, but he still seemed nervous. He turned back to the screen, clinging onto the topic of the video game so he wouldn't have to meet my eyes again.

"Well you see, I can't get past this level. The guy kills me every time." He said as he demonstrated the disaster which took place on the screen. I leaned in closer to get a better look, and that's when I noticed what was truly killing his on screen avatar.

"That's a girl." I said. Malcolm looked up at me in bewilderment.

"What?" He asked.

"It's not a guy or a man that's killing you. You're being killed by a girl." I said slow and ominously. Could this be art imitating life?

Malcolm looked closer at the screen and squinted at the pixilated figure. He sat back in a bit of astonishment.

"Hmm," he sounded, "You're right." He chuckled and looked up at me, "What kinda lame hero guy gets killed by a girl?" He chuckled again, but when his eyes met mine, he stopped. The intensity in my stare had grown since I noticed the female villain decimating the burly hero.

"Anyway," he said while turning the computer off,

"What do ya wanna do?" he finished, spinning in his chair to look me in the eye again. He was still uncomfortable. The look on his face cringed when he saw the intensity in my eyes grow.

"Lizzy!" He snapped. I blinked and lost a bit of my trance.

"What?" I shot back.

"What do you wanna do? Watch TV, a movie?" He asked. I thought for a moment, the best way to keep him distracted.

"A movie I guess..." I answered. He had a TV and VCR in his room, so we wouldn't have to leave. I knew Malcolm well, and when he watched movies, he did indeed watch them at an absurdly high volume. He always said he loved everything about movies. The story-telling, the fantasy, and ultimately the escape that movies provided were his favourite things. He wanted to be a director when he grew up; He would have done a Hell of a job too.

"I was hoping you'd say that. I just got a new one I've been saving for us to watch." For us? He had something special saved for us – for this exact moment, or a moment just like it.

"Why?" I had to ask.

"I dunno, it reminded me of you. When I saw it at the store, I thought 'Hey, Lizzy would love this.' So I used my allowance and picked it up for use to watch when we weren't...ya know..." He stopped and looked to the ground in shame and embarrassment.

"Fighting." I added; he nodded. "Yeah." He muttered.

I believe it was at that moment that we both realized just how long it's been since we had socialized with one another. Ever since the bird Malcolm had indeed been different, but ever since I was raped, I had become more volatile. I had been having mood swings in a very bipolar kind of way. One moment I would be upset and on the verge of tears, the next on the verge of murder. Malcolm had taken notice. I didn't think he truly wanted to watch a movie, I think he wanted to do something that didn't involve a lot of contact with me. He wanted to end this visit quickly and with minimal communication.

A movie was the perfect cover for this. Two hours and we would be done. All that would be left would be to say the goodbyes.

Malcolm set the movie in the VCR, it sucked the cassette in with a whizzing whirling sound, and after a click, the screen went black and a disclaimer came up on the screen. It was red with white writing; during the time the disclaimer had been on the screen, Malcolm went and turned the lights off. The room was illuminated in red. I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. I inched closer without and recollection of doing so, and with every step my body became washed in red too. It started with my hands. I looked down and held them out in front of me. The red light surrounded them as if they were covered in blood. I must have been staring at them for some time, for I swear I saw them drip at least once. As fascinated as I was with my red stained hands, something else caught my eye; a mirror.

Malcolm had a dresser flush against the wall to the right of the television, and hanging about it, at eye level, was a rectangular mirror. It was my reflection that caught me interested. My hands washed in blood were one thing, but my face was a different beast all together. I locked eyes with my reflection for a mere second or two before the screen faded to a bright blue. But even as it faded, I could see myself covered in a blood red colour. I smiled at the prospect.

Malcolm approached from behind me and sat down on his bed, I could hear the frame squeal under the weight he added.

"Liz, ya gonna sit or what?" He said. I turned my head just enough to see him out of my peripheral vision.

"Yeah..." I said turning back to the mirror for one last glance. I was no longer washed in the blood red hue, but now the screen flickered different colours of the previews that had come on. They moved so fast, bouncing around the room and off my face – in the mirror I looked like a monster with every flicker of change.

I turned around and walked over the bed, crawled into and sat up next to Malcolm, just as we had always done while watching movies.

The tape played on through the previews, which Malcolm always had to watch, and then onto the feature presentation. Although the movie would have usually been to my liking, I couldn't have cared less about it. It was a dark comedy, but I can't remember the name of it. However, it reminded me of the classic, A Nightmare on Elm Street. Nevertheless, I only had one thing on my mind – finding my moment to eliminate Malcolm.

No matter how normal things seemed at that moment, I couldn't help but feel that Gerard's warning was truthful; Malcolm would tell all and I would be put under psychiatric supervision, be forced to take part in tests and examinations, and I would never be able to live a normal life again. Even if I were cleared as mentally competent I would be ridiculed by my schoolmates; my mother would never so much as look at me again, which in all honesty, wouldn't have been such a horrible thing, and my father may even be disgusted with me. It is not a life I wanted to be forced into. I chose to make my own destiny.

The screen continued to flicker with movements and lights, and Malcolm and I continued to sit in silence and watch, that is until about the half way point. Malcolm paused the movie causing the picture to stutter in place, jumping up and down, as if trying to leap over the lines of static now on the screen, and turned towards me.

"Popcorn time?" He asked.

"Sure." I said, looking straight ahead. My answer perplexed me... I didn't feel at all like popcorn. But I'll soon realize why I agreed to the buttery treat.

"Alrighty," He said rather cheerily. "I'll be back in a bit." Malcolm crawled out of the bed and made his way to the door. I eyed him the entire way, he clicked open the door and made his way down the hall, and that's when I remembered the picture I had destroyed. I took a deep breath as I listened for his footsteps down the hall. Malcolm loved popcorn, so his steps were hastened and heavy. I counted about three seconds before I exhaled. Three seconds about the time it takes for a chubby child to prance down a hallway to the stairs.

There were no halts or hesitations when he got to the tops of the stairs, and the distant pounding of feet on wood got farther and farther away. He had reached the main floor, no doubt in the kitchen looking for the microwaveable bags of popcorn.

I'm glad I managed to drag Maria into the hall closet; did I forget to mention that? Well, I couldn't just leave her unconscious body at the foot of the steps for the entire world – or just her precious baby boy – to see, now could I?

It was at that moment that Malcolm had indeed been farthest away that a new sensation overwhelmed me. I sat up straight in the bed and surveyed the room. My view started to become disoriented, objects blurred, and everything seemed to be melting into one. I had started to breath quick and hard, and just at the moment that the symptoms got as bad as they could have, they stopped as abruptly as they had come.

However, I still didn't feel normal. I felt lighter, enlightened even. I felt as though I could float across the room without touching the floor, I could glide in mid-air. Of course this was a foolish notion, but it's truly how I felt at that moment.

My head was clear and I felt invigorated, and I knew what I had to do.

Instinct took over at that moment. The clarity in my head was refreshing, and I knew where I had to go, and how I had to do what needed to be done. I leapt from the bed in one motion. There had been a belt strung over the foot-end bed-post, I grabbed it as I passed it on my leap. Something told me I would need it.

From there I headed behind the in-swinging bedroom door. I stood flush to the wall and managed to slow my breathing. I held the belt close to my chest, looped through the belt buckle slightly; just enough to make it the basic shape of a lasso. And there I waited with the patience of a lioness stalking her prey in the open plains of the Serengeti.

There was a feeling in my stomach, I was nervous, but I hadn't any idea why. I had moved and acted in the last few moments in an almost subconscious state – I didn't know what I was doing. Although my mind and vision were indeed clear, I couldn't quite remember why I had just grabbed the belt and positioned myself in this manner behind the door, flush to the wall, nor why I lassoed the belt in almost a noose. And then I heard it.

I could hear footsteps slowly coming up the stairs. The steps were carefully placed and well weighted for proper balance. It was Malcolm carrying the bowl of popcorn up the stairs, desperately not wanting to drop it. He must have had drinks of some kind too or he would have bolted into the room with as much excitement as he left with.

My hearing honed in, I closed my eyes to better utilize my auditory senses. I pictured Malcolm three steps from the top – then two – then on-... There was a pause. He must have noticed something. The picture! I took one last deep breath and held it in. I waited, half expecting to hear him call out for his mom, but as fate would have it, he did not. I finally heard him take that final step onto the landing. His pace quickened now that he didn't have to worry about toppling down the stairs. My heart began to race now filling my body with adrenaline. The door knob shuffled, and with one barely audible click it swung open.

First I saw his foot break the threshold of the door; I didn't move. Next, in one swift motion he was through the door. I couldn't see his face at that moment, but he must have worn an expression of surprise as he stopped dead in his track.

"Lizzy?" He whimpered. I said nothing. He took another very tentative step forward and starting panning his head left to right. He still hadn't seen me, and I still hadn't exhaled since he opened the door; I was a ghost, breathless and transparent, and he had no idea what was coming.

He took one last step forward before I made my move. I stepped from behind the door, slowly but swiftly. He still hadn't noticed me, in fact he didn't noticed me until the noose I made out of the belt was snugly wrapped around his neck.

Yes, I had begun to strangle my long time childhood friend. I had barely noticed the plastic bowl of popcorn explode all over the ground, nor did I see the cola filled cup splatter all on the hardwood floor; I was too preoccupied, too focused on the death that was taking place.

The belt slid over his neck perfectly, as if I knew that the lasso I fashioned would be the perfect size. Once it was in a satisfactory spot, I reeled back on the slack which was left, that was the beginning of the end for poor Malcolm. The belt tightened around his trachea and the boy flailed his arms in a panic. He said nothing. He couldn't say anything, and even if the belt weren't in the perfect spot, he would have still been silent. The shock of what was happening to him would have been too extreme for him to comprehend, and I knew that would be the case.

As he wriggled and fell to his knees in a frenzy, the only thing I could do was tighten my grip on the belt. I'm still unsure where I gathered this strength from. Now-a-days I attribute it to my fight or flight instinct, and the boost of adrenaline my fight impulse leant me, but it didn't feel natural, it felt like I was drawing power from somewhere else. No matter where my strength and endurance came from, the one thing I knew for sure... I wasn't going to let go of that belt.

As Malcolm dropped to his hands and knees, I moved closer like a fisherman reeling in his catch. I slowly worked up toward the base of the belt which wrapped around his neck. I wanted to get a better look at him.

The more I pulled, the harder it got and the more wheezing I could hear. It's something that can't easily be described, the strangling another person. The pressure it takes to crush ones trachea is immense, and more than I thought I had in me. The more the make-shift noose tightened, the harder it became to hold on. There was no give in either the leather or Malcolm's neck, but it was clear something had to give and that penultimate moment was closer than I thought.

As I got as close to Malcolm's face as I could, I noticed his cheeks had turned rather flush, the lack of oxygen and the fear had taken all of the color out of his already pale face. I hadn't thought it possible for Malcolm to become paler than he already was, but death has a way of draining people of everything. Through his pallor, I a tinge of blue began to surface, I don't know why people turned blue – surely a chemical reaction or something, but it just added that much more intrigue to the situation.

Still holding onto the lasso, I swiveled around to meet Malcolm face-to-face. I wanted to see the life fade from his treacherous eyes. As I shifted around the front of him, I noticed the belt hadn't been as free flowing as I thought. It twisted to the skin around his throat into a corkscrew pattern. This intrigued me. The twisted skin seemed to be at the point of tearing. I stood straight up and looked down and the contorted skin. I began to twist the belt even more. The buckle, which had been firmly placed over his Adam's apple, had begun to shift as well, bringing more skin with it. I gave the belt one violent shift, and with that, the skin broke, and blood began to seep out of the small wounds. The skin had almost been peeled off him frame, but because of the pressure from the belt around his neck, the blood was minimal. That saddened me slightly.

As the belt turned and burned and ripped his skin, Malcolm had made all but a peep, so I turned my attention back to his face, which was now spotted with blue and red. The capillaries in his cheeks had ruptured from the pressure, and the blood vessels in his eyes had broken, flooding his retinas with blood. There was no glint of colour other than the red which flowed through.

He was dying, quickly. However, he still managed to look up at me and look me in the eye. It didn't faze me; I merely stared back at my dying friend with a smirk on my face. A single tear escaped his blood stained eye, and as I followed the tear to his chin, I saw his blue shaded lips mouth out a word...

"Why?"

Why? He had the nerve to ask me why? At the time that infuriated me greatly, however looking back, he didn't exactly know why I had done what I did. I was told of my fate if I allowed him to live, but he was still clueless as to what the future held.

"Why" he mouthed with a weak gasp for air, I had to answer him.

"Because, Malcolm... I want to." And with that, I twisted the belt as hard as I could to the right. His neck broke with a grinding cracking sound, and his lifeless body fell to the floor with a mighty thud.

He didn't deserve to know why he was being punished. The sinner's must face their fate; they chose their path, now they must walk it. Malcolm will forever walk his path alone; forever to be cold; forever in the Forest of the Dead.

That was that. In a matter of seconds my lifelong friend, the only friend who had always been there for me, had always made me smile, who always looked so happy was now a lifeless piece of meat on the floor. His cheeks were filled with burst capillaries, all red and swollen; his neck was ripped and torn, and with the pressure of the belt lifted, it began to drip blood.

Looking at his twisted head from that angle sent a chill of excitement down my spine. I had killed a person, a child like myself... My best friend, yet I felt nothing but pleasure. I admired my work for a minute or two, but I wasn't done yet. I couldn't just leave the body here, that didn't seem like the right thing to do. I surveyed my surroundings, trying to decide on the best course of action, and that's when I saw it tucked away in a corner of the room. Malcolm's backpack, the same one I had thrown on the roof after the happenings in the tree house.

I felt a slight wave of panic flow over me, but I was curious. How did it get here? I thought nobody had noticed it up on the roof. I figured it was too heavy to have blown off, or perhaps that was just a foolish hope, either way it means somebody had gone up there and brought it down. However, it would have been quite obvious that it had been thrown up there, clearly it didn't just fall from the heavens and land upon the garage roof. But the bag was never mentioned, not by Malcolm, not by Maria, and not by mother, whom Maria surely would have gossiped to. It was perplexing and worrisome. What if somebody had figured out my doing, after all there was some evidence of my destruction held within that pack.

I walked up to it slowly as if it were a predatory animal set to attack, and I was the pray who spotted it skulking through the bush. I was careful when I got close enough to kneel beside it, being very cautious. I stuck a hand out and grabbed the shoulder strap to bring it closer to me. I shifted the sack to have the zipper to the main opening face me. The interlocking teeth look like the barring of a vicious unknown creature. My imagination started to envision impossible things. The bag would spring to life and start to devour my arm, and then slowly consume my entire body. Or it would unzip itself to reveal a black hole which would suck in the room along with me. Anything seemed possible.

After my experience in the dream world ruled by Gerard, anything could be real, and surely anything could happen. But the backpack was in the real world, I wasn't dreaming, or so I thought. Then again, I didn't think I was dreaming when I met František, or when I passed the hanging men. It all seemed so real. Even in a sadistic torturous world, what evil could a mere backpack produce?

I shook loose the thoughts of doom and zipped open the bag. Inside was nothing what I expected. I had anticipated the contents to be full of incriminating evidence, but rather, it had a single book in it. Not a school book, but a hard cover notebook. I had never seen this before. It was obviously Malcolm's, and it was clear he was trying to keep it inconspicuous – hiding it in plain sight, blending it with where it should be. He camouflaged the book inside a backpack that he told his mom was left at school and ultimately stolen. It was rather ingenious on his behalf.I pulled the book from the bag and held it in my lap for a moment. The leather bound covers gave it a very gothic feel. The book was thick, full of pages to be filled with emotion; I cracked it open, and what I saw startled me. The pages were filled with scribble; it almost came off as babbling. The words were legible, but mostly incoherent, and at certain times made no sense whatsoever.

Malcolm was insane. I had no idea... He was like me. He had secrets, deep and dark in nature. I never could have guessed this. It was hard to tell for certain, but it seemed that this collection of ramblings had been started before the incident with the bird. I assumed it would have been mentioned on the first page if the journal had been started after he had gotten out of the hospital and returned to a conscious state. But it wasn't on the first page, from what I could gather he had written something about Frank, the janitor at school.

It wasn't pleasant, either. Malcolm really seemed to despise Frank for one reason or another. That was something I didn't know.

I continued to flip through the book, and one page in particular caught my eye. One word took up an entire page. It was written all in capital letters, and scribbled over more than once. It read "DEATH." I stopped here to investigate further. He had written this with some anger, and it was more than the large font that gave it away. The page was nearly ripped and in some spots had several small tears from the aggressive imprint of his pen.

I flipped to the next page, and as I suspected he had begun to write about the bird in the tree house. It started off much like the DEATH page. BIRD was written in large aggressive letters, but there happened to be some more scribble underneath. I couldn't quite make it out, as if it were written in some other language. I noticed my name however; that was disconcerting.

The more I read, the more evidence this book produced of my deeds. It documented everything from my make-shift necropsy to my change in behavior over the past few weeks.

Gerard's warnings were becoming more and more accurate. Malcolm would have brought this to the attention of his doctor; I had no doubts about that. I did the right thing. But at that moment, I needed to do something about his bloated corpse.

The book made a dull thud as it hit the floor after it slipped from my hands. The book meant little to me now, and I had more pressing matters to attend to than some gibberish. I rose from my knees and walked over to Malcolm. I stood over his body for a moment pondering what to do; how was I going to move over a hundred pounds of dead weight?

That's when an idea struck me. I grabbed the belt from around his neck and used it as a make-shift rope; I began to trudge slowly across the room pulling the corpse behind me. It scrapped and rumbled across the hardwood floor, every nook his fingers hit sent them bouncing just enough to tap the floor. They echoed in my head. At that moment I knew how narrator to the Tell-tale Heart felt. The decibel level of the sound seemed to increase to the point of thundering, yet in reality, the noise could barely be heard.

Was this my conscience? Did I feel bad for killing my friend? Regret and remorse? It's something I should have experienced, but I didn't. I had no reason to feel any sort of sympathy for the boy. He would have turned out to be treacherous and devious, just as Gerard said. He deserved his fate.

My plan was now at the penultimate moment. I had reached the window. Malcolm's bedroom window faced the back yard, and as I gazed out into it, I couldn't help but get lost in the dreariness of the day. I slid the old wooden window frame open. Clouds had rolled in rather thick, and the sun was beginning its decent towards the horizon, and the picture it painted was beyond gothic. The tree which held the infamous house was a black silhouette against the twilight sky. Its mangled branches swung and swerved out from the trunk like a deformed hand reaching to the sky for a savior. The scene was lifeless, not even the mighty tree had any life left in it for the season as all the leaves had since died, fallen, dried, and blew away. It was beautiful.

My admiration for nature's beauty was short lived; after all I had a task to finish. Malcolm was heavy and I was far from strong, but I needed to do this. I grabbed the belt tight in my hand and wrapped it around my wrist once for extra support and pulled up, bringing Malcolm's body to an upright position. I struggled to hold him there for long, but I couldn't let him go. The thud would surely draw attention. In one quick motion I was able to slide my left hand under Malcolm's arm, giving me some support.

Things had started to become troublesome now. Malcolm's dead weight was becoming too much. The belt had been slowly tightening around my hand and wrist with the extra strain. It was starting to hurt. The relief my other hand provided did little to relieve the pressure on the belt.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and with every ounce of my being, lifted the overweight carcass. He wasn't airborne, but he was nearly standing now, that's all I needed. Again in one swift motion I pivoted on the spot, turning just enough to have Malcolm's body between the window and myself. I waddled closer to the wall until I felt the cool breeze slip in through the open window, I knew I was close. I let go of Malcolm's arm and quickly grabbed the leathery belt with both hands. I used my feet to wedge him between the wall and myself – to keep him as upright as possible.

It was working. How it was working was beyond me, but my plan had all but come to fruition. Malcolm's torso was facing the open window and his stomach had been nearly the perfect height with the bottom of the frame meeting the middle of his plump gut.

Slowly, I let the belt unravel around my right hand, while using the left to keep it steady; the body began to tilt forward out of the window. His weight falling forward had almost overwhelmed me, but I had jammed one of my feet against the wall as a prop. He was almost at a ninety degree angle, his body forming a near perfect corner.

Here's where it became the trickiest. The bottom half of Malcolm's body was inside the room, whereas the upper half was leaning outside the window, I had to get the bottom half out as well without having me plummet to the earth below. That would defeat the purpose. I had to construct my next few moves carefully.

I still had one foot keeping me propped against the wall, and the other one hold Malcolm's lower half in the window, so I decided it would be best if I slowly let go of Malcolm's legs. Vigilantly I let go of Malcolm's left foot, and near instantly he began to lean forward. I could feel the weight transferring to his top. His other leg wanted to follow suit, but I felt at that moment, if I let his other leg go, he would topple out of the window, taking me with him.

With all the strength in my body, I held back. I pulled on the belt, and pressed against the remaining part of his body desperately trying to hold the corpse in the house as it is.

I knew what I had to do next – I had to unravel the belt from my hand. It was going to be a risky move. If I lost grip on the belt, the body would take a tumble down two stories and my cover would be blown. Nonetheless, it had to be done.

The belt slowly untangled itself from my wrist, I felt the leather slide over my skin, and with each passing second the boy on the other end became heavier and heavier. It didn't take long before the belt was entirely unraveled and the only thing keeping Malcolm's corpse in the house were my small frail hands. I held on with all my might, but it wasn't enough, I couldn't hold on any more.

The weight of Malcolm's dead body was too overwhelming, he was slowly slipping forward – and he was taking me with him. My brain was shouting for me to let go of the belt, but my hands were locked, frozen in time. I couldn't let go.

I was about to fall. I could see the ground below, and I couldn't help but think this was the end. Gerard's prediction was wrong. My fate seemed all but sealed; I closed my eyes and waited for the wind to rush across my face as I fell from the second story window. But then something miraculous occurred.

I remember, seemingly out of nowhere, hearing a bang. The sudden noise startled me causing me to let go of the belt. Malcolm's body toppled out of the window, but I didn't hear the thud of his lifeless meat sack hit the ground. In fact, it never reached the ground. I had been so jolted by the suddenness of the crash that I hadn't realized the window had slammed shut. Curious, I walked towards the glass. What could have caused it to shut so abruptly? And that's when I saw it.

Trapped under the window frame was a small piece of something. It was black and triangular in shape...

It was the belt! The belt had been caught by the sudden slam of the window. Frantic, I scrambled close to the window, and in the fading light I could barely make out the hanging figure below. It was Malcolm's corpse. But something was off, there was something trapped between the belt and his neck: A large black feather, not too different from the type of feather that I had plucked just weeks ago. In the moment, I couldn't think much of it – a happy coincidence at best. But surely there was something more to the ominous feather then I originally thought.

I couldn't marvel as long as I would have liked, although I felt an overwhelming amount of pride at my accomplishment. A quarter of my mission had been completed, and the time for the final third was fast approaching.

Chapter 9

I TOOK A DEEP BREATH. THE COOL evening air was crisp in my lungs. I held it there for a moment or two, taking in what had just happened. A life had been taken. I felt as though I had ripped Malcolm's soul from his body and tucked it inside my pocket for safe keeping, like it was the head from the bird. His life was mine, I felt confident and powerful as I stood looking at his house.

I managed to nonchalantly get out of Malcolm's house without incident. There was no mother or father to be found, it was as if they had vanished to allow me the time I needed to escape. I couldn't speak for his father, but I was sure Maria was still unconscious in the hall closet. But now I stood at rear of the house, looking through the poetically mangled tree in the yard at the hanging corpse of a friend long gone. The only piece of Malcolm that remained were his crazed ramblings that he wrote in that leather bound book, the same book I held in my arms.

The lifeless cadaver swayed in the wind, just scraping gently against the siding. Although I was a few houses over, sitting in a neighbor's backyard, I swore I could hear the leather of the belt sighing over the weight Malcolm's body; the creaking flowed through the night sky, and the wind brought it to my ears. I couldn't help but smile again.

I couldn't ever remember smiling as much as I had in that week.

I heard a scraping sound come from behind me. Apparently my sanctuary wasn't as peaceful as I thought it was.

"Hey!" A voice shouted. I looked back. "Who's there?!" What a pointless question. As if I would turn back and shout, Elizabeth P. Walker! What a fool.

I turned back to get one last look at my masterpiece before I scurried out of the yard. The wind was indeed cool on the lungs, especially after my quick jog and hop of the chain link fence. I was breathing heavier, I couldn't understand it. I had just lifted a hundred plus pound boy and hung him from a window, but a small fence and a quick jog left me breathless?

A legitimate question which I surely would have pondered further if it weren't for the wonderful sound of panic being emitted from behind me; the neighbors spotted the body.

I stopped in my tracks to listen.

"Oh my God! Lucy!" The same voice which shouted at me called out. I turned back around and watched them from the cover of a bushy tree from the next yard over. A woman came running out the back yard at the beckoning of her husband.

"What?" she said in a frenzied tone. The man had moved towards the middle of the yard. The clouds had rolled in heavy since I first arrived at Malcolm's and the increasingly shorter autumn days provided adequate darkness for me to continue my voyeur.

I heard a screen door close under its own weight to my left; the sound was followed by a woman shuffling across the grass to stand next to her husband who was fixated on something in the distance.

"Honey, come back-" her sentence was cut short. "Dear God." She said. No God was present on that night; I can assure you of that.

The wind picked up, and I could hear the rest of the conversation, but the woman rushed back into the house. I took that as a sign that I should take my leave. I didn't want to wear my welcome. The man still stood there slack-jawed staring at the house to which I just left. He had seen Malcolm's body swaying with beautiful rhythm in the wind in the gorgeous foreground that the tree provided.

As I said, I had taken my leave from the yard. I stuck close to the fences and hedges which grew on many lawns close to the sidewalk. I didn't want any unwarranted attention drawn to me. A boy had just been killed, who knows what monster is lurking out there preying on small children. Not that I would be a suspect, but rather a potential victim in the eyes of any police official driving by.

And so I scampered like a mouse close to the protective foliage and walls hoping not to be seen. With every step, I clutched Malcolm's book tight to my chest. I went from block to block without being seen, but then I came to a cross-road. The park, the very same park Malcolm and I visited nearly every day on our way home from school. The park had a path with a Y intersection, with one branch going towards my house, one branch going towards Malcolm's house, and the third heading towards the school.

I stopped and looked into the black abyss that the park turned into after sunset. Going through the grounds would have surely provided more cover, but it seemed ominous. I had just murdered the very friend in whom I spent an infinite amount of hours with in that park; it couldn't have been wise to tempt fate and cross into the beyond.

I quickly shook loose the thought, however. This wasn't the time for superstitions; I needed to be practical in my escape. The park would be deserted at this time and the darkness would surely provide the cover I needed if I were to come across a passer-by.

The park was the logical choice. It was indeed very dark, and it would shave a few minutes off of my journey home, so I made my decision and began to wander into the night.

It was as I had thought, cold, dark and lonely - perfect for my purposes. The area wasn't overly large, I could see from one end to the other, and over to the opposite branch of the Y intersection, and it was absent of life; it was peaceful. The night was cool and crisp, but it didn't bother me. The wind had died down in the tree bordered area, and everything felt still.

Walking towards the path which would take me home, I past a swing set, the same one Malcolm and I had many a conversation on. I paused for a moment, recalling our last one talk. It seemed an eternity ago, fitting I suppose as we would never have one there again: An eternity gone, an eternity to come.

Shaking loose the nostalgia, I refocused myself. I had to get home before suspicion grew, and so I left my childhood swing set behind me for perhaps the last time. As I walked away, I took one last glance back, and as I did, I caught the sight of the shadow of a single Raven landing on the crossbeam of the swing set.

Home; there are many cliché's when it comes to the homestead: Home sweet home and home is where the heart is to name a few. I wouldn't know the meaning of either saying. Home has never truly felt like home to me, and even as I stood in the threshold of the front door at that moment, I couldn't have felt more like a stranger. An intruder in my own home, which is precisely how I felt; nothing seemed familiar. I looked down the front corridor and the photographs on the wall and on tables. A happy family should live here. The pictures show a mother and a father standing behind a lovely young daughter. At first glance this appears to be a happy healthy family, but upon further inspection, that is not the case at all. The smiles are forced and fake – they even appear slightly sad. Looking closely I can see what Gerard had meant; this was a broken family. My father stood a step farther away than he should have, as if to distance himself from my mother and myself. My mother forced her smile more than anybody in the picture, but that's just like her to be fake in order to seem normal. She wasn't normal.

And then there's me, the innocent little girl being held in her parent's arms. My father had a tight grip on my shoulder. Iremember the day the picture was taken. We had no real reason to have a photograph taken of the family, but my mother thought it would make us look like more of a unit. She didn't say it, but I knew she meant look more like a family for her country club friends. That was indeed all she cared about. My father didn't want to go, that much was clear, he saw it as a waste of the Sunday. He argued with my mother behind closed doors about going, he was more adamant about not going than he really should have.

Nevertheless we went to the photo session and the entire time was filled with awkward moments. From the first frame to the last, everything about the day was staged. The drive to the mall where the portrait studio was located was filled with silence; the walk to the studio was no different. My mother raced past us in anger and walked a good three or four yard in front of my father and I, as if it would get some sort of point across. When we arrived at the studio my mother was already sitting waiting for us with utter distain and impatience. She huffed at our entrance and looked the other way when we sat beside.

"Some family." She muttered to herself, but loud enough for us to hear. Those were really only the words I remember from that day. Deep down I knew we had a broken home. Deep down there was something not right about it all. And I was right.

When the time finally arrived for us to have our family portrait taken, we were all at the stage of such tension that even the happy-go-lucky photographer could feel it. The perk in her voice dulled and the pep in her step faded. She knew the session was going to be a disaster.

And so it was; on that day in a place usually full of happiness and joy, a sad and desolate family walked in and faked an entire state of mind, faked it poorly.

What we were left with was a high quality photo highlighting all of our faults, faults that everybody except my mother can see; surely a picture to be proud of. I sighed at the failure of the photo, which in turned showed the failure of our family. Everything in my life had been a failure; I was beginning to see that more and more in the past few weeks. I was a poor daughter, a poor friend, a poor student, and a poor person in general, but that was not the time for self-loathing. I had to work quickly, it would only be a matter of time before either Malcolm's parents or the police connected little twelve year old me to the crime.

Leaving the shameful photograph in my wake, I headed toward the kitchen. My mother could usually be found having a coffee at the table. I walked down the main hallway filled with older family portraits, some look genuinely happy. I was still a baby or a toddler in many of these and had yet to destroy my mother's soul. However, the farther down the way I walked, the more recent the pictures became. The progression from fresh- faced happy family, to hurt and distant was clear and obvious. It's a wonder I had never noticed it before. Our home was a broken one; that much was clear.

I walked into the kitchen only to find it absent of life. My mother wasn't to be found, nevertheless, I wandered in. I walked to the table which I had spent so much time, just sitting, staring, and thinking at. I reached out and lightly caressed its smooth finish with my fingertips as I walked beyond it. I looked to the left, towards the sink filled with dirty dishes, but something caught my eye. I cocked my head to the right slightly at the object that caught my attention. Sitting on a drying rack beside the sink was an eight inch kitchen knife. I was drawn towards it. The way the light caught the steel blade made it shimmer, all the small superficial scratches showed character, and the way it say... it stood out to me. I had the undeniable urge to walk over to it.

Something in the kitchen that day pulled me towards this chef's knife; an unknown force as it were seemed to grab my hand and gently guide me at it. I obliged without hesitation. I was fascinated. I had seen this knife in the kitchen a hundred times; I've seen my father use it to carve turkey, cut bread, slice meats, but at that time, it was as if I had never seen it before. It was beautiful to me, not because of its culinary versatility, but rather because of what I could do with it.

I held the hilt on my hand out in front of me. I twisted and turned it slowly to get a glimpse of it at all angles. The light would catch the cold steel and create a glint at certain degrees, it was truly something to behold.

Before I could full admire the workmanship of that fine blade, I heard a scuffling noise from above. I turned my head sharply to face the direction it had come from, I squinted my eyes and waited for another noise to be sure of what I had heard; surely enough, I heard it again.

Without hesitation I made haste towards the noise, dropping Malcolm's book on the table as I past. I moved quietly, quieter than I thought I could have, and much like my stealthiness while hiding behind Malcolm's door, I was surprised. It was as if something had taken over my body; all my movements were being controlled by some unseen puppet master.

I quickly made my way to the stairs; the noise had been coming from the second floor. I was tentative when I go the bottom, hiding on the far side wall poking my head around the corner slowly to see if anybody was there. It appeared that the coast was clear, and so I made my ascent.

It all seemed too familiar, almost identical in fact to the events at Malcolm's house; however this time there were no nostalgic moments on my way up the stairs. No private reminiscing of times had, not emotions at all. I merely floated up the steps, or so it felt. I didn't make a single noise, not a sound. I felt as though my feet were as nimble as ballerina's performing on stage. Step by step, I moved faster and with more urgency.

Again, I hadn't an idea as to why I picked up my pace, or even how I was moving that quickly, but the fact remains that I was moving in a nimble fashion.

I reached the top landing and froze on the spot. I wanted to rush further down the hallway, but again those invisible strings were holding me back. Staying put by these shackles, I peered around the corner and down the hallway, and it was a good thing I did. Walking out the bathroom fully in the nude was my mother; she had just come out of the shower. The steam rolled out from behind her as she opened the door, clearly obscuring her vision of the hallway. Her bedroom was the next room on the right, just a few strides from the bathroom, so she didn't have to worry about being modest and covering up. She also didn't expect me to be silently watching from beyond the mist.

When she turned the sharp corner through the threshold of her bed room door, I made my move. Silently still, I progressed down the hallway. I glanced into my bedroom as I glided beyond it. Nothing was out of the ordinary, yet I had a sudden urge to stop and go in. The urge was a near overpowering one, however the force that drove me forward overtook and I continued to press on.

Farther up the hallway I past beyond the washroom, it was on the other side of the hall, but the steam from the shower still poured out. I leaped to the same side as the washroom to use the steam more effectively as cover. The less chance I had to be seen, the better.

Again, as I walked beyond the washroom, I peered into the fog for a quick investigation, there was nothing of note. I half expected to see my naked father still drying off after a double shower with my mother; thankfully that was not the case. The room was empty, so I turned my attention up the hallway to the last room on the left – my parent's room.

Slowly I crept diagonally across the hall, keeping low and quiet to remain unseen. I felt like an animal stalking my prey; similar to how I felt waiting behind Malcolm's door. I was ready to rip the flesh and tear the soul. My eyes narrowed as I slid out of the fog and through the doorway into my mother's room. My mother was indeed in my sights, and I was a python ready to strike, to sink my teeth in and coil around her body, slowly sucking the life from her weak and pathetic body.

She had no inclining that I had entered the room; she just sat at her vanity desk facing the mirror, brushing out her hair. She sat wrapped chest high in a white towel, and as I approached, the closer I got, I could hear the brush rip through the wet knotted hair, it sounded painful, but she didn't flinch.

I watched her from the side, far enough away so that I wouldn't be caught in the reflection of the mirror. I stood there, silent and watching. She had no idea of my presence. The knife dangled limp in my right hand, swaying back and forth, waiting to be used; all in good time...

In my silent linger, I waited for an opportunity before I made a move. And that opportunity was about to present itself; my mother began a stroke of the brush through her thick brown hair when the brush itself caught a rather nasty knot. My mother let out a groan of discontent, and the brush fell from her hand.

Her attention was away from the mirror; I moved swiftly across the bedroom floor, again not making a sound. I was a blur. My destination was behind the bed, directly behind my sitting mother, but out of sight of the mirror.

I couldn't help but peer around the corner of the bed. For all my new-found instincts, I still didn't have the ability to see through objects. Slowly, I positioned myself so one eye would peek around the foot of the bed, and what I saw was unexpected. My mother hadn't sat straight back in her and continued to brush her hair, no; she had been staring at where I had just been standing. She still leaned over the chair, with one hand on the ground clutching the brush, but staring right where I had been. I watched with high interest, it was as if she were expecting somebody. That was when my mother fixed herself and stood up. She walked over to the door and looked around. I was for all intensive purposes in the open. I sat straight back against the bed, and out of impulse, I shut my eyes.

It was childish, but my reasoning came from the school of thought that if I can't see her, she can't see me. I sat, as still as a mouse holding my breath, hoping to whatever deity would listen that she didn't turn around. I had the hand holding the knife on the ground and with me moving flush against the bed, but I hadn't realized that the knife wasn't aligned against the bed; part of it had gone under!

The idea didn't churn for more than a second before I realized that I should make my way under the queen size bed. It was tight, but it was just raised enough for me to squeeze under with minimal fuss, and fairly quickly as well.

I slithered forward like a snake to gaze under the draping of the bedding on top, to get another glance at my mother. She still stood, but now her head was positioned outside the threshold, looking down the hall.

"Hello?! Anybody there?" She shouted, as if an intruder would shout back. Clearly she had thought, or at least hoped that it was my father or I.

"Elizabeth?!" She shouted again. I hated when she called me that! I was going to enjoy the next twenty minutes or so.

She waited for a response she wouldn't get. She called out again, "David..." She started to cry out, but trailed off, as if she knew calling my father's name was pointless. She looked at her feet in disappointment.

"Yeah, like he'd be home early... He won't be done with the bank teller." She mumbled just loud enough for me to hear.

I was shocked; she knew!? Moreover, Gerard knew. That dream was becoming more and more of a reality. However, at that moment, I was indeed more surprised that my mother knew about the affair. How could she know about it and not act upon it? The pain my father must be causing her must be overwhelming at times.

Events from the past started to make sense, all her short tempered outburst at him; getting mad at me for little to know reason, just because she needed to get it out, everything. I felt pity for her; it was entirely my father's fault, the way my mother acted.

But is there really any excuse to treat your child the way she treated me? A broken home, a cheating husband, a fraudulent social life are still no reason to take it out on your only daughter.

Perhaps I was the straw that broke the camel's back. The only thing that was keeping her from the point of breaking was the fact she had a daughter; a daughter that she could share her feminine interests in. Somebody she could go shopping with and just simply do girly things with. But I wasn't that girl.

I was far different. I couldn't be that daughter she wanted; I could never live up to that. I hated everything she stood for, and in turn she hated me for who I was. That was unacceptable.

It was in instances like that when a daughter would consider changing her ways; walk up to her mother and give her a hug and ask to go shopping. However, I wasn't that kind of daughter. She didn't like me, it was painfully clear, and what mother doesn't like her child? To answer that rhetorical question, a horrible mother. It's the job of a parent to accept the child for who she is, but she couldn't. Her mind was closed off from anything outside of her world, she didn't like change, she didn't like anything new, and she didn't like much. As I said, she wasn't a very good mother, and she was an even worse person.

Perhaps it what my father is doing is a good thing. Maybe she deserves to be the victim of adultery, she was a cold person by nature, and I have no doubts that she was cold to my father in the most intimate of ways.

Regardless of any mixed feelings I may or may not have felt I needed to make my move. I still watched from under the bed, lurking like every child's worst nightmare. My mother went back to the vanity and sat with her back to me while brushing her hair. And so I crept slowly out from under the bed, kitchen knife still in hand.

That strange feeling fell over me again, the same kind of feeling I had at Malcolm's and just moments before when I was walking down the hallway, as if I were being lead. I was crawling like an experienced army commando, not a twelve year old girl. My movements weren't natural, but they flowed, and before too long, I was out from under the bed and my mother were none-the-wiser.

I was so quiet that even I couldn't hear myself move. My long sleeves didn't scrape or catch on the carpet, the knife didn't waver causing it to rip along the floor or the bedding that hung over the edge down to the ground, everything was going my way again.

Slowly I crept from beneath the cavernous bed an inch at a time, as if it were the exit to an enormous cave system; my motions were meticulous and planned. It was as if every movement was thought out perfectly. I made not a sound as I slithered across the carpet, slithered like a snake searching for its prey; and my prey was mere feet in front of me.

A sense of urgency suddenly over took me and I stopped on the spot. I felt a bead of sweat form on my brow. I went from sulking through time at a deliberate pace, to being frozen in time. All instinct seemed to have left my body, and something was telling me to retreat.

I'm certain that in that particular moment I made some sort of noise as I spun and crawled back under the bed; but any noise I made was masked by a knocking, a rather loud knocking from the front door.

My heart raced and my breath shortened; if I didn't know any better, I would have been convinced that I was undergoing a heart attack. Although it was just a panic attack, I was still worried. Fainting was not an option at that moment.

My mother did not notice me, she stood form her vanity and I could see her feet from under the bed walk towards the door and out of the room. Curiosity got the better off me; I needed to see who had been knocking on the door. Of course my first thought was the police. After all, why wouldn't they come looking for me? I was at Malcolm's house, and then I ran away without mentioning anything to anybody. My best friend had just been seemingly murdered, his mother unconscious in a closet, and I didn't nothing but flee the scene. That would look suspicious the most naive and forgiving of people.

My only saving grace at the moment was that my mother didn't know I was home. She would send the officer on his way and I would be safe and have the privacy required to do my deed.

But curious still I was. I wanted to know who it was at the door. I steadied myself and scurried out from under the bed. I pushed the overhanging covers aside and lifted myself to my feet in frantic rush. I pranced down the hall, trying to make as little noise as possible, and stopped at the top of the stairs, just close enough to hear any conversation, but far enough away to remain out of sight if somebody were to glance up the stairs.

I leaned close, the conversation was distant, but I could make out my mother's voice, but the other one was nearly inaudible. I closed my eyes and focused all my energy on my ears. I imaged myself floating closer to the voices. It worked.

My eyes shot open, and I could almost feel my pupils dilate. I gasped and felt a shiver fall over my body. I was afraid, truly afraid. The chill went to my bone, and I froze. I wanted to cry – I wanted to scream. Nothing came out, save a single tear that strolled down my cheek.

I turned and leaned against the wall, I felt myself begin to hyperventilate. I closed my eyes again, and this time that familiar feeling came over me; the same one I felt at Malcolm's. I suddenly was calm and knew what to do. I headed back towards my mother's room to wait while she finished her conversation with Mr. Gabriel.

I couldn't begin to fathom what that monster would want. Surely he wasn't invited over as my parents were suspicious of him and what he may or may not have done to me that fateful night. I didn't want to think about it all that much; his time will come. However, as I sat in front of my mother's vanity, I couldn't help but think of the atrocities I would commit on Mr. Gabriel's body.

I looked into the mirror that stood before me and what I saw startled me. At first glance, I swore there was a figure behind me, I spun around at breakneck speed, but there was nothing behind me, of course. I was seeing things; all that had happened in the past few hours must have taken its toll on my emotional state. I was in an undeniable state of mental decay, but at twelve years of age, I didn't think much of it, that is until I glanced back into the mirror.

There was somebody there, though, not behind me, but rather actually inside the mirror. It was František! My heart began to race and I stood up in anticipation. I was excited to see him, even though he represented the fear and hatred from that world Gerard had created. I felt a connection with František, something I couldn't quite explain.

However, my excitement was short lived. He didn't move, he didn't speak, and he didn't attempt to make any sort of communication. I felt the excitement leave my face to make way for disappointment. I looked down at the vanity desk below for a mere second before refocusing on the mirror only to be welcomed by a bloody and bandaged face; the Krag.

I jumped. The face startled me, and I spun around a second time, and this time there was something there, standing about ten feet away from me. In a reactionary instance I had thrown the kitchen knife that I had been wielding. The first blow to my mother had been dealt.

The knife struck its target with such force that it sent her staggering back several feet before she fell to one knee.

Did I mention she screamed? She let out a mighty howl that shook me to the core. I tilted my head at the sound. I had hoped she would let up, but she didn't. It was one breath after another that came out as a scream; a shrieking so irritating that I had to make it stop.

With my mother still on one knee, I walked up to her, paused and stared for a moment before I punched her has hard as I could in the left temple. She collapsed unconscious the moment my fist made contact with her head, but more importantly, she stopped screaming.

It was at least ten minutes before she awoke. I had managed to drag her limp body to the vanity and prop her up in the chair. I did my best to bind her hands and feet to the chair and desk so she couldn't move.

I left the knife in her chest.

When she woke up, she looked around the room in a frantic mess for a moment before she realized that a knife hilt still protruded from her body. She attempted to scream again, but all that came out was a muttered moan. Of course, I had gagged her. I couldn't handle the screaming again, there's no telling what I would have done to shut her up quickly. I wanted to take my time.

My mother's frenzied movements continued for some time, and all the while I stood just over her right shoulder. She didn't notice me until she caught a glimpse of my standing there in the mirror, that's when she stopped having a fit of epileptic proportions. She cocked her head to the side, as if that would help her grasp the situation at hand.

"Lizzy?" She muffled quizzically. I said nothing; I just stood there with a stone cold expression on my face. I'm certain she expected me to be upset, after all, what twelve-year-old wouldn't be traumatized by accidentally stabbing their mother with a knife. I suppose the omission of action on my behalf triggered her understanding of the situation. She began to scream and flail about again, of course to no avail, what with the gag and the make-shift restraints made from belts.

I just stood there, emotionless, as still as I could be and waited for her fit to stop, and when it did, she looked at my reflection again, and saw me just long enough to see me cover her hear with a pillow case. I didn't want her to have to see what came next; after all, she is my mother, besides, I was quite sure the pillow case would come in handy shortly.

I remember catching a glance of my reflection in the mirror, that wasn't the first time I had seen my twisted transition that night; it happened at Malcolm's, too. Just the night before I was a normal little girl, well as normal as I could have been given my situation; but I wasn't a murderer – I wasn't a psychopath.

With the pillow case shielding my mother's eyes from the horrors that were about to befall her, I was ready to begin. The knife hilt still protruded from her shoulder like that of a carving knife jutting out from a thanksgiving turkey. I used this method to my advantage; she loved to cook and bake for her friends: Food that was always for others and never for her own family. She essentially provided for everybody but her own. Perhaps she would enjoy being carved.

I grabbed the hilt of the knife, and when I did, I heard a slight pathetic whimper from under the linen casing. I loosened my grip upon the knife for a second, not out of remorse or sympathy, but for pure pleasure. Again, that smile had crept onto my face. I was enjoying her pain and torture: it was satisfying; and then I ripped down on the knife as hard as I could.

She screamed.

Soft tissue, muscle, and tendons tore, snapped, and ripped under the sharp blade.

She continued to scream.

The screams turned to sobs and hyperventilation as she bled out like a stuck pig. Of course, the screams and sobs where muffled due to the rolled socks shoved half way down her throat. It was so pathetic... it was wonderful.

The knife stopped abruptly when I hit a rib. I'm unsure which rib it was in particular, but it was much bigger and denser than that of the little bird. The knife was jammed, so I shifted it up and down, no doubt tearing through muscle and other bodily things in the process, but the blade barely budged. This was not pleasing, despite the pain she was in, I wasn't finished with it. I grabbed the knife with both hands and pulled on it with all might strength. It moved, albeit slightly. I pulled and pulled until the knife popped loose, causing me to fall backwards with a good amount of force.

I landed with a hard thud, but relatively unfazed...that is until I glanced down at my hand and saw blood. Not my mothers, but my own. The knife had ultimately slipped through my grasp upon my impact with the floor causing it to slide down and slice my hand wide open. I could move it, and as much as it hurt, I was more fascinated. I hadn't seen what I look like on the inside yet. I suppose I thought it would look different than everybody, it was a foolish notion, but after all, I wasn't like most other people.

I sat looking at my hand for a moment, admiring the blood that flowed and drizzled down my arm, and then I heard that familiar whimper from my mother's make-shift prison and it snapped me back to reality. I had a job to finish, I could admire my bloody wound later.

I stood, grabbing the knife in one swooping motion and approached my victim with a purpose. I could feel how I was walking, it had more than a purpose...it had desire. I wanted to see this through now more than ever.

With every step closer I got, I felt a surge of excitement shoot through my body. I hadn't even realized that my arm was raised, and as soon as I was within striking distance, it came down with all the force I could muster, which I recently discovered was more than a twelve year old girl should have. The knife hit the wound previously inflicted, and this time that pesky rib snapped. The blade sat soaked in the blood of my mother, and when I pulled it out, her fluids sprayed and spewed covering my face and torso in the crimson substance. It was wonderful.

She let out one last little whimper, and then past out. I was sure she didn't die, but her head bobbed forward like that of a dead sheep; yet she continued to breathe.

As much as I wanted her to feel everything that was to come, I was pleased with the silence. However the silence didn't last long; a rapping came from the main floor – the front door. Yet again somebody had come to interrupt me, I tried to ignore it, but there was no way to continue my... activates with somebody outside, within earshot. I had to implore my patience to stay with me but a moment longer; it was incredibly exhausting. My curiosity of who was knocking on the door was stirring, and my anxiety to finish my job here and move on was like a rock in my stomach. However, my curiosity of who was at the front door was about to be satisfied.

I heard a voice call out after a rather loud and violent series of knocks, but I couldn't make it out from my mother's bedroom. I slowly crept along the carpet as lightly as I could for I feared that every movement would be amplified and echo throughout the house and reverberate in the ears of my visitors. Nothing but paranoia, I know... But I simply couldn't get caught. The fear of eternal damnation kept me going at a careful pace.

Once to the stairway, I peered through the railing, doing my best to stay concealed. It was a similar spot that I spied on Mr. Gabriel and my Mother from, I felt confident that this would be a safe spot to hide. From what I could see through the frosted glass window that lined the front door, there were two figures: Tall and well built, standing sturdy like two hulking trees. They were constantly spinning on their heels to look over their shoulders and all around checking their surroundings. I had suspicions of who these two mystery figures might be, but it was nothing conclusive in my twelve year old mind. But then they shouted again, and this time, without the walls to obstruct my hearing, it was crystal clear.

Chicago P.D.! Open up!

My heart sank and my stomach rose. I felt ill, violently so. I felt a wave of panic come over my small and now trembling body. They had found Malcolm; it was those nosy goddamned neighbors. What was I going to do now? I took a deep breath and looked around me. Everything was so familiar, but so foreign at the same time. I wasn't myself... or perhaps for the first time in my life I was myself.

My very own bedroom down the hall, I smiled at the thought of curling up warm and cozy within the confines of my bed. But the euphoric feeling didn't last long. Flashes of blood and rape filled my mind, and again I felt ill. This place could no longer be my home – how could it after all that's happened here. No, I couldn't sleep in that bed again with its blood stained memories and its violated sheets. I have to do what needs to be done; I have to finish my obligation.

After another series of knocks and shouts, Chicago's finest gave up and went back to their cruiser and ultimately left the house. They'll be back. If they knew it was me, they probably assumed I wouldn't have come home... It'd be the last place I'd go, right? One way or another, before the night was out, they would be back to put out one fire or another. But for now I had business to attend to, and I needed to hurry.

After I had scuttled back to my mother's room, I noticed her head was no longer lolled to the side, but rather it was set straight up. The closer I got, the more I could hear her whiney, like a scolded horse. I took pleasure in that. I approached her from behind so she could see me in the mirror, and I could see the fear in her eyes being reflected back.

"Shh, it's ok mother... that was only the police." I said as I leaned into her ear. She perked up and her eyes were wide with hope. I chuckled slightly, "You don't think I answered do you? No... They're gone." Her expression dropped, and tears began to stream again. I wondered if she knew that she was going to die, or if that she still had a life to live. I would sincerely hope the former of the two, but this is my naive, inane mother... She probably clung to the smallest thread of hope.

There was so much blood now. My hand still dripped and left a breadcrumb trail of blood from the room to the landing at the top of the stairs, and inside the room looked much like a slaughter house. The walls had the spray of blood all over them, her clothes were drenched, and the floor directly under her was a pool of blood. Even if I did nothing more, surely she would die from bleeding out. But where was the fun in that? I wanted her to suffer, not get sleepy, pass out, and die in her sleep. No, I had to make a statement, a lifeless corpse is one thing... a headless corpse is another.

The idea sprang to life something inside me that I couldn't quite put a finger on. I was excited, yes, but it was more than that. It was as if I were experiencing Christmas for the first time in a rich family after being adopted from the streets... but more. It felt better than that.

The knife had fallen from the gaping wound in my mother's chest and rested in the pool of blood below her feet. I picked it up and starred at it for a moment; I watched as the blood drip off slow and meticulous, hitting the floor with a satisfying slap.

I was unsure how this was going to play out. The knife was sharp, sure, but would it be sharp enough to do what I was about to ask of it? Would it be strong enough? If the movies were any indication, the following would have gone quick and smooth.

That wasn't the case.

I swung the knife at the midpoint of her neck, and when it struck, it was met with a lot more resistance than I expected. At the moment of impact, all the muscle in her neck tensed up, stopping the knife dead in its tracks. That must have hurt... A lot.

I was somewhat shocked myself. It had only gone in about an inch to the side of her neck, not even far enough to really hit any major arteries. She bled, but she didn't spray. I wanted her to spray.

However, what she lacked in spray at that moment, she more than made up for in screaming. She was loud, even with the makeshift gag in her mouth. Her eye's bulged, and as I stepped back to watch her squirm and struggle, she looked at me. The pain in her eyes wasn't just from the physical... it was emotional. Her own daughter is trying to behead her. She probably never saw that coming, yet it was happening right before her very eyes.

After savoring the moment, I refocused and grabbed the handle of the knife again. It was jammed in tightly, wedged between two strained bits of muscle – and so I began to saw. I rocked the knife back and forth, cutting bits of flesh and tearing skin as I went until the blade finally popped out.

Blood began to pour from the wound like a small waterfall; I must have been close to something that would lead to the spraying of blood – the infamous jugular perhaps? Again, the prospect excited me. I couldn't wait to swing and hack some more, and so I did. I raised the knife high above my and swooped down. When I made contact, the knife went through much easier than the first time: I had hit the first wound dead on. The knife cut through the softer internal anatomy rather easily, and this time I got my wish.

Blood spurt from her neck like the mist from Niagara Falls, showering me in its warm life sustaining essence. Of course, if my mother's blood is on me, it can't really be keeping her alive, now can it, but the irony somehow made the moment even sweeter. Although I thought it was impossible for anybody to survive the blood loss she sustained, I was still curious to know if she had died yet; I needed to investigate.

I left the knife halfway through her neck and wandered around the front of the now lifeless body. Her head was leaning slightly forward, but it was anchored straight up by the wedge the knife created. He eyes though, they intrigued me for they remained open, as if too frightened to be closed. The shock of this ordeal prevented her from blinking. There were no tears and her pupils where massive as if she were starring into the mirror in front of her, looking into her own soul. She was dead.

I sighed, took a deep breath and paused for a moment. I was then without a mother. The thought was slightly unsettling. Most people who lose their parent are an emotional wreck, not to mention the loss of a best friend as well, however most people don't intentionally cause that loss them self. The unsettling feeling came not from the loss, but the lack of emotion I felt in the loss. I was for all intents and purposes alone. Only my father left now, and soon, he wouldn't be around either. I will become an orphan. It didn't really matter I suppose, there were only two outcomes to all of this – and neither involved my parents being around.

Death is all around us, in every minute of every day. There's always something, somewhere that's dying. Most of don't notice it, but when you're a harbinger for death, you notice it much, much more, and then it was nearly impossible to ignore deaths presence.

My mother was a bloody mess, but I wasn't quite finished with her, however her lifeless state should make the beheading far easier. There would be no tense muscle to get in the way, I just had to hack through the cartilage and vertebrae – and that is exactly what I did.

Stroke after stroke, saw after saw, her head finally fell to the floor. It must have taken longer than I expected for there wasn't much more of a blood flow. It wasn't like the movies with the fountain of blood spurting to the ceiling, though, I'm sure that would have splendid. But it didn't surprise me too much; after all, she had already lost so much blood.

I felt fulfilled when her head hit the pool of blood below her with an even bigger splashing sound than before. The carpet was soaked through and through, so the weight of her head forced the excess blood to pool around it making it appear as if she were drowning in her own blood.

I picked the head up and held it at eye level with me. I surveyed it, studied it. The head was fascinating. Bits of her spine were still tangling from the back side; her mouth was open and her teeth were stained with her own blood, and her tongue sat just outside her mouth like that of a dead goat. But it was her eyes that kept my attention. Her once bright and lively blue eyes were staring at me, which was a relief. For the first time in my life, they didn't have that glare of disappointment – they were fearful. She died terrified, and I wouldn't want it any other way.

There was only one more obstacle in my way before I could get to my grand prize: My father. I dreaded this; I loved my father. He was never a brute or unfair, and he treated me like I was his little princess – most importantly, he stood up for me when my mother would go off... It was going to be tough.

Just as I finished that thought, I heard the front door slam shut and a voice shout for my mother. It was my father. He called a few times – it was somewhat sad that he would never get a response. I smiled. I discarded my mother's head on the vanity by which her lifeless body sat, restrained, and headless. It landed with a clattering sound looking straight at itself in the mirror.

I turned my back on my mother for the last time and walked out of the room, blood soaked and smiling. The gash on my hand still bled enough to drip, and it continued my breadcrumb trail from, following me wherever I went. When I got into the hallway, I heard the frantic footsteps of my father prancing up the stairs. I stood and waited for him to turn the corner, and when he did, the sight of me sent him reeling.

He stepped back in shock, nearly tumbling over the top step, and he would have went down too if it were for his fumbling catch of the handrail. Shame he didn't fall, it would have made my life that much easier.

When he regained his balance, he covered his hand with his mouth; I was unsure if this was from shock, or if he was going to be ill. Either way I found it funny. I chuckled shyly at him and he turned his head like a confused dog hearing a high pitched whistle. He slowly took steps towards me; he was barely able to keep his eyes fixed on me, they darted from wall to wall, from ceiling to floor, and every once in a while he would catch me in his sights, but he would turn away instantly. I disgusted him.

When he got close enough, he knelt down in front of me. He put his hands on both of my shoulders and looked at me in the eye – I could tell he wanted to be anywhere but there at that moment.

"Lizzy...what...are..." He stumbled over his words, it was sort of cute. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and continued. "Are you ok? I got a call at the office from the police." He opened his eyes, "Malcolm's..." He searched for the proper word. I thought I'd help.

"Dead." I said rather nonchalantly. His eyes opened wide from shock, but his eyes quickly changed tune from shocked to intensity. He looked fiercely at me and tightened his grip on my shoulders.

"Lizzy." He said, now surveying my body. "Why are you covered in blood...where's your mo-" He stopped and looked up, noticing the bloody breadcrumb trail, and it wasn't leading to a delicious gingerbread house, but more likely the corpse of poor Gretel.

He stood up, seemingly forgetting all about me and my bloody mess. From where we were, I'm sure he could see just a preview of what had gone on that forsaken room; he wanted the full show, but I knew he couldn't handle it. The ghastly sights beyond the threshold of that door would wreck him... I couldn't wait.

He blew by me in a frantic frenzy of emotion. I'm certain the thought process evolved from denial, to fright, to sadness, to acceptance in a matter of moments. He burst through the bedroom door and immediately fell to his knees holding his head in his hands. I followed close behind and leaned against the door jamb, crossing my arms in satisfaction. I watched him tumble slowly into despair, oh and how he fell. I could picture him in my head falling into a deep dark pit with shadows of things flashing by him; with hands reaching out from the sides – reaching for him, but when he reached back, he would always come up just short. Nothing he could do would stop him from falling into the pit of hopelessness.

He began to sob a bit, refusing to look at the headless corpse that was my mother, and when he did gather enough mettle to glance over, he threw up. I laughed aloud at the sight. I couldn't help it. This big strong provider of a man, reduced to tears and vomit by a twelve year old girl and a little bit of blood. Hilarious.

After I let out the snicker, my father shot his head around and peered at me over his shoulder.

"You... You did this, didn't you?"

"Who else, daddy?" I said with a smile, and a tilt of my head. He rose to his feet.

"But...why? Why!?" He shouted, it was the first time I'd ever heard him yell at me. I unexpectedly flinched, but I didn't blink.

"Because, daddy, she deserved it. She was a horrible bitch that need to be punished." I said honestly, somewhat paraphrasing Gerard's previous words of wisdom. His eyes widened with angry and shock as he unfolded to his feet.

"You little..." He started as he began to barrel towards me with a murderous intent. Luckily, I planned for such a reaction. As he made his B-line towards me, I took a step back and calmly shut the bedroom door. When I did so, the door knob came with me.

One thing I may have neglected to mention prior was that while my mother was unconscious, I disassembled the door knob, although I had no real knowledge of how to do so. It was much like back at Malcolm's house, when I was gifted strength from an unknown origin, somehow I simply knew how to take the handle apart without breaking it, or making look as though it had been tampered with.

He banged on the door with a great sense of fury. He kicked and punched and pounded at all the while screaming nearly inaudible curses. The door reverberated with every strike, and I stood so close I could feel the vibrations on my nose. I took a deep breath. It was a new and exciting change – the fact that he was angry with me sent tingles down my spine. It was such a fascinating feeling, made only greater by the fact that the anger he felt towards me now would be the last thing he'd ever feel.

I stepped away from the door and followed my blood trail to the landing of the stairs. I looked around for a moment and took in the emptiness. This house has stood as my home for my entire life, it was a shame what I had to do, but as I said, I had to do it. I walked leisurely down the stairs and into the kitchen, opened a draw and grabbed what I was looking for, and proceeded back up the stairs. When I followed my blood stained trail back to the door, the screaming and kicking from my dad had stopped. He must have noticed my shadow under the door, because he called to me as soon as I returned.

"Lizzy?" He asked so very sadly.

"Yes, daddy?" I asked as cutely as possible.

"Why... didn't we treat you well?" A valid question from his point of view, but he hasn't seen what I have. His view was biased; of course he thinks of himself as the model father, the perfect family man. In his eyes, he always provided and cared for my mother and I. But he doesn't know. How could he? As for my mother, well that was just ignorance on his part.

"Well, mom was always kind of a bitch, dad. I mean, couldn't you see that? She hated me." I said with honesty.

"But to cut her fucking head off?! Really, Lizzy, what the fuck is wrong with you?!" He said with such an accusing tone.

"Nothing's wrong with me, daddy. I've just noticed some thing's lately. I mean, ever since you let Mr. Gabriel fuck me... That changes a girl, ya know." I said indifferently. There was a pause from the other side of the door, I was anxious for his response, but I could wait. I had nothing but time.

When he finally responded, it seemed as if the silence hung about forever, and his response was heartbreaking.

"Fucked...? He..." I didn't think he could finish saying, so I saved him the torment. That's not something he entirely deserved, to have to say that his daughter was raped by a babysitter he hired.

"Raped me. Yes." I said, barely knowing what the word meant.

"I swear to God, Lizzy... I had no idea... Why didn't you say something? Let me out of here, we'll get you help, and I'll make sure Gabriel gets what's coming to him." He played his last bargaining chip and it didn't work. It was a sweet last gasp gesture, but it didn't work.

Again, I neglected to mention a certain detail – something I did deliberately – From the kitchen I grabbed two essential things for the follow purpose. Lighter Fluid and Matches. During the conversation with my father, I had soaked the door and floor. Things were about to get interesting.

I struck a match and set it back inside the packet. I watched the small fire burn its glorious orange. It danced in some invisible wind, the smoke acting like a ribbon mimicking every move the flame below made... It was beautiful. I took a few steps back and tossed it to the ground. The lighter fluid erupted into a dazzling display of red, orange, and blue as it continued its dance up the door. The smoke took but a moment to pillow upon the ceiling, and I could hear my father starting to panic. I left him to his misery, without another word; to burn with his wife forever in the fiery hell they created together... for eternity.

The heat from the fire was immense and quick to act. It took me by surprise how fast it burned and how hot it got; it was like a brick wall barreling towards me. As much as I wanted to watch and see the suffering that was about to ensue, I couldn't. I didn't want to burn alive – not today anyway. There was still one stone left unturned, and I wasn't about to leave it that way – it was the most important one.

I turned my back on the fiery door, and the screaming that which it contained. I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride. It was a masterpiece; I had thought everything through in precise detail, and everything worked out perfectly, as though it were guided by a divine hand.

As I walked down the stairs, I could feel the inferno behind me blaze, it was the perfect back drop for the day's events. Fire is often an uncontrollable and unpredictable thing, much like how I had been today. Nobody suspected the little innocent girl – how could they? I didn't fit any profile, but there was a volatile substance within me ready to combust into a blazing frenzy of carnage... and nobody noticed it. Isn't that how the most horrific of forest fires start? A little flicker of compressed heat erupts into a reign of fire? It's the smallest of starts that end with a bang.

I peeked behind my shoulder on my way down the stairs at the fire brewing behind me, and it was gorgeous. It danced like the ballerina's in Swan Lake, I had to stop and admire its beauty. I couldn't help but think about its deception – it's so dazzling, yet so deadly. The way it moved was chaotic, but smooth and flowing. The flames waltzed across the door, the floor, and the ceiling in such a beautiful way, it was mesmerizing. Of course, its true glory was in its destruction – the way it so effortlessly destroy everything in its path. That's the true beauty of fire.

I took it all in for a brief moment longer, and then continued my descent down the stairs. I had left my knife in the bedroom, stuck in my mother, so I needed to make one last stop before leaving this forsaken place for good. I wandered into the kitchen and grabbed the second biggest knife in the block. It was shinier than the other, perhaps it had never been used, if that were the case, it was sure to be nice and sharp. I admired its shine for a moment, but was interrupted by an agonizing yell from the top floor. It was my time to leave.

Out in the front yard, I stood looking up at the blazing inferno that was once my home; a home that would soon be reduced to nothing but charred rubble in the middle of a suburban neighborhood, and I couldn't care less.

I stood there, knife in tow with blood dripping down my hand, over the knife, and onto the lawn. I had almost forgotten about that little gash. I had no time to dwell on it, I had one more stop to make for the night, and the fire department wouldn't be too much longer... nor would the police who would surely be looking for me.

With one last glance at the house, I took off down the street at a calm and controlled pace. I didn't want to draw any unwarranted attention to myself, besides, I wasn't in too much of a rush, and Mr. Gabriel's house wasn't too far away, just on the next block. The more time I took, the longer I could think about what I wanted to do to him. I wanted to savor every moment of that bastards suffering, every scream, every whimper, and every cry. I wanted my soul to soak it in so deep that when I'm old and riddled with senility, the only memory that will remain is that of Mr. Gabriel suffering until his last breath. I smiled at the thought. I don't think I had ever smiled so much in my life as I had done in the past day.

There was a strange breeze in the air. It was October, and the wind should have had a chilling effect, but the atmosphere was warm. It could have been caused by the small bonfire I set moments earlier, but it was something different. The wind blew fierce, striking up leaves and litter everywhere around me, but it wasn't cool. There was no nip to it; I couldn't quite explain it as this particular wind came from the opposite direction of the house fire. I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked around, I had the sudden feeling I was being followed, but nobody was around; not one thing except for a single raven perched upon a tall wooden fence on the corner of the block – right next to Mr. Gabriel's house.

Chapter 10

THE HOUSE – HIS HOUSE... IT LOOMED before me like a great colossus, as if it were some great creature from a far off land that would uproot and transform into some sort of giant. It sort of reminded me of Gerard's castle in that way. At first I was frightened and confused, but that gave way to curiosity and intrigue. Finally I threw away my inhibitions and gave into my more primal urges. I wanted to know. Fuck the fear and hesitation.

I stood at the gate outside of Mr. Gabriel's house with a purpose, and I peered down the walk way well aware that it may be the last walk I would ever take, but that didn't faze me – I was ready. I slowly walked the path, breathing in the fresh air, I had planned on being in there a while, and the air would do me well. It was cool and brisk and chilled my lungs with every breath; it was exhilarating. It made me feel awake – prepared.

I let the darkness envelop me; I embraced its cool comfort

– For the first time I felt one with myself. I knew who I was, I felt at peace with myself, but most importantly I felt... happy. I had but one stop left on my trail of revenge, and I knew I was ready for what waited beyond the threshold of that front door.

But was I truly prepared? I contemplated the thought as I walked down the stone path, but I had to dismiss the thought; I needed the mental strength and confidence to finish what I had started.

I pictured myself standing at the mighty oak door that marked the entrance to his house and felt proud. I had accomplished a lot recently, in the past day or so, and it was all about to come to a grand finale. I looked back at the giant raven still perched on the top of the fence, somehow that made me feel at ease. I knocked on the solid wooden door, looking innocent, hiding the carving knife behind my back.

I imagined his coming to the door curious to see who would be knocking at such a late hour; I pretended I could hear shuffling from beyond the door, and then a light switch flick on the porch light. I squinted as I looked up at the eerie glow from the incandescent bulb, took a deep breath then looked straight ahead again. The deadbolt slid back, the handle clicked and the massive door slowly creaked open. From beyond the crack I could see a pair of eyes squinting at me, I playfully squinted back. The eyes went from squint to wide when he recognized who it was knocking on his door.

I wondered if he would be really that shocked to see me. Maybe he had hoped that I wouldn't remember what he did to me; how he violated me. But at the same time how could he expect me to forget? Gerard wouldn't let me forget.

Gabriel has changed my life forever, and in more ways than one. He'd broken me physically and mentally, he's ruined my family, he's forced me into murder... But at the same time he's freed me.

I had never felt so alive. The moment I awoke from my drug induced coma, I began to feel more and more refreshed, like a bear rising from hibernation. I had all this pent up energy brewing within my very foundation, and I needed to unleash it as if it were a hurricane.

It's been quite obvious that I've been letting my control over this storm within slip; the wind and rain has been battering my barrier's, and in the penultimate moment, I'm bracing the front door with all my strength to keep the flood from rushing out.

But it will happen, the instant the front door creep's open, everything inside me will lash out.

I don't envy what's about to happen to Mr. Gabriel, but I also don't pity him. He brought this upon himself; after all, there's no saying how many other innocent's he's violated. His plan was too precise – too planned. He had done it before. He brought the vile tea laced with God knows what with a purpose. It wasn't a happy accident that I sipped from the wicked chalice and fell into an insatiable slumber. No, it was premeditated from the start.

But for all his planning, he could not have seen the result. He couldn't have predicted that I'd slip into this other-realm, meet my savior in Gerard and a companion in František and awake in this world with a purpose.

I awoke with a thirst for revenge, and on my journey, I've been teased with tidbits of the gore that I hunger for, but

Malcolm and my parents were mere morsels, nothing more than appetizers to the main course: Gabriel.

I snapped back to reality – It was time I fulfilled this fantasy...And so I gently rapped on the solid wood door. The tapping ended abruptly, but the feeling resonated with in my very being. This was it, there's no going back now... Not that I would want to.

Seconds past before I could hear the shuffling of feet behind the door and then a light on the inside flicked on. The long window beside the front door revealed the lanky old man peering out into the night. His visage vanished from the frame and the deadbolt on the door slid back into the mighty oak door.

The door creaked open exposing the backlit eye that looked all too familiar. I suppressed a shudder as all different kinds of memories and emotions rushed into my body. I couldn't come off as weak now, not at this moment – it would be unacceptable.

The eye that peered out at me took a moment to adjust to the contrast of the lit house to the dark of night that shrouded me, but when he focused his gaze, he realized who it was standing on his stoop.

Wide eyed, Gabriel appeared taken-a-back. He was unsure of what to do, what was going on. Why would she be at his house in the dead of night? However, before he could work the scenario out in his head, I spoke to him.

"Mr. Gabriel?" I said in the softest of voices.

"Uhh..." He squandered for a moment, trying to think of something to say, "Yes...Elizabeth?"

"I'm lost... and hurt." I said, holding out my bloodied hand in front of me. The wound from the knife was still festering and oozing blood.

"Oh my word!" He shouted swinging the door wide open. "How'd this happen, child?!" He said ushering me inside; I slid the knife up under my shirt as quickly as possible.

"On a knife." I said honestly. No point in lying now.

"A knife?" He said quizzically.

"Mmhmm." I said as cutely as possible as I scanned his front foyer. It was a setting very typical of an elderly man. He had pictures of people set up on a bureau against the wall, a taxidermy fish mounted above a doorway at the end of the hall, and in general everything had a very earthy feel about it. The floors were hardwood; the walls were mostly made of wooden plank smeared with a shined finish. The entire interior felt like a log cabin belonging in a forest somewhere, not in the suburbs of Chicago.

"What were you doing with a knife?" He said closing the door and kneeling down to inspect the wound further. He grabbed my hand, and I was unable to fight the urge to pull back at his touch. The wound didn't hurt; at least not as much as knowing what those hands of his are capable of.

"Aye, I bet it hurts, luv." He said disregarding his previous question.

"Not all that much." I said. He stood up and made his way to the kitchen.

"Here, let me get some dressings for it. You can tell me what happened while I fix you up." He said walking away from me. I followed him into the kitchen and watched him dig through different cupboards to no avail; all the while I fetched the beautiful blade from beneath my blouse.

"It caught on bone." I said rather ominously. Gabriel stopped shuffling through a drawer and peered over his shoulder to look at me through his periphery.

"Pardon?" He asked.

"The knife, it got stuck on a piece of bone and my hand slipped down the handle and onto the blade. That's how I cut myself." I said nonchalantly.

A bead of sweat rolled down Mr. Gabriel's cheek – although, it could have been a tear. Regardless, he didn't move; in fact, he stayed so incredibly static that he mimicked a statue.

"And what is it you were cutting?" He asked with a shiver in his voice.

I paused for a moment and inched closer to the fragile looking old man.

"My mother's neck." I said with a smirk. Gabriel made the motion to turn around, but it was indeed too late. As I told him of my deeds, I slashed the back of the bastard's knee, and with a whaling cry, he fell to the floor. Blood began to seep though his pant leg as he reached to put pressure on the wound.

When he reached, I nicked the top of his hand with the blade, as if I were scolding a dog for trying to steal some food off his master's plate. I shook my head and waved the knife in a pendulum motion.

"None of that." I said to him forcing him to cower back into himself. He continued to whimper and shake. Fear does wonderful things to people; everybody has a unique response, but of course there will always be the two basic functions: Fight or Flight. Sadly, most people will choose the latter of the two, but it makes sense... most people are weak. Mr. Gabriel was a prime example of this weakness. He was nothing more than a bully; he picked on the weak and innocent, but when confronted by somebody less than half his size, he cowers and shits himself. "You know why you're here, don't you?" I said wiping blood from the blade with my shirt. He recoiled into himself again but did not speak.

"Ahh, I see. Too afraid of a little girl to talk, hmm? Come on, you had plenty to say before you raped me."

His eyes widened, not in fear but almost in disbelief, he opened his mouth to speak, but I quickly laid the point of the knife against his throat turning his words into a squeal. His mouth hung open like the gaping entrance to a cave, and that gave me an idea.

Swiftly, I reached into his mouth with a violent and purposeful force. Of course he reeled back, and hit his head on a cupboard drawer, I could feel him attempting to bite down on my hand, but all I had to do with remind him of where the knife was with a little twist.

He looked up at me with fear filled eyes, and all I could do was smile while I pulled his tongue from his mouth, cutting it out with one fleet motion. He screamed in agony, but it all sounded rather muted. I held the piece of dangling flesh in front of me for a moment, it wasn't quite as I expected, but it was fascinating nonetheless. Its moistness was unlike that of the dead bird Malcolm and I discovered. Instead of the dried out corpse of a small bird, the tongue seemed more alive; blood ran down it on to my hand, and the warmth was comforting.

I stuffed the thing in my pocket and refocused my gaze on the bloodied Mr. Gabriel. His mouth was like a waterfall, but instead of a gentle mist of water flowing of the edge of a cliff; it was spewing blood like a volcanic eruption. I took a moment to bask in the glory of it all. The fear in his eyes, the tears welling up, the blood from his mouth, it was like a glorious painting; a true condition of human agony, and the celebrated nature of Karma.

As the eruption of blood and muffled groans of agony spewed from Gabriel's mouth, I noticed his consciousness starting to fade. I didn't want that; I wanted him awake. He may have given me the courtesy of a catatonic state while he defiled my body, but I certainly didn't feel as generous. I wanted him to suffer. I wanted to look him in the eye and watch the life drain from him. I wanted to see his soul die slowly as he watched me cut off parts of his body, and that's when the thought hit me; he can't close his eyes without eyelids.

After soaking up the splendor that was the state of Mr. Gabriel's body, and having my moment of eureka, I smiled again. I turned my head in fascination and crouched down beside his face.

I reached out and caressed his crimson face with my hand, he tried to pull away but he was far too weak; after all, he had lost a lot of blood. I felt a sense of power as I held his head in my hand; I felt nearly Godly. I controlled his fate; even though he was sure to die, I was the master of how quickly he would perish.

And then I took the carving knife and gently scored the top of his eye lids, one at a time. The flesh peeled away from the sticky eyeball like a half melted piece of candy stuck to a counter. He screamed like nothing I'd ever heard before; it was amazing – the mixture of blood and gargling – it almost sounded like he was drowning, which perhaps he was.

The human eye without that protective layer of skin looked awkward; he tried and tried, but no matter how much effort he used, there was nothing to block his vision. He scrunched his brow over and over, but to no avail. His struggle was humorous and I could help but chuckle at his meek attempt to save some grace. Nothing would save him, he knew it... and to top it off, he couldn't even look away.

I forced him to watch every second of it – it's what he deserved, and nothing less. It was his fate – his destiny – to suffer like this; from the moment he was born, his life line was meant to be frayed come the end. He was always going to die a slow and painful death. He was a pervert who picked on the weak and defenseless, but now he knows what happens when the weak become strong, and the defenseless go on the offensive.

And then I cut his hand off. It was one swift motion, right at the wrist, and it came off cleaner and smoother than I would have thought. Every second I thought of what he'd done, and to all the other's he could have done this too filled me with such rage that I wielded that carving knife like it was red hot.

And then I lopped off his other hand, all the while still looking him in the eye. He tried to escape in his mind somewhere. Maybe he thought of his childhood in England, perhaps he thought of Sunday tea with his mother, or playing football with his dad. No matter where he went for those few seconds, I made sure he would snap right back to the present.

I flicked the knife off his forehead to get his attention. The shock of losing his hands started to shut down the nervous centers of his brain, and surely he was fading fast, but the small flick brought him back.

He started to whimper as if he were a lost puppy scared and cold in some back alley in a rain storm. The same puppy would whimper and cry hoping for a savior; some mercy from a passerby, maybe even a spot of food, and sometimes, if fate would have it, somebody with a generous heart would spot the lost and cold puppy and take him in. Shame there's no such savior in Mr. Gabriel's future: just me, the ever looming thunderstorm sent to terrify and torture.

Physical pain was only half of the equation when it came to Mr. Gabriel. He hurt me in a most personal way, but he also destroyed my very being; it's only fair to return the favor. I want to make him hurt as much as possibly emotionally before he leaves this world for Gerard's Dead Forest where he'll experience an unforgiving hell for all eternity. But I want him to know he's suffering, that'll be what makes me happy.

Handless, tongueless, and forever to see uninterrupted, Mr. Gabriel laid as a bloody pile of flesh on the floor in front of me, but he wasn't dead just yet, and there was still one last bit of retribution to be had.

He made me bleed before my time; he made me hurt where I was never meant to hurt, it was time to even the odds.

I left his head and for the first time broke eye contact with him. I slid down his body to his waist, he was wearing sweat pants with an elastic waistband; I stuck the knife in and cut the pants length wise down the crotch. I saw his head pop up out of my periphery and smirked at the knowledge that he was still conscious. There he lay bloody, broken, and exposed with his penis staring me in the face. This was the first time I had seen one, the wretched piece of human anatomy. It's made for nothing but violation, it's made to hurt and penetrate the innocent. I never want to see another one again, and in one fell swoop, I hacked it off at the base.

The amount of blood that discharged was phenomenal; it flowed out of him like a waterfall, and I was so fixated on the site that I almost ignored the last mighty scream from the rapist. The blood curdling shriek filled my ears and mind – it was euphoric.

That was that; the blood loss endured was evidently too much for Gabriel to handle. Slowly his body twitched and skittered about the floor, much like a fish out of water. It wasn't long before he fell motionless and silent in his own blood which still oozed from all his wounds. It poured out of him so profusely that I found myself surrounded by the crimson river.

It stuck to my thighs and my hands almost like glue; I lifted my hands and held them out in front of me so I could watch the blood seep through my fingers and drip back into the pool that encircled me. It was amazing, truly. I could see parts of it begin to coagulate, chunks of blood were beginning to form on the palms of my hands and on the tips of my fingers; before long I found myself rolling it around my fingers.

Mr. Gabriel's body was much more fun than that of the dried dead bird, and I wanted to play. I looked at his lifeless body, still dripping blood, and focused; I was sick and tired of seeing the outside. The soft and flimsy shell that contains everything that makes us live and breathe is incredibly boring. I wanted to see what's on in the inside, I wanted to cut and pry until there was nothing left.

And so I began. I took the carving knife and plunged it deep into the motionless sternum; the knife cracked through the breastbone with relative ease, and went straight into his heart. I felt the knife grab something firm but malleable, and I knew then that it must have been his heart – the beatless heart.

I rocked the blade back and forth until it started to cut through the bone, slowly but surely I was tearing this sack of meat wide open. As the tear became greater, I couldn't resist the urge any longer; I needed to feel the warmth from within.

I yanked the knife from the cadaver and threw it aside – it would no longer be needed in this circumstance. With wide eyes and an unfathomable level of excitement, I delved into the gaping chest with both hands, and it felt... Heavenly.

The body was still warm internally, even as nothing continued to live; no heart beat, no breathing, nothing but magnificent death. I knew with every wave of my hand that his cells were beginning to erode and decompose, like that of a dead log. Before too long his body would be home to multiple inhabitant; bugs, scavengers, anything looking for a hot meal and a warm place to live for a short while. But I got here first.

Like a lioness on the plains of the Serengeti, I took satisfaction in my kill. But unlike the Lioness, I didn't have a pride to feed, no, it was purely for the enjoyment of the hunt and the kill. I'm still a human, after all; the most ferocious, heartless killing machines on the planet. Nevertheless, his blood is fresh and still reeks of victory, my victory.

My hands were deep inside his breastbone, and all I could think of was how much further could I go, and so I thrust forward with all my might and I began to slip forward. Deeper and deeper I sunk until I was elbow deep in blood and entrails.

I could feel all sorts of wonderful things. His lungs, his heart, his stomach... All of it was within my grasp and I wanted to see it – not on the inside, but on the out. I was growing bored with my toy; I wanted to tear it apart.

I grabbed a handful of something deep within the bowels of his body, and with one titanic pull his ribs split open and out came my hands full with all the goodies I had been after. Innards and entrails came flowing from his chest cavity like a piñata at a birthday, except there weren't any kids swarming to get as much loot as possible. It was just me, and all the prizes were mine.

Through all the mess I spotted one thing that grabbed my attention; his heart. I felt the knife pierce it, I felt my hands run over it inside his body, but I hadn't been able to see it. This was the life source of his being. This once beating muscle powered that monster; it gave him strength and the ability to roam this world. But it pounded no longer, but rather it lay lifeless and quite small just on the floor in front of me.

A single tear rolled down my face, not at what I've done, but at the sadness that such a small thing can feel so much; it can bring joy and sorrow, it can keep us alive or it can kill us. But at that moment, it looked like nothing more than a steak to be thrown on a barbecue.

I picked it up and examined it, bringing it closer and closer to my face. If it had an odor, I didn't recognize it; its texture reminded me of a slimy baseball, with its rigidity being the seams, and the smoothness being the leather; it didn't weigh a lot either, maybe a pound, if that.

There was just one last sensation I needed to experience. I've got to feel it and see it; I've got to smell it and hear it... but then I had to taste it. The urge came over me, I needed to feel the flesh roll around my tongue, I wanted to feel my teeth tear into it and chew it until there was nothing left.

And that's exactly what I did. It was tough to chew and it tasted awful, but it was ever so satisfying. Devouring the heart of your enemy is the ultimate triumph; the fulfillment I felt was like nothing else – knowing that he stole a piece of me, contaminated my thoughts and corrupted my psyche destroyed who I was as person. I had lost, I was beaten by an old man with a concoction that he deceived me into drinking; I felt like a fool. But when I felt his heart wash around my mouth, when I felt his blood run down my face all those feelings of loss and pain just washed away; I was cleansed.

Triumphant I stood over my prey's bloodied corpse. It was done, my task was complete, but what was I to do? Gerard didn't speak of what was to happen after I finished what was asked of me; I hadn't even thought that far ahead.

It wasn't long before a wave of confusion fell over me, so much so that I staggered backwards having to grab on to the center island to keep upright. My head began to pound as if there were something inside desperately trying to break its way out of my skull. I grabbed my forehead and tried to massage it, but it didn't help, and it seconds later, the worst wave of nausea overcame me; I felt like I was going to vomit.

I had no idea what was happening, none at all. I had a few quick theories run through my head; maybe all I had done finally caught up to me, maybe I blocked it all out and now I'm so mentally and physically spent that my body just wants to shut down. I didn't know for sure, but I know I needed to get out of the house; I needed fresh air.

I stumbled through the kitchen and through the cabin- esque foyer until I got to the might oak door that led to salvation. I fumbled around with the handle for a moment or two before finally finding the strength to slide it open.

It wasn't an hour before that I felt stronger than I ever had. I felt as though I could do anything and that nothing could stop me; but at that moment, struggling with a simple door, I had never felt so weak in my life.

Wait, that's not entirely true. I felt that weak when he had me in his clutches; I felt that weak when I was raped by that monster.

The door opened with a sighing of the frame and a gust of wind burst through threshold so strongly that it nearly shoved me to the ground. But I held onto the handle and kept my balance. I fought my way through the opening and out into the frigid night, the same night that felt so cool and comforting earlier now felt devastatingly cold, like the icy grip of death's hand.

Perhaps I was indeed dying. Maybe the wound I suffered while carving my mother led to a large amount of blood loss; maybe it was infected. Either way, whatever it was, it wasn't pleasant.

I lurched up the walkway towards the sidewalk, struggling with every step I took not to topple to the ground, and then I heard it. The raven that followed me seemingly all night belting out a squawk which rang in my ears with such a force that it caused me to fall to my knees.

It let out another sharp cry which brought me from my knees to the ground. I was compelled to cover my ears from its shriek, which left me kicking and rolling on the ground in agony.

My head pounded even more, and my stomach equaled it in knots, and with my hands still covering my ears I crawled to the sidewalk on my elbows. Every inch was more painful than the last, but I felt the urge to just keep moving; if I stopped, I thought I would die.

I managed to get to the sidewalk, but when I did everything turned to a blur. I remember seeing flashing lights and a strange muffled whirring before everything turned that familiar bright blue.

Chapter 11

GERARD'S CASTLE WAS JUST AS I remembered it. The corridor was massive with that huge intricate throne sitting at the head of it. When I gathered my bearings I realized my head had stopped pounded, and my stomach seemed to untie itself from the tangled mess it was moments earlier.

Once on my feet, I could hear clapping from the distance; it was a slow clap which almost seemed like applause, and it was coming from behind the throne. I peered around to see who was there, and for a second I saw nobody, but I closed my eyes and shook my head, and when I opened them again, there he was standing there: Gerard.

I had to blink a few times to assure myself that he was real, that he was there; and as I lived and breathed, he stood before me. He walked closer to me, but not of the stoop in which his throne say, and stopped his clapping. He stood there, arms crossed with a satisfied grin on his face looking down at me with an almost proud look. For some reason that startled me, and so I took a step back.

But my path was blocked by another's foot. Spooked, I froze and hunched myself over expecting the worst, but when I turned around I saw a friendly figure; it was František.

I felt overwhelmed with joy, and could hold back leaping into the air and wrapping my arms around his neck. He embraced me back and whispered in my ear, accent.

"Good job, Liz." In a very soft and comforting English

I pulled back and smiled at him and he smiled back before nodding behind me. I jumped down from his arms and turned to face the ruler of this strange place, Gerard.

He still looked at me with a satisfied grin on his face, but I still felt awkward, I would have rather just held on to František. He made me feel safe and comfortable, where as Gerard made me feel incredibly uneasy.

Thoughts flowed through my head; questions like why was I brought back, I thought I'd never see this place again, I didn't want to see this place again; It was a very unlikeable place to be.

"I bet you're wondering why I brought you back, Ms. Walker." Gerard said, still grinning. I nodded in response. He chuckled back at me, "Well, we have a few things we need to discuss, little one."

I swallowed hard and nodded again. He caught me choked down my fear, I wish he hadn't.

"No need to be afraid, you did well." He said, "Better than I could have hoped for!" He exclaimed throwing his arms in the air.

"The new ornaments in my garden are... lovely. The way they scream – Ooh! I adore it. Fresh meat always cries the best, and for that, Elizabeth, I thank you."

All I could do was nod again; his presence intimidated me into silence.

"Come now child, speak up. I won't bite." He said smiling, while leaning on his colossal throne. I stirred up the courage and meekly said one word, "Sorry." All I'd been through that day, and I couldn't even muster a few short words, all I could was apologize. Perhaps I wasn't as strong as I thought; perhaps it was all an illusion.

"No need for apologizing, Lizzy. You've done well; just as I asked, in fact. Do you remember what I promised you for a job well done?" Gerard said.

He promised nothing to my recollection, nothing but the salvation of my soul. It was all glorified blackmail, he wanted four souls, but he would have settled for just one: Mine and I didn't fully understand why just yet.

"You... Promised me I wouldn't hang from a tree forever?" I said sounding very unsure of myself.

He smiled even greater than he had before, "That's right! What a memory on this one, eh Frank?" He said. Frank did nothing but growl under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear it. I didn't think Gerard could hear it from where he was, but it still startled me; František was angry for some reason, and that made me uneasy.

"Well, Elizabeth... I'd like to show you something; join me, will you?" He said extending his hand. I looked back at František for reassurance, and he slowly nodded in Gerard's direction, and so I obliged. I walked up the steps to the throne and took Gerard's hand. He grasped it firmly, but gently and we walked away hand in hand.

I didn't realize it fully before, but Gerard was absurdly tall. He towered over me like a giant; for a moment I felt as though he were King Kong, and I was the love of his life, Ann Darrow. But in reality, it was more like the troll leading the kids under the bridge. I felt extremely uncomfortable, which was made even worse when I looked back over my shoulder and noticed that František hadn't followed.

I was alone with this monster – just like before. The knots returned to my stomach, but I did my best to hid my pain from Gerard; I was alone with him and making him upset was the last thing I wanted to do.

"Where are we going?" I managed to squeak out.

Looking straight ahead he smirked again, "You'll see, little one. It's a special place I have here, a place for people like you to enjoy." And with that we continued our strange stroll behind the throne.

The corridor was excessively long, easily the same length that the entrance offered, as if the throne was directly in the middle of the room. In the distance I could see a large window, with that mighty sun peering down through it, almost as if it were watching us; and that's when I noticed it: a door.

The door was etched out of the glass that made up the enormous window; it was so fine that it was nearly undetectable, as if there were strands of hair strewn about the pane. We stopped just shy of the window, and looking out I could see a massive field that stretched to the horizon and beyond. It was awe inspiring. The way the sun shimmered off the golden field, the way the plants in the distance swayed to the rhythm of the invisible song the wind played, everything about it was majestic.

My mouth had fallen agape as I looked up Gerard; it was as if all my fears and worries faded at the sight of that beautiful landscape.

"It's beautiful." I stated, as obvious as it was.

"I know. It's my favourite place about this whole world." Gerard said.

"Can... Can we go out there?" I asked timidly.

"I'm glad you asked, Lizzy." He said softly pushing the door open, "After you."

And so I walked through the threshold into the golden field of glory. There was a warm breeze coming from the north, at least I thought it was the north, and there was an aroma in the air, unlike nothing I had ever smelled before.

I was on sensory overload; my mind could hardly comprehend the beauty and elegance in such a place. On one side of the world people hang forever over and over again always to endure an endless torture; but on the other side of this strange world, there is this peaceful garden. I didn't know what to think, and so I just stood there and basked in its awesome nature.

And then Gerard tapped me on the shoulder, "I'm glad you like it, dear."

"Oh, I do." I said

"There's one last thing I'd like to show you, if you'd be so kind."

"Sure." I said, still starring off into the splendor. I had hoped that whatever it is he wanted to show me would compare in the loveliness that this place offered.

He ushered me forward into the wonderful garden, still hand in hand, I looked up at him again, but his face revealed nothing of what was coming; he just looked straight ahead with no particular focus in mind.

The breeze blew again and that smell filled my nostrils, sending a shiver down my spine. I couldn't quite place it, but it was by far the most attractive smelling thing I'd ever had the pleasure of experiencing. I closed my eyes as we walked; I shut out all other senses so I could bask in the aroma this heaven produced. It almost reminded me of fresh baked cookies, and by that I mean the feeling it induced was similar, but it smelt nothing like cookies baking – it was just comforting as such.

I opened my eyes again when we stopped. I first looked up again at Gerard, but he gave no hints as to what was going on, and then I noticed the path. Broken off from the main field, there was a small overgrown pathway leading down into a gated garden, it was far enough away though that I couldn't see what lay beyond the wrought iron fencing.

"What is it?" I asked with sincere curiosity. So far everything Gerard had done has come with a purpose, I expected no difference now.

"My most prized possessions; my favourite place in this whole universe." He said strikingly ominous.

"Oh?" I said simply. I was fully intrigued at this point, almost like a point of no return, there was no going back now. I looked up at Gerard again, and instead of a static glare, he met my eyes. He looked peaceful as he nodded at me.

"Go, see for yourself. See the wonders this world can truly offer. You won't be disappointed." He said grinning mischievously. I raised an eyebrow in uncertainty, but the curiosity overwhelmed me. If this magnificent garden wasn't his favourite place, I couldn't begin to fathom what could lie beyond that gate. My imagination ran wild with images of grandeur and beauty, and I felt Gerard could sense my excitement – he seemed to be feeding off of it.

I looked over my shoulder down the small hidden pathway, took a deep breath and took a step.

"Lizzy, wait!" I heard a Scottish voice call out, and so I stopped in my tracks. I turned around to see František standing just behind Gerard, who had a very displeased look on his face.

"František! What?" I asked in a panic.

"Don't go down there, Lizzy." He said.

"What, why...?" He motioned to speak, but stopped himself, he faced Gerard, who had yet to turn and face his servant.

"Oh, no... Go on, Frank. Tell her." Gerard said looking at me but speaking to František. The glare on Gerard's face turned from mischievous to downright sadistic in the blink of an eye.

"Just... don't, Lizzy. It's for your own good." František said. However, in a heartbeat, Gerard spun around and grabbed František by the throat; I moved a few steps closer out of instinct.

"No, No, Franky. You come and interrupt us, you take away from the moment, and you selfishly barge in here without my permission... You can tell her why you've done such a thing." Gerard said through his gnashed teeth. František swallowed hard and looked beyond Gerard at me, but said nothing.

"I'll give you one last chance, Frank, and you know me, I don't give second chances very often – and you've already gotten one. Tell her, or I'll tear your throat out." Gerard threatened looking him straight in the eye.

When František didn't speak again, Gerard raised his hand about to literally tear out his throat.

"No! Wait!" I yelled out; Gerard stopped and held his hand mid-air and glanced over his shoulder back at me. "It's ok, Frank... You can tell me." I finished.

František looked back and met Gerard's gaze and nodded. Gerard threw him to the ground and turned to face me again.

"Very good, Lizzy. You just saved his life, or what's left of it." He crossed his arms, "No go on and tell her what's beyond the fence, Frank."

František picked himself up and stared at Gerard with great contempt, but as he began to speak, his eyes fixated on me, those glowing marvelous eyes of his. He looked sad, and his voice matched the sadness.

"Lizzy... What you'll see down there... it's not what you expect." He said taking a step towards me, but Gerard shot him a look which froze him in his tracks. "It won't be pleasant; it might..." He paused, as if choking back a sob, "It might destroy you in more ways than one."

I reeled back slightly, not quite knowing what to say, but I had to ask regardless, "What...what's down there?"

František went to speak, but Gerard held out his hand silencing him.

"That's enough. Let the girl discover what wonders lie beyond for herself." He said to the both of us with a smile on his face.

"But...I'm not sure I want to know." I said rather shyly. Gerard met my eyes and smiled a soothing smile, "Dear, Lizzy... You don't have a choice."

"What?" I said in surprise.

"What made you think you'd have a choice in anything that went on here, Elizabeth? This is my world, my realm... This isn't a democracy, what I say goes. Now, you can go down that pathway on your own and see for yourself the goodies that await; or I can drag you down there and force you to see and leave you in there for all eternity. So, either way, luv... you'll be going through that gate.

The curiosity turned to fear and I began to tremble; what could possibly be on the other side of that gate? Although, I should have known, Gerard seemed unmoved by the glory that the field generated, it seemed only pain and horror can satisfy his twisted needs.

I turned to face the gate as if it were my fate. I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and began my trudge down the narrow overgrown pathway. My nerves shook with every step I took, and after just a few steps, I had begun trembling as if I were standing in the middle of a snow storm stripped naked.

Gerard instilled a fear deep within my bones, and I couldn't shake it; he truly made the unknown terrifying. Even though I was curious of the anonymous nature that was on the far side of that gate, the fear was starting to become overwhelming. As much as I once wanted to know, I wasn't so sure with every step.

Every step that turned short and shorter until my feet did nothing but shuffle seemingly in the same spot. I had hoped this would give the illusion of me moving forward, but I felt the glare of Gerard looking through my soul urging me onwards with his mind.

And so I peered back to get one last look at that paradise; I took in its splendor and glory, and it made me feel more at ease; I smiled, and for the first time in a long while it was a genuine smile of enjoyment.

While in that place I felt like a little girl again – innocent and kind hearted with not a worry or care in the world. I liked that feeling; it felt right and wholesome, like waking up on Christmas morning.

It was a feeling never to be had again, and deep within my core, I knew it. Gerard and Gabriel had forever changed me, and there was no going back to the peace that I once felt.

I'll never have the pleasure of watching a movie with Malcolm again;

I'll never feel the embarrassing enjoyment of hearing a lame joke from my father;

I'll never feel the embrace of my mother again.

A tear rolled down my face in the memory off all that I had and lost; I had all but forgotten about what was happening then. I forgot about the gate, and I forgot about Gerard and his threats; I was off living in a world that no longer existed.

Leave it to Gerard to snatch me from my fantasy and bring me back to the reality that he created.

A blood curdling scream brought me back quickly, a scream coming from František. Gerard had him by the scruff of the neck with an intricate look blade held to his cheek, penetrating enough to cause blood to drip out. The knife was held over František's horrendous burns.

"Go. Now, Lizzy." Gerard said sternly. My eyes widened and turned away from him, and I hastily scurried toward that gate.

My scurry turned into a jog, and then into a run until I finally hit the gate and burst through it with enough force that it sprung open and snapped shut behind me.

It was another garden, although it was darker, as if the sun never penetrated this part of the world; it wasn't just dark, it was death. The momentum that carried me over the precipice and down the cliff into this doom halted in an instant.

It was dark, yes, but the most frightening of it all was the silence. Just feet behind me was that beautiful landscape filled with everything that dreams are made of, but past the gate it was a feverish Hell that can only be conceived in the nightmares of the Devil himself. I felt dread and sadness just by looking into the abyss; there was nothing, or so it seemed. But I dared not turn back in a greater fear – the fear that Gerard would kill my dear and now only friend, František. There had been enough bloodshed as of late, there needn't be anymore.

And so I continued my journey into the darkness, and it seemed with every step that I took, the darkness became thicker and more substantial until it surrounded me. I felt I'd only taken a few steps, but I could no longer see the gate or the garden that lay beyond.

So I marched on into the void, but I could never have been prepared for what I was to meet me on the other side.

I walked, and walked, and walk for who knows how long, but to me it felt forever. It was like when I first came to this place, it was as if time had stopped, and every movement I made took me one step forward and two steps back, and just when I thought all hope was lost, when I wanted to sit down, give up and just cry, I heard it.

I heard her voice; I heard... My mother's voice. A chill rocked my body, and tears came uncontrollably streaming out of my eyes. I knew that Gerard was going to take the souls of those I killed and torture them forever and ever; but she sounded happy. She sounded as if she were living and breathing having a good time; I heard her laugh.

I ran, I ran as fast as I could toward her voice, towards her laugh, but all I saw was darkness; everywhere I looked and turned was just blackness. But I continued to run; I was determined not to give up. I ran and ran until I could run no more, and in the middle of this plain devoid of anything but the subtle sounds of a world that once was, I collapsed.

I laid on the blackened ground in heap, sobbing uncontrollably until I felt something pass over me. I dared not look in fear it was a Krag, or even Gerard himself there to haunt me, torture me. He lured me into this pit of darkness; perhaps he was here to finish me off.

And then I felt it again, but something about this presence didn't frighten me; it felt comforting. I looked up, and what I saw sent a wave of emotion pulsating through my body; confusion, fear, sadness, and happiness all hit me at once.

Standing in front of me, shrouded by light, was my mother. She looked well and in good health, but she didn't seem to recognize me; she merely just stood there and stared blankly. I built up the courage and walked towards her with my arms held out in front of me, stuck in a state of awe. The closer I got, the more real she seemed, but I know it couldn't be true – I killed her myself, I still had the wound on my hand.

The urge to look at said wound overtook me, and so I looked at my hand, which had nothing on it. The gash that was so deep before I entered this world had disappeared clean; no scar was left, it was as if nothing ever happened. I stared at it beyond confused, but movement past my hand caught my attention; it was my mother.

She looked happy when I first saw her, but something changed, she became frightened, but not surprised, like she was expecting something to happen; like how she would react when her father would get home drunk. She was excitedly scared. I watched in anticipation of what would happen, and then whatever I was waiting for took its course. The fear in her eyes expressed itself with tears. Her eyes welled up and when the water precipice was breached, a tear would roll out, followed by another and another until with was a steady stream.

I couldn't tell what she was afraid of until it actually happened; it was her father. Walking past me like I wasn't even there and on towards her with a belt in hand, he raised it up and the buckle came down right across her face. I jumped back in fear for her, I cried, I didn't want to see her hurt like that, but then he did it again, and again... and slowly I became used to it: I was fascinated every time the cold brass struck her face.

The sadness and sympathy I felt the first time it happened dissipated; all the thoughts of her and her emotional torture came to mind; it made me want to join in on the beating, and the more I watched, the more I encouraged it. It was my mother's worst fear, my grandfather. I overheard her telling my dad one day that he sexually assaulted her and her sister nearly nightly, that he would beat them with a belt if they didn't cooperate – and they never did.

It was when that memory past through my mind that grandpa turned Carol around and bend her over. She stopped crying and focused on a place far away from here. Dropping his pants and mounting, my grandfather began to rape her. I had to look away. I knew what it was like to be raped, and nobody deserved that, not a soul. I screamed and shouted for him to stop, I pleaded for him to just beat her – she deserved a good beating, but not that. I was so distracted by what was taking place that I didn't notice my screams made no sound, as the place was devoid of light, it was also absent of sound. It was like the vacuum of space; and it was true, nobody could hear you scream.

Just as I could watch no longer, grandpa stopped as if he was told to stop. He stepped back and buckled his pants back to his waist look at something just past my vision. I was curious, and so I stepped forward into the darkness squinting, attempting to see anything I can, and saw it I did. Or should I say, saw who it was. At first I couldn't believe it; my eyes must have surely been deceiving me. It was the darkness that surrounds playing some optical illusions with me; my mind being tricked into seeing something that wasn't there. But a step closer the figure took, and there was no mistaking. The person I was looking at was me.

I quaked. There I was walking towards my bent over mother holding that carving knife; I watched myself smile and mock her; I watched myself tease and taunt her with the blade; I watched myself whisper into her ear – I could even hear what I said, "Death is only the start of your torment." – Words I barely knew the meaning of, but as I stood there, those were the words that flowed through my ears. When the shape that was me pulled back, she looked my mother right in the eye and with a smile, sliced through the cheek of her.

I pulled back again, but she struck again and again until there was nothing left to her face, yet my mother still hadn't died. I watched some more, and the torture only got worse, she sawed off fingers and toes, she cut out her knee caps and elbows; and yet my mother lived. I felt trapped, my voice did nothing, and every time I moved towards the vicious scene, it would move in the same direction; I couldn't get close to it. I eventually gave up and fell to my knees; I didn't want to watch anymore. I curled up into a ball and hid my face in my knees, but the scene would switch so it was always in my view. When I closed my eyes, I could see it play in my mind, when I covered my ears; I could hear my mother's cries. There was no escaping the visions, and just as I was at my breaking point, it all ceased, and once again all that I could see was total blackness.

I stood up and looked around the space, but saw nothing. Once again I felt empty and afraid, lost with no direction to anything. Walked would have been futile, so I stood in place until something came; and sure enough, something – somebody – came through the darkness. As if on a cloud, floating towards me was Gerard. He looked in peace as he approached; he looked satisfied knowing I saw what I saw. He stopped right in front of me, but didn't step off whatever it was he had been floating on. He smiled and looked at me sideways; I shied and looked at my feet.

"Did you enjoy the show, Lizzy?" He asked. I refused to look up or make a sound; I merely shook my head "No."

"Tsk, such a shame. I had choreographed it all for you. I thought you would enjoy every ounce of pain caused to her. After all, she wasn't a very good mother..." He paused and knelt down to look my in the eye. "Or was she?"

I my heart raced in my chest, pounding against my ribs like it was trying to escape. What could he have meant? I said nothing, but I did look him in the eye, I was entranced and couldn't look away.

"Lizzy, do you know what this place is?" He asked again, and again I shook my head "No."

"There's a final resting place for everybody, Lizzy, and this is but one of them. Unfortunately, I'm not lucky enough to get all the souls that die – but I do get the ones I want. I... Enlist, for lack of a better word, people like you to go out and fetch me souls for my various gardens and forests. But there are specific souls I like, and when I get them, they end up here in my most prized place." He said in a long-winded way. I dared not ask what the place was. At that point, I didn't want to know.

"This, my sweet little child," He said throwing his arms open, as if he were throwing away the darkness and drawing all the light in the world to him. He exposed it all, I could see everything; it was like he removed an invisible shroud from my eyes making everything clear. The landscape had changed. No longer was there a black abyss around me, but it was bright white with shapes blurring in and out of focus in around me.

"This is the Garden of Innocence." Said Gerard. The words reverberated throughout my very soul. I swallowed hard and looked around. As the white faded and the shapes turned to figures, I could see a fence, and behind said fence was my mother who was perched in a chair in front of her vanity mirror, tied up as I left her. Beside her was my father who stood there, looking over the fence that contained him; he was on fire. Every second passed saw a piece of his flesh fall away from his body, but he didn't react. Beside him was Malcolm, the only friend I ever had. He was dangling from a floating window independent of a house, but his eyes were open, and yet he had no reaction to him either. And finally, beside him was a naked Mr. Gabriel all cut up and standing with no hands, no tongue and no penis.

Each and every one of them looked like statues, frozen in time waiting for something to happen, for somebody to free them, but I wasn't that person. I could do nothing but stare at them and feel a strange wave of satisfaction wash over me. These were the people that ruined my life, or would have made it so much worse. They deserved what they got, but then it hit me: The Garden of Innocence.I turned and looked at him and he was already looking at me as if already prepared for the question. I opened my mouth to speak, but Gerard held up a hand to silence me.

"Let's take a tour, shall we?" He said placing a hand upon my back. I didn't have a choice in the matter. He ushered me over to my mother, sitting at her vanity desk.

"That scene you saw moments ago, Lizzy, that was what your mother has to live through for the rest of time and beyond." He said, as I swallowed hard fighting back a tear. "The garden consists of two different types of suffering; emotional is the first. While here, the inhabitants will live out their most painful fears and memories in vivid detail; they'll feel every scratch and live through every second of their most tormented experience as if it were happening in real time." He explained ushering me over to my searing father.

"Your father didn't have many fears, Elizabeth; just losing you. It was quite noble, but for his nobility, he gains nothing but reliving finding you bloodied in your bed, ill as can be. Of course, I tweaked the memory slightly so that he remembers you burning the house down – but with you in it of course. He has to see you burn alive, and then experience it himself." He said nonchalantly, as if he were describing a movie plot to a friend.

He again guided me towards Malcolm, I couldn't fight Gerard's influence, as much as I wanted to, so I obliged and walked over to the cage which held my best friend. There he hung lifeless, but very much alive. I couldn't help but look him in the eye, and for a brief moment I felt alright as his eyes showed nothing of pain or sorrow; but I knew he was being tortured on the inside; he was reliving some dreadful memory over and over again, and it was because of me.

"Your best friend in the whole world," Gerard began, but I cut him off. I had enough of this tour of the damned; I wanted answers, and I didn't want to hear another story.

"Enough!" I shouted. Gerard stopped and looked at me quizzically. "I want to know what's going on here, Gerard. Why are they in this garden; why's it called the Garden of innocence?" I said sternly, looking him square in the eye.

"Because, my dear," He said smiling, "They've done nothing wrong." He finished. I looked into his eyes, looking for an ounce of a lie – but I saw nothing but sincerity. I felt ill, I needed to throw up, I needed to sit down, and I needed to get away from this place. But I knew no matter how hard I tried, or how fast I ran, I couldn't escape this place. So I sat down, I brought my knees to me chest and thought about the words Gerard said: They've done nothing wrong. How could that be?! It's not true I thought. They all ruined me in some way or another. I was raped, I was lied to, I was betrayed, I was broken... They all did something to me that would have been irreversible.

"You're lying." I said looking up from my knees straight at Gerard. "You're lying. They all hurt me; you told me that yourself. They all deserved it!" I screamed at him.

He continued to smile at me, content to stay that way apparently, "No, Lizzy. That's the beauty of it all; you killed four innocent people." He said.

"No! I didn't! I don't believe you!" I shrieked on the verge of a tantrum.

"Let me show you then, little one." Gerard tapped me on the shoulder and we were instantly transported back to what seemed like the real world. We were in my kitchen, and my mother was sitting at the dining room table. She was working on something, and so I wandered around the other side of her to get a good look at it. I took my time, not wanting to see what it was; my first thought was a beauty regime or something vain for me to do; but when I got closer, I saw it was nothing of the sort.

Lying on the table in front of her were art class flyers and enrolment papers. I loved to draw and paint, but I had no idea she knew that.

"She was coming around, Elizabeth." Gerard said, "She was going to put you into art classes over your winter and spring break, and if you liked it, which you surely would have, she would have influenced the board at a very reputable art school to accept you for the summer program. All those country club gatherings – they were for you." Gerard's word's pierced my heart like a jagged arrow tearing and ripping the deeper it penetrated. I felt the tears roll down my face; tears which I didn't even know were welling. Whether it was a lie or not, I couldn't face the possibility of my mother actually caring for me, wanting something for me that went against her selfish needs.

I felt his hand on my shoulder again, he ushered me to the right – towards my charred father. I could barely look at him, but something compelled me to stare. He was the cheater, he was fooling around with his secretary, and again at the thought I became angry. But, how could I believe it? Perhaps he wasn't cheating; but why was he working late nearly every night? I fought with myself trying to figure out what to think. The confusion was overwhelming.

"You father – the same man you were convinced was cheating on your mother, and as much as you despised her you felt the disloyalty was a great deal of disrespect. It frustrated you, and you wanted to see him burn slowly, the way he was burning your family down. Well, you succeeded, except that he wasn't staying late to cheat on your mother; rather he was working overtime to save money; money that he planned on spending on a summer house at a lovely lake in the country. You and your mother would have been ecstatic, and surely would have enjoyed many a summer up there." He paused and we watched a piece of my father cheek gradually peel away from the bone and hit the ground with a wet thud.

"Deary, you would have went up there in your eighteenth year and created your first masterpiece; a stunning water-color of the landscape." His voice grated against my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. I began to sway back and forth trying to rid my memory of his words, but they struck too deep – they'll live with me forever.

I felt his hand guide me again, this time towards my old friend Malcolm. His death hurt me the most, I felt. He never hurt me in life, and even after I dangled him from the window, he still had yet to do anything. But was about to; he was going to break the trust we'd built up over the years. He was going to do something unfathomable to me; he was going to be unfaithful to our friendship by telling everybody of the bird and what I'd done to it. As Gerard said, I took disloyalty to heart, and I couldn't allow him to commit such treason.

"This young man, he had a bright future, that is until you cut it short – but he deserved it, right? He was a liar and deceitful towards you; he had a notebook which he held close, so close that you didn't even know it existed. Within its pages held the secrets which you treasured more than life itself, but he was about to reveal everything you worked so hard to conceal... Or was he protecting it with his life, thus protecting you? He hid that book from everybody, even his therapist wasn't aware of what its pages held. He was the keeper of secrets, your secrets, and it was driving him mad – after all, he was mad about you, but you didn't trust him; and now he hangs forever from that very windowsill." Gerard looked down at me, I didn't have to look back - I could feel his eyes smiling at my agony.

And agony is what I felt. I didn't know what to believe; was Gerard telling the truth, or was it all a lie? I couldn't conclude either way; if he was lying about this, he could have been lying about all their deeds and evils they committed, nothing he said held any merit to me. But I know one thing was for sure, I know the next person in this parade of the damned was a truly wicked person. No story Gerard could come up with would convince me otherwise – he raped me, and there was no denying that.

Without the aid of Gerard's gentle shove, I moved towards the bloody mess that Mr. Gabriel remained in. I smiled

at the site of that old bastard, the thought of what he had done to me rushed back with such a force that it felt like a fist to the gut, but those memories were followed by something much more pleasant – the thoughts of me torturing and ultimately ending his pitiful life.

"The whore, the cheater, the liar, and now the rapist; this was the cast of your own personal tragedy, Lizzy. This was the man that defiled you; he did unmentionable things to your frail little body. The things he did you would even be unspeakable in my realm – that is to say if he truly raped you. It was quite the contrary, Elizabeth. You drank the tea, the same tea he drank, and it was indeed a special brew, but it was never meant to send you into a spiral of unconsciousness. You just happened to be allergic to a certain ingredient. I took advantage of that fact. I see all, everything that has come and has yet to come, and I took the opportunity to take a broken soul like yours to manipulate to my liking.

Lizzy, Gabriel didn't rape you; he was trying to revive you. You remember the violent gyrating and his body atop yours because he was giving you CPR, and who knows, without his resuscitating techniques, you may well have died. See, that is my one fault, Lizzy. I can't reap the souls in your realm, I can only harvest those brought to me through a carrier, such as you, and so if he didn't effectively save your life, you would have been no use to me. He, for all intents and purposes, was your savior; and you killed him."

I couldn't react, I didn't know how to. I searched in the deepest recesses of my mind to try to rationalize everything he said, and with enough searching I found the one plot hole in his grand scheme of lies. I turned and looked him square in the eyes; he still smiled at me with them, as if he were satisfied with himself for revealing all those none-truths.

"Gerard?" I asked, he nodded encouraging me to go on, "If he didn't rape me, where'd all the blood come from?" I had him, I knew he had nothing to counter back with, but he didn't look fazed, not in the least bit. I dared not break my stare though, I couldn't come off as weak –I'm not weak.

"Lizzy, darling." He said, kneeling down to meet me on level ground; he put his hand on my shoulder like a doctor telling a patient he's only got weeks to live. That unnerved me slightly. "You're a woman now." He said ominously

"What?" I said in a startled response.

"Little one, it happens to all young ladies around your age; around puberty. You had your period."

"My period?" I questioned, thinking back as far as I could. I remembered a slight conversation I had with my mother about that once, but it was incredibly awkward and tried to bar it from my memory.

He nodded and looked at me with a comfort in his eyes, but of course I knew it was all a front; he was the true evil. I shrugged his hand from my shoulder and took a step back. Everything he said made a strange sort of sense, but I still denied everything, both in my head and in my heart. I refused to believe a word that wretched man said; how could I? He continued to look at me as though he were a proud father seeing his daughter score her first goal in a soccer game. Any comfort his eyes may have contained quickly evaporated into a disturbing creepiness unmatched by anything I had come across.

"You're lying." I said sternly.

"Of course you'd think that, and how could I blame you? It all seems so... perfect." He said standing, but I said nothing refusing to engage in his insanity.

"I must admit, the coming of your first period had impeccable timing; it's funny how fate intervenes like that. I must say, it was a true sign that this was the meant to be the way of things. It's how I knew to pick you; remember, I can see everything that is to come, I knew you'd react poorly to that tea, and I also knew that you'd be getting your period. All I had to do was fill in the blanks."

"No." I said in strict denial; I was seething with rage with his words. If he were lying, they would be horrible filthy lies only meant to hurt and maim my psyche; but the truth is what I was afraid of. If what he spewed was indeed true, how would I face what's to come? I'd be a murderer without a cause; all because of a sick and twisted game played a bored old man.

"I don't believe you, Gerard." I said with less confidence than I wanted.

"Again," He said smirking, "I don't blame you. It's a lot to take in; but you will accept it, surely."

"I won't accept lies. It's not right; I know what's true, it's my life, I know what happened." I said in my defense.

"Do you though, Lizzy? It pains me to be the one to tell you this, but I picked you not only because of the alignment of unusual events, but I picked you because you were capable. I looked inside you and saw something not many people possess – the ability to kill without remorse. You took four lives with not a second thought; even people who've been raped and abused since childhood don't resort to such a thing. Lizzy, you're a natural born killer." His cold hard words struck me like a chilled needle. It was true, all of it; I didn't even think twice about what I had done. Any thoughts of regret faded when I felt their life slip from me and into that Garden. Sure, I was perhaps sad at the loss, and even when he revealed the charade, I didn't feel remorse, just more sadness.

I looked around the grounds looking for an answer, something to be true, but there was nothing I could say, nothing I could do. Gerard was telling the truth about it all – of that I had no doubt. And so we sat in silence for a few moments before I remembered something he said when we first started this tour of the damned.

"Gerard, you said there were two types of suffering..." I paused, not entirely sure I wanted to finish the thought, but Gerard seemed to read my mind.

"What's the other one, you wonder? I knew you'd want to know, it's in your nature." He said ominously, "The first was emotional, but when I'm bored of watching their scene's of horror play out, I do this." With one snap of his fingers he unfroze all the statues that I helped build. The screaming of pain rang out from all four of the inhabitants, my mother bled profusely from all the wounds that I inflicted; a line of blood appeared around her neck, and the skin slowly peeled back until it completed the track from back to front. Her head fell to the ground, but she still produced blood curdling screams.

My father burned and seared as he had, but now he could feel it. Every inch of him burned, nowhere was safe from the flame that gradually consumed his very being. He flailed and rolled around in his section of garden, but to no avail. He eventually gave up and just laid on the ground, looking at me. I was unsure if he could see me or not, but his glare pierced through me. I had to look away, but there was only one other place I could look.

Malcolm hung out of that disembodied window with a belt to slowly tighten around his neck forever, until he would drop from a great height. Upon impact, he wouldn't die; his neck would break but he would still have to suffocate. There was no rest for him, or anybody I put here. I wanted to look away yet again, but I couldn't. I felt ill, I felt trapped, I felt responsible, but the more I watched, the more I found it fascinating. Perhaps

Gerard was right, maybe I was capable, and I was just a time bomb waiting to go off.

Lastly, there was Mr. Gabriel, the man who ultimately saved my life, and he had it worse than them all. Painfully, lines appeared over one finger at a time until the flesh was peel from each phalange exposing bone and muscle, tendons and cartilage. One at a time, all those things were cut and striped away from his body; it happened ten times, one for each finger. It continued up his body, until he was skinned alive; until all his nerves were exposed, just the air around him stung and caused mass amounts of agony. He would suffer like that for all of eternity.

"See, Lizzy. This is all your doing, and the most fascinating part is... you enjoy it." His words landed in a field of truth, but they also struck a nerve of my own. As much as I may have enjoyed it at the time, and although it was growing on me, I didn't want to like it. I didn't want to enjoy seeing innocent people like that, and the reason I do was entirely his fault. I blamed him for the whole thing – who else was I to blame. He told me of a future where I was happy if all that occurred simply didn't.

"I hate you." I muttered under my breath.

"Excuse me?" He said leaning in closer to me.

"I. Hate. You." I said clear as day as I leaned into his ear. He pulled back and looked me in the eye. His smile made way for a more serious appearance as he eyed me up and down, as if sizing me up for something.

"No you don't... No yet." He said threateningly, I chose to ignore the hidden meaning behind it. I was too filled with a burning hatred to read between to proverbial lines.

"No, I do. This whole thing, all that's happened is your damn fault!" I said stomping my feet and throwing my hands on my hips. He smiled at my child-like demeanor and stood up displaying his imposing size.

"My fault, Lizzy? I beg to differ. You wielded the knife, you set the fires. You had it in you all along, you were standing on the precipice looking over the ocean that was your sanity, I merely gave you a nudge." He paused and looked at the prisoners I collected for him; they still wailed and cried in agony behind me. I turned to look at my mother, just out of morbid curiosity, and noticed her head had been reattached to her body. I was shocked at first, thinking it was over, she could rest for the time being, but then that line of blood appeared, and as I feared, her head was lopped off by some invisible blade; the blade I undoubtedly provided.

"Lizzy," He said gaining my attention back. "As I said, it was meant to be. That perfect world, where you were a master artist living your summers at a lovely beach house was but one of many realities that could have occurred, and honestly, it was a boring reality. This one is much more exciting, don't you agree?" He finished.

"It was your fault; everybody would be alive if you didn't drag me here!" I stomped again.

"But deep down, it's not what you wanted, was it? The night of mayhem you caused brought you more pride, more enjoyment than a lifetime of painting and sitting in a beach house." He said, and as he did so, I searched my soul for the answers, answers which I couldn't find. I was in a state of confusion. On one hand he was absolutely right; I did find pleasure in every moment that I caused pain. But the peaceful serenity that the beach house painted in my mind relaxed me. It reminded of the garden that exists on the other side of the gate, with the golden fields and the dancing trees. It was a place I wanted to be.

"You've tricked me, haven't you?" I said

Surprised, Gerard's eyebrows raised up as he looked down on me.

"Whatever do you mean, little one?" He responded.

"Well, how do I know that you haven't just fed me lies all along, just to justify these killings? How do I know that you didn't fool me into doing your... your...dirty work?" I accused.

His raised eyebrows went down again, and that disturbing smiled crept back onto his face.

"Come, child... there is one last thing I want to show you." He said ignoring my questions and accusations entirely. He laid his hand on my shoulder one last time, and I was forced to follow where he led. He guided me past Gabriel's pen, which at first glance was nothing but that dreadful darkness, but as we moved further into it, the blackness gave way to light, as if Gerard were the energy source. The light revealed one last wrought iron fence in front of us, just like the ones that held my victims, except the new one was empty. We stopped right in front of it. It made me feel uneasy.

"Lizzy," he said kneeling down to my ear, he whispered,

"I was born to control; you were born to obey." And with one mighty push, I was sent flying through the air towards the fence. The gate in the front opened just before I was about to make impact, but instead of crashing into it, I flew past the door and landed inside the pen. I got up as quickly as possible and ran towards the gate – towards my freedom, but it was futile. The gate slammed shut before I could escape. I grabbed the bars and shook with all my might, but they were as solid as a prison cell.

I slide down the bars to my knees and looked up at my captor who looked content with his newest pet.

"Why...?" I muttered half to myself, and half to Gerard.

"Why? Well, because Lizzy, I can."

"But you promised me I wouldn't end up here."

"No, Lizzy. I promised that you wouldn't end up with the hanging men. I've kept my promise, and I can also promise you... this will be much worse." He said turning away from me.

My heart raced, I was in a state of panic, there was no where I could turn that was a fenced in area. I was trapped, and the anxiety I felt from the claustrophobia hit me like a hammer in the chest. I became short of breath; I feared what I would have to endure for all of eternity. I thought of Malcolm and my parents and their tortures; I thought of Mr. Gabriel and what he'll have to deal with for now and the rest of time. I worried that mine would trump all theirs, that I would be defiled and violated by various beasts. I feared the Krags would have a go at me.

I turned one last time to plead for my freedom, but no words escaped my lips; I was muted again. I reached through the bars, but as I did so my arms burned in the light that radiated from Gerard, he looked back at me and smiled that sick twisted smile. But he didn't expect to see what he saw, I had a look of hope on my face; I didn't look fearful for my life. He didn't expect for me to see František standing behind him.

Gerard tilted his head in confusion and turned back around, only to be met by a fist to the face from František. He stumbled backwards holding his jaw, and as he did the swift and nimble František grabbed the blade Gerard had threatened him with earlier from underneath a sash around his waist. When Gerard gained his balance, he was held at knife point. The knife was fixated on Gerard's throat with it all but piercing his skin. This seemed to be the only thing in the universe Gerard was afraid of, as he raised his hands in defense. The two otherworldly men stood locked in an intense contest of wits, neither one willing to give up.

"If you kill me, František, this whole world will collapse upon itself. It will implode into a might ball of light, and then simply cease to exist killing everything within, including you... Including the girl." Gerard revealed.

"I know, Gerard. I've been here long enough to figure out your secrets, and you're right, we would surely perish." František said in response with a deep and disturbed Scottish accent, and with fiery blue eyes. "But not the girl." He said with his eyes shifting focus for a split second. "She goes free."

Gerard began to chuckle, "You dare threaten to kill me, and then ask for the freedom of that little lunatic?" Gerard said still laughing to himself.

"Oh, I'm not asking, mate, am I?" And with that František pierced Gerard's throat, he then tore the knife to the left slicing open his throat. It wasn't blood that poured out, but rather it looked like pure light that escaped the wound; it was like nothing I've ever seen before. A myriad of colors spilled from his throat, it was as if inside his body were all the shades and colors of the cosmos; like his body was nothing but a vessel for a celestial force.

František flipped the knife in his hand, held it by the blade, and then he looked at me one last time with those burning eyes, and I swear I could see a smile through his bandana. In one fluid movement he threw the knife in my direction; I watched it fly through the air, it almost looked to be in slow motion as it split the colors that began to fill the world. The knife hit the gate with a mighty force, a force strong enough to send me flying backwards. I hit the ground with a great thud, and I felt my head bounce off something hard as well. I was beginning to lose focus, and then, for the last time I saw that marvelous bright blue light.

Chapter 12

DARKNESS WAS ALL I COULD SEE, again. František threw the knife, it hit the gate and it sent me soaring through the air; that was the last thing I could remember – and now, darkness. My world had been filled by a great deal of darkness, and I couldn't help but feel trapped in its embrace; I felt like I would never see the light of day again. The blackness was a vacuum; there were no sounds, no smells, nothing to touch – I merely existed within this void. I didn't even know how I was breathing, for there was no air, there was nothing at all, but strangely I felt at peace with that.

If there was no reality, if nothing lived and breathed, then I wouldn't have to face the ghosts of what I had done. I wouldn't have to think about my mother and whether or not she was a caring, loving person; or the devilish bitch I saw her as. I wouldn't have to worry about my father's adultery, or if he was working late to pay for a beach house. I didn't have to ponder Malcolm's loyalty; I could just consider him a good, dear friend. And most importantly, I wouldn't have to worry about being raped or not – Mr. Gabriel could simply not exist in this reality devoid of anything. I could have been at peace.

That was until a noise began to fade in from the distance. There was nothing I could see, just a huge black mass that stretched on for eternity, but there was a rhythmic chirping coming from somewhere. I searched all around me, but every step I took seemed to heed no progress; everything was the same, except the chirping, it was getting closer, and it sounded like it was morphing from a bird's chirp, to a mechanical beep. Suddenly though, it became clearer and clearer, but with a hollow echoing sound to it.

With every beep came another noise, too; it sounded like voices, more than one for sure. I started to feel panicked, after all, this was my own peaceful serenity and I didn't want any intruders. The beep sounded again, and with it came more disembodied voices. They sounded as if they were speaking a strange language, nothing I'd ever heard before. It was incredibly muffled, and much like the beeping, they were followed by a hollow echo.

One last beep, one last disturbing voice, and then I saw it. In the distance, the very thing that I thought I'd never see again, the one thing I wanted more than anything, but the one thing I was more afraid than death itself; a light. From the horizon of endless darkness came a light that pierced the shadows and began to flood in from all around me. The darkness retreated like a terrified dog with its tail between its legs. I tried to shield myself from it as it hurt to look at, but it felt so warm and welcoming. I was at a crossroads; on one side I wanted to stay in the darkness where nobody could see me. I was comfortable there, I knew it well – it was my friend.

But the light came in and chased it away, the same light that burned my eyes, the same light that made me feel warmth again; and warmth was something I hadn't known a lot of. I cherished it, but yet it still frightened me. I could be seen in the light, I could be heard in the light, and in that light I feared I would see my sins come to life and torment me forever. It was indeed peculiar, usually the dark is synonymous with evil, and the light was the sign of the righteous; but to me I felt at home in the darkness. The light was my enemy.

I decided I didn't want the light to chase away my friend, the dark. I wanted the familiar vacuum back, and I fought for it to come back. I refused to open my eyes, but the light was too strong, and it didn't take long to penetrate my eyelids. When it did, it brought the beeping and the voices with it. I was no longer alone, and I didn't like the feeling of being seen.

"She's coming to." I heard a voice say. I still refused to open my eyes.

"Quick, get Jerry in here!" I heard another voice say. I held strong in my refusal to open my eyes.

"Check her vitals, her B.P's rising!" Another voice said. I tried to ignore it. My eyes were still shut. I heard a lot of movements and clattering of things and the curiosity was beginning to get the better of me; yet I still held my eyes shut as tight as I could.

"Check to see if she's conscious." Somebody yelled out, and that's when I felt something rubbery touch my face, it felt as if two prongs were trying to pry my eyes open. I tried with every ounce of strength I had to keep my eyes shut, but I was no match. The seal between my two lids tore apart like they'd been glued shut. The light stung my eyes, but the ambient light was nothing compared to the flashlight being jammed in my face.

"She's awake." Yet another voice said as she pulled what I discovered to be her fingers away from my face. I was free to close my eyes again, for the moment. But when I did, it didn't feel the same. The artificial darkness didn't feel as comforting as it once did, now I knew what was out there, and it didn't seem so frightening anymore. I peeked through a half open eyelid to scan my surroundings, and evidentially, I was in a hospital – somewhere I should have been a long time ago.

"Miss, Miss – can you look at me?" A man said to my right, I rolled my head over to face him, but said nothing.

"Do you know your name?" He asked doing his best to remain calm; I did remember, but I made no indication otherwise.

"Do you know where you are?" He asked again, I knew I was in a hospital, but I didn't acknowledge either way.

"Ok, hang tight." He said before signaling a nurse over. She popped a syringe into the I.V. drip, and a moment later the blackness came back; I was drifting back to the world where nobody could see me – where I was still an innocent little girl. I felt a small smile creep onto my face I fell back into the abyss.

***

I didn't dream. I didn't picture myself engulfed by that comforting blackness. I didn't feel anything, what I had hoped would be a peace escaped, turned into the passing of time with no experience whatsoever – I merely slept. Which is why when I awoke, I was quite cranky. My expectations weren't met, and I was rather displeased at the notion, and so I sulked when I woke up. But I sulked alone, there wasn't another soul to be found, which I found odd, as the last thing I remember were a bunch of bustling nurses bumping into one another; but now there was nothing, like I was forgotten about. I wasn't the new puppy in the shop anymore, so I've been ignored.

The feeling was a bit extreme, but it wasn't pleasant either way. I scanned the room in hopes of finding a window which I could wave through, but there was nothing; just a door with a single square observation window too high for me to see through. I became more despondent when my search for a view came up short. There must have been some way to get the nurses attention, I thought, and so I rummaged around the bed for a something that I could maybe throw at the door; there was no way I was going to stand, I knew that feeling all too well, and last time I tried to stand in that sort of state, I nearly collapsed.

I searching came up short, yet again. There were no loose objects lying about the bed, or within my immediate reach, and just as I was about to give up, I threw my head back against the pillow in frustration, and that's when I saw it. A button, just beside the bed in plain sight that read "Nurse" with a picture of a cross on it; I let out a sigh of relief then chuckled at my stupidity, and then I pressed the button. I beeped and a little orange light lit up above it; all I had to do was wait – and fortunately, I needn't to have waited long.

I saw a head pop into the frame of the small window on the door, but it only stayed a short second before ducking away. The door pushed open shortly after the disappearing head, and that same head poked through the door, luckily a body was attached to said head, or I would have feared Gerard still lived, and he'd sucked me back into his realm. It was a place I wasn't too anxious to go back too.

"You're awake, I see." The tall blonde nurse said. She looked as though she may have been an actor portraying the role of a nurse, or a model exhibiting the latest nursing fashion trends, but she by no means fit the appearance of a traditional nurse. I was shocked at her arrival, but I didn't show it. I merely stared at her, ignoring her question.

"Well, I think you're awake, even if you won't talk. Let me go get a doctor." She said.

"No, wait!" I said abruptly. I don't know why I said that, but she paused in her tracks and turned back to face me, but she said nothing – she just stood in the door way waiting for me to finish my thought.

"I just want some water..." I said more meekly than I would have liked. The nurse smiled and nodded then left the room. The door closed behind her with a quiet whooshing noise.

I didn't really want some water, and I don't fully know why I called out for her to stay. It was a reaction, a reflex that I had no control over; in fact, I hadn't even had to establish how I felt. It wasn't until I saw the nurse that I was fully aware that I was indeed even awake – or in my world for that matter.

But it didn't take long or all different kinds of feelings and memories flew back into my head. Everything hit me like a wrecking ball, and I could feel it building inside of me. My heart began to pound again, and all the instruments around me alerted me of it too. The beeping picked up until chirping from another machine kicked it, making an even louder sound, and that's when the tall blonde nurse came barging though the door followed by two other nurses and a doctor.

"It's happening again!" One of the nurses said.

"She's having another attack!" The blonde said.

"Should I give another shot?" The last nurse said holding up a syringe. She made the motion towards the I.V. drip bag, but the doctor held out his arm and stopped her.

"No, let's let her work through this one." He said.

By that point, my chest felt tight and I could barely breathe; I was hyperventilating so bad tears began to work their way down my cheeks. The doctor sat on the side of the bed and took me by the shoulders, looking me square in the eye, he said, "Breathe, focus on my voice and nothing else. Just breathe." I did as he said; I focused on his voice, which had a very calming effect to it. He reminded me of my father on that night. He sat just like that, on the side of my bed and did his best to comfort me; the doctor said it again, just breathe, each time he said it, it was softer, slower and calmer, and gradually my breathing matched.

The frantic beeping started to calm itself with the decreasing rhythm of my heartbeat; that was perhaps the most satisfying thing of the outcome. I closed my eyes and took one last deep breath – in and out – then opened my eyes and looked around the room. There were still four people surrounding me, staring at me with worry in written all over their faces, except for the doctor. He didn't look worried, nor did he appear relieved – he simply looked content, as if he knew that I would pull through without the use of drugs or machinery.

"That – a – girl," he said calmly to me, "Breathing solves most of life's issues." He said smiling with his eyes, eyes which were the most gentle I'd ever seen. I looked into the deep brown pools and became lost within in them. They were full of wisdom and compassion, but most importantly, they were filled with kindness, I don't believe that I had ever seen eyes like that in my life. He continued to look back at me; too, as if he were studying my very soul – which of course could have been true, for if he had seen what my soul was made of, he wouldn't look so content, but rather disgusted and horrified.

"So, do you remember your name at all, sweetheart?"

The wise doctor asked me.

"I've already asked her, Doctor. She doesn't remember." The blonde nurse interrupted. The doctor looked over at her then back at me as if waiting for a different answer. I nodded yes to his question. He smiled, and as he did so, the crow's feet around his eyes bunched up, giving him the appearance of the perfect father from every cartoon I'd ever seen – that was also quite comforting.

"Well, go on," he encouraged, "tell us your name." I raised an eyebrow at the various nurses, implying I would talk to him, and only him. He got the message.

"Alright, you three; that'll be all for now. I think we'll be safe from here on out." He said to the nurses who all looked at each other in a sort of disappointment, but left the room single-file nonetheless.

"Okay, it's just you and I. Can you tell me you name?" He said swinging his legs around to the side of the bed so that we were sitting side by side, shoulder to shoulder. I looked over and up at him. He was a taller man, but not overbearing; he wasn't skinny and he wasn't large, he just seemed to be perfect the way he was, as if he were drawn to be exactly that way. Nevertheless, I still sized him up for a moment. I wanted to talk, but I just couldn't find the nerve just then, I was still a bit nervous.

"It's ok, when you're ready." He said to me. His lack of aggression and his patience were welcomed, the last thing I needed was to be pushed. The longer I spent sitting there, the more comfortable I became until finally, I gathered that elusive nerve and spoke.

"Elizabeth," I muttered half under my breath, he leaned in closer to hear my whispered voice. "But everybody calls me Lizzy."

"Good girl." He said to me. Usually those words would mean nothing, just a rudimentary phrase for a task completed, but not when the Doctor said it; no, when he uttered those generic words, he meant them. In a split second, he brought new meaning to the simplest of sayings. I felt as though I had accomplished something by just saying my name aloud. He was truly like no man I'd never met in my life.

"Well, Lizzy. My name's Dr. Fredrick, but you can call me Martin." He said with a wink; that made me smile a genuine smile of happiness.

"So, Lizzy; do you have a last name by chance?" He asked, I looked at him and couldn't resist his friendly eyes.

"Walker." I said softly. Revealing my last name wasn't the best thing I could have done in that moment, but I was entranced.

"Lizzy Walker," he said, "I like it, it rolls off the tongue." I smiled at him again, I couldn't help it.

"Thanks." I said back.

"I should try to track down you parents, should I? Let them know where you are; they must be worried sick." My heart dropped and my stomach wrenched up into my throat at the words. I had nearly forgotten about them, and Malcolm, and Mr. Gabriel; I'd nearly forgotten about my evening of pain and suffer – of revenge. Martin went to stand from the bed, but I rested my hand on top of his in hopes that he'd stay for a bit longer, if nothing more than to delay the inevitable.

He got the message. He halted her upward momentum and hung in the air for a second looking over his shoulder and down at me; I could feel myself cowering beneath him, and my pathetic demeanor must have struck a chord on his heart strings as he nodded at me out of sympathy and sat back down on the bed.

"Alright, I'll stay for a minute or two, but I should really let your parents know you're alright." He said placing his free hand on top of the hand I had resting on his, which caused me to smile again. His touch was... nice.

"I know." I said softly, "but I'd like it if you would stay for a little bit longer." I pleaded gently.

"I can do that." He replied, "But, do you mind telling me what happened?" He said looking at me, then scanning the room for something. I looked down into my lap trying to remember all the details. I knew what I had done, but a few of the details seemed blurry. Martin took his hand off mine, and that was when I noticed it for the first time; my hand was bandaged from fingers to wrist. I lifted it and held it in front of me, studying it, trying to remember everything.

"It's okay if you can't remember; the medication we had to use on you earlier may leave you a bit groggy. But anything is a start... like, do you know how you got that cut on your hand?" He asked softly. I still looked at it cock-eyed, trying my hardest to remember what happened, I became lost in the thought and started to speak aloud, albeit in the quietest of whispers.

"I... cut myself." I said half as a fact, half as a question, "On..." And then I remembered my mother, and what I'd done to her. It wasn't just a dream; all that happened, it was all real! I hoped that I had dreamt it all, that everything was in my head. After all, when I awoke, there was nothing to contradict that, and how could I, a girl of twelve commit such heinous acts. Surely, I thought, it was all in my imagination; a sick and twisted imagination, but fictitious nonetheless. But the cut on my hand was the smoking gun.

"I cut it on a knife." I said just loud enough for Martin and me to hear. I looked back to him expecting an expression of shock or disgust, but I saw neither of those. Rather I saw the gentle doctor looking at me with those caring eyes. He was nodding along, as if he knew what it was. Looking back, of course he knew, he was a doctor; a knife wound wouldn't have been all that extraordinary to him.

"I see," he said. "I should," he stood "I really should call your parents." He said as he left the room. I didn't have any time to reach out to him, to plead him to stay for just a few minutes longer. But in the end I understood, but it was curious that he didn't ask for my address or phone number, and I soon found out why.

Sitting with my back to the door, I heard it whoosh open for the doctor to leave, but it didn't shut. I knew, deep down what was going to happen, I knew who would be coming through that door; I didn't even look. I felt the presence of at least three or four people shuffle through the threshold and into the room.

"Elizabeth Walker." A brutish sounding man spoke out, not asking, but rather demanding. I just sat there none responsive, waiting for something more to happen. From my side a woman came and swooped in front of me, she knelt down to meet my eyes. She was well dressed in a pencil skirt, stockings, and a tweed blazer. He eyes were brown and her hair was long and wavy. She was pleasant enough to look at, much like Martin, the doctor before.

"Elizabeth," she said, "My name's Anne, I work or the city as a counselor. We're going to transfer you now, okay? So I can ask you some questions." She said with a kindness to her voice, but ultimately, she wasn't asking. I didn't have a choice, I was going to be moved whether I liked it or not.

"Can Martin come too?" I asked, he made me feel comfortable and welcome, even if it was for but a brief moment.

"Martin?" She said quizzically.

"Dr. Fredrick." I said.

"Oh... We'll see." The woman said meaning, absolutely not. I dropped my head in despair as she took me by the shoulders and led me towards an orderly holding a wheelchair out in front of him. A nurse moved my I.V. drip bag to a portable stand and followed me to the chair. I moved on their accord, I didn't take a voluntary step of my own; I even sat down like I was a mannequin being positioned to another's needs. The wheel me through the whooshing door and out of the room where I saw Martin standing against the nurses' station counter. He looked at me with sad eyes now; with guilty eyes. I knew he felt bad for turning me over, which is what he'd done. I couldn't blame him; it's what he had to do.

For a split second our eyes met, and I smiled – my last for a long while. The wheelchair squeaked by, but I didn't look back; there was no point in doing so. Martin would surely be in my past, I felt as though I'd never see his comforting gaze again and I didn't want to dwell on it. The posse which surrounded me moved as one being, with one goal, much like a herd migrating, looking for the nearest watering hole. We moved towards the big silver doors of the elevator. Only one question remained – were we going up or down?

It seemed like a symbol choice for fate to decide at that moment. Up or down; it's what we all ponder over all throughout life – where will our souls go after we leave this world. Unfortunately, I knew of one of the places, and it didn't seem to be up or down, but in a world beyond ours, perhaps even parallel. However, like in this circumstance, it's not a choice you have given to you, but rather a decision that will be made for you. I have no say whether or not the elevator falls or ascends, but in my case, either way didn't have promise. I knew where I was headed, and it wasn't a pleasurable place.

The doors to the elevator slide open and the group that followed me entered. I didn't move, I just stared out the opening into the hall way, where Martin was still looking at me, but it didn't last long as the doors began to close slowly until they were firmly shut. Once again I felt trapped, but I sat perfectly still as I watched the orderly select a floor; we were going down. It was fitting; Dante descended down through the nine levels of Hell, each chamber worse than the last, the punishments and tortures only grew in extremity the further down he went; thus proving the descent was often the worst, and the lower you went, the more horrible the experience.

We were going to the fourth floor; we were only on the ninth, so I didn't have much time to figure out where they were taking me, but I had a few guesses. The elevator dropped quickly causing my ears to pop slightly; I closed my eyes and swallowed hard regaining the pressure balance, and by the time I opened them, the elevator door slide open again, and then I saw where they had taken me. It was just as I thought; after all, it was the only logical place for somebody like me to go. I knew what I was – I made no illusions at that point.

The wall opposite the elevator was a plain eggshell white, but there was one small sign screwed to the wall in the shape of an arrow. It directed me the way to the truth of the matter; I knew what I was, but the sign confirmed it: Psychiatric Ward.

They tested me the way they'd test any mental patient; they weighed me, took my blood pressure, and took a few blood samples too. All the things they probably wanted to do upstairs, but weren't able to because of my catatonic state, nevertheless, I felt like a lab rat being poked and prodded for the enjoyment of others. Regardless, when all the tests were finished, they brought me to an interview room of sorts that had been intended for children. The walls were various bright and friendly colors ranging from yellows to purples and onto blues, there were also toys and games scattered throughout, but I didn't care much for them. Off on one side, beside what was quite obviously a double sided mirror were paintings done by the inpatients. It was all very cutesy; it was all rather repulsive.

I sat in the room alone for quite some time, so I was able to become familiar with the works taped to the wall, Mikey was evidently fairly popular with the nursing staff as his artwork was displayed the most. I wanted to get to know Mikey – I was familiar with his work so I felt it only appropriate to meet the artist – that is if he were still around. That was what I was concerned about at that time, meeting a disturbed little boy who painted pictures of flowers and houses, not the impending interrogation session. Perhaps I was trying to keep my mind occupied, avert my thoughts elsewhere to prevent worrying, but deep down I knew otherwise. I simply didn't care all that much.

When I awoke earlier in the day, I was worried, I cared about what happened to my parents and my friend, but in the passing hours since, I could have cared less. My mood was like a pendulum swinging one way and then the next a second later. I was confused, and if was to be honest, a bit frightened – but I still didn't care. I was frightened solely for what will become of me and my emotions. Somebody was undoubtedly going to walk through that door and ask me questions, tell me my parents, my friend, and my babysitter were dead, and they would expect me to react crushed, disheartened, and all around upset – the way a normal person would react.

But I'm not exactly normal, am I? The thought of them dead did nothing to me, I didn't care; but the thought of killing them, the memories that would bring back, how would I contain myself. Of course, they must have known that I was responsible, after all, they brought me to the mental illness wing of their hospital - they must have some suspicions. No matter, I sat in my wheelchair still as a statue and examined the artwork by Mikey. I waited and bided my time until I heard the clicking of the door. I didn't look directly, but shifted my eyes to check my peripherals before shifting back to the mirror to use that to see who the intruder into my private art room was.

It was Anne, the social worker, the one who sent the order to bring me down to this asylum for the insane. She walked over to the table behind me and set down an armful of folders before turning her attention to me. I could see her eyeing me cautiously, judging me, showing signs of disgust towards me; that was until she noticed me watching her in the mirror. A look of surprise overcame her for a moment before giving way to a giant fake smile. She cleared her throat and walked over towards me, I watched her in the mirror, but didn't turn around to meet her. She put her hand on the handles of the chair and knelt down beside me.

"Alright, Elizabeth, we're going to have a chat now, okay?" She asked softly, yet with a large undertone of demand. I said nothing; I just sat there staring at her in the mirror. She must have taken that for a yes, as she swung the chair around to face the table in the middle of the room. She looked pleased with herself then she walked back to the opposite side of the table where she laid out all her folders and papers. I watched her with a great intensity, but with no interesting in chatting, as she so eloquently put it.

"So, Elizabeth, how are you feeling?" She asked; I stared.

"Better then, I presume?" Again, I said nothing, just looked at her; she eye balled me for a moment before turning her attention to the papers on the table. I didn't look at them, I didn't care what was on them, besides, I had a feeling I already knew.

"Do you know what happened when we tried calling your parents?" She said sternly. I knew, but I didn't answer.

"There was no answer. Nobody picked up – do you know why that is?" She asked with contempt. She knew - she just wanted to hear me say it. And they say I'm the sick one.

"It was because the house had been burnt to a crisp with both your parents inside." She said hiding a bit of pleasure. At that point, I didn't stare at her anymore; rather, I stared through her. She was dead to me; this woman, Anne, was a pitiful excuse for a caregiver. All she wanted was to see me squirm and sweat about the crimes I'd committed, she didn't want to make me feel better, or see me cured. No, she wanted to see me suffer, admit what I'd done so she could have the gratification of being right. I refused to give her that feeling.

"Doesn't that upset you, Elizabeth?" She asked, taking a moment away from her papers to look at me. "Doesn't it upset you that your parents are dead?" I didn't react, I just sat there motionless.

"Not to mention your friend Malcolm and an elderly man from down the road. Coincidence, maybe?" She asked condescendingly. Truth be told, she was indeed getting under my skin, but I refused to buckle under the weight of her words. I held strong in my silence.

"Nothing? Interesting..." She said sorting out her papers. For the next few moments we sat there in pure silence. I looked through her, and she looked at her papers, not reading anything, just avoiding eye contact with me. She wasn't getting what she wanted, so for all intents and purposes, she was having an internal temper tantrum. Surprisingly though, it was I who broke the code of quiet.

"I want to talk to Martin." I said monotonously. She looked up at me slowly with a scowl that belonged on the face of a cartoon witch, but quickly turned it into a smile of contempt, and then she nodded.

"Very well, if that's what you want. I'll see if I can get your precious doctor." She said standing up, leaving her papers on the desk. She turned in anger towards the door, but paused and looked over her shoulder. She put on yet an even faker smile for whoever was watching behind the mirror and approached me. She knelt down beside me and brought her mouth as close to my ear as she was willing to get, which was fairly close. I could feel her warm breath on my neck, it blew my hair and tickled my neck, but I didn't flinch, and then she whispered something frightening, something I had forgotten about.

"We found the tongue, kid." That was all she muttered before getting up with that crazy smile, and she left the room. I forgot all about the tongue; at the time I was fascinated by it, I wanted to play with it and dissect it further. How was I to know Gerard would suck me back into his world? It wasn't fair, it was a mistake, my only one, and it would do me in. There was no lie I could tell that would get me out of the mess; nobody would believe me. I had to come up with a strategy – a plan – to try to prove my innocence. For the first time since being brought down to the art world featuring Mikey, I felt nervous. For the first time in a long time, I began to sweat.

It took some time before Martin made his way down, which left me a lot of time to think and imagine; I used that to imagine Martin standing up by the nurses' station, leaning on the counter as I left him. He looked worried, but as a doctor, he should; there are countless lives relying on him day in and day out, but it wasn't that kind of worry. It was as if he was afraid, but not for himself. He faced death and decay on a daily basis, but something else had him worried, but I could quite figure it out. I pictured the elevator ding at the carriage's arrival and the doors slide open, and on Martin's face appeared a shimmer of hope, but it dropped again when he saw it was only Anne stepping through the threshold.

He watched her pace herself up the hallway, slowly, broodingly before she got to him. I closed my eyes, trying to make up a conversation between the two of them, but I couldn't think that in depth about it. All I could muster was Anne saying to Martin, "She wants you." I hoped that's what she told him, after all, I did want him. I wanted him more than I'd ever wanted anybody before, and I didn't know why. Perhaps it was the kindness in his eyes, or the warmth I found in his smile. Whatever it was, he was the only person in the world I wanted to talk to. He was the only person I could talk to.

I envisioned him looking confused after Anne spoke those words to him. He pulled back and looked at her, but she did nothing but shrug. He then looked beyond her, to the elevator. He contemplated going, but he felt it was his duty not only as a doctor, but as a person. I hoped he felt something towards me, anything, even if it was just a small bit of sympathy, and I prayed it was enough for him to come visit me one last time. In my mind he took the walk down the long hallway and into that fateful elevator. He was alone in the elevator, which gave him time to think. He too wanted to come up with a game plan, something to say when he finally walked into the room and saw me sitting near catatonic in a wheelchair.

The worry on his face grew stronger. He had barely enough time to gather his thoughts and slow his nervous heartbeat before the elevator halted, dinged, and the doors slide wide open. He stepped through the doors with a lot of hesitation, his legs felt heavy, and every step was as if he was wearing magnetic shoes and the floor was steel. He struggled out of the elevator and down the hall. I don't know why I pictured what I did next, but I did. I imagined a grouping of people in suits, maybe four of them down the hall from where I was being kept, and they stopped Martin to talk to him. I couldn't fathom what they were saying – I didn't even know why they were there, regardless, Martin nodded and continued on. He paused outside the room to collect himself. He took a deep breathe...

I opened my eyes, and just as I did, the door to the room clicked open, and in walked Martin exhaling. I tilted my head in confusion for a moment, but shook the thought away before it even came. He walked into the room a few feet before he noticed me, but when he did, he stopped in his tracks. A small wave of fear overcame him, I must have startled him; after all, my current state wasn't one to behold, but the fear washed away quickly enough into that charming smile of his, and the best part about it was, he didn't try to hide that he was startled at first. He took a deep breath and sighed; he looked at me with his kind eyes and sat in the chair across from me.

I smiled back, I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it; there was something about him that I couldn't overcome. He kept his eyes locked on mine, but I could feel him drifting, wanting to look down at the folders spread across the table. He fought the urge, but could only do so for so long; he gave way. He looked down at the folders and opened one of them up, I watched him, not caring for what the envelopes contained, but whatever they were couldn't have been pleasant. His brow scrunched and his lips tightened, I couldn't tell if he was angry or disgusted – it was more likely both, but it was his curiosity that was the most staggering. After the first folder, he promptly flipped open another, and then another, each time his expression grew deeper and darker. He didn't like what he saw.

Something inside me didn't want him to see what lay before him. I knew the folders contained information about me – about what I had done, but I didn't know to what extent, and I didn't want Martin finding out yet, either. I had to change the topic of conversation; I didn't want him to look deeper into the pages.

"Who's Mikey?" I asked quietly, the smallest noise of my voice drew his attention away from the pages; he looked up at me and shook his head.

"Sorry, who?" He asked.

"Mikey, the boy who painted the pictures." I said pointing to the wall behind me, his eyes followed to the wall of artwork.

"Oh, right..." He started gazing down at the folders again.

"I really like his pictures." I said bringing Marin's attention back to me.

"Yeah, he was pretty talented. I was his head physician." As much as I pieced it together, he didn't always speak in kid- friendly language.

"So you spent a lot of time with him?" I asked, dragging it on.

"I did." He said, not revealing anything. He was far too interested in what the folders held.

"What was he like?" I asked

"He..." Martin stopped trying to think back, "He was a troubled kid. Parents died at a young age, but as unstable as he was, he rarely outwardly showed it. He was very...introverted." He explained.

"Introverted?" I asked, not really knowing what it meant.

"Yeah, sorry..." Martin said quite despondent, "He didn't share what he was feeling too often, and it came out when he painted or when he did anything creative." What he said must have been true. The pictures were of houses, mostly, but with dark clouds over top or rainy gardens with wilted flowers. Nothing outwardly disturbed, but it was all very gloomy; I felt I could relate to him.

"Oh." I said, "What happened to him?" I asked, still trying to draw his attention away from the table.

"Well," He started while finally giving me his full attention, "He killed himself." He said quite seriously. My eyes widened with shock, but part of that was for show. I didn't expect suicide, but it wasn't all that shocking either.

"Oh..." I said again, "How.... How did he do it?" I asked hesitantly unsure if it would upset him or not. It was strange, after all I'd done, I didn't want to upset Martin, a man I met mere hours ago. I couldn't explain why. Nevertheless, Martin choked down a lump in his throat and sat back in his chair, which meant he would just be further away from the pictures. He sat there for a moment, searching his memory banks for the scenario and trying to put it into word.

"Michael was young, Lizzy, about your age when he came here. He and his parents were in a car accident one night, but he was the only survivor. They don't know how it happened, but his dad lost control and they rolled into a fairly deep ditch... both his parents suffered broken necks and died on the scene. When the cops got there, they said he was in such a state of shock that he showed no emotion, he just stood outside the car staring off into the road." He paused to collect his thoughts. The story was far more fascinating than I could have imagined.

"So, naturally they brought him here where I met him for the first time. It was strange, for a car accident victim, where two other people died, he didn't have a scratch on him... not a single mark, heh, he didn't even have whiplash." He said looking off to the side scratching his head as if still confused by it.

"We kept him here for a few days regardless just to make sure he didn't have any delayed reactions, but there was nothing. Social services came by not to long after he was admitted and they told us he needed a full psychiatric workup, and so we complied. He came down here and met with the psychiatrists who conducted a tonne of tests on him before declaring him... insane.

Something inside me knew, but I couldn't face it, even after the doctor's down here told me, I still lived in denial. I didn't want to believe it; I mean, he was so young, it didn't seem fair. It wasn't long after he was committed to the psychiatric ward that he stopped talking; in fact, he stopped doing a lot of things. He would still show signs of emotion. Sure he would laugh at the occasional joke and smile at cheesy games I and the others would play with him, but when he drew... well, that's when we could see how troubled he was.

It wasn't until they tried hypno-therapy on him that he spoke about what happened that night in the car. Lizzy... He killed his parents, and the strangest thing was, he said somebody told him to do it." He said; I hung on every word – on every breath. I didn't want him to stop, for some reason I connected to the boy.

"Who...Who told him to do it?" I said, I needed to know that most of all.

"He never told us. After that session with the psychiatrist... that's when he killed himself." Martin said looking down and away, clearly upset by the story – I never did get my name.

"Anyway, enough about that, I'm here to talk with you..." He said promptly turning his focus back to the folders and papers on the table. My heart sunk again, and just like before, he became entranced with its contents, and just as before, he face grew long and dark, disturbed by what he read and saw. He sifted through them for a few minutes and I was powerless to stop him. The more he dug through the crimes of my past, the more intrigued I became.

I couldn't help myself, his curiosity was leaking into the air, and it eventually stung me. I had to look down, the papers and folders called out to me, they wanted me to look now, not like before where they had no voice. They wanted me to see what was causing Martin such distress, they wanted to show me what horror's they held – and I obliged. I looked down, but most of the items were half covered by another piece of paper. I tried to focus on one that seemed in clear view, but Martin inadvertently moved it out of clear sight. Between the movements and the shifting, I could tell that there were pictures stapled to papers, papers that looked like reports or grids, and photos on their own.

I was growing more frustrated the longer the stationary was hidden from me, so frustrated in fact that I reached out and slammed my hand down on a pile of paper. Martin snapped from his trance like state and looked at me. I pulled the paper and pictures towards me, but put his hand on the remaining half and stopped me for a second. He looked at me with sadness in his eyes, and I stopped pulling for a moment. That was new, his eyes were usually kind and soft, but now they looked pathetic.

"You don't want to see these, Lizzy." He said with all the sympathy in the world. I clenched my jaw and yanked the pile out of his grasp. He was right, I didn't want to see them, they were heinous and vile, but they were my work. The first report read:

Death was caused by multiple stab wounds and decapitation. Victim likely bled out until her head was severed from the body.

On the flip side, stapled to the report was a photograph of a chard headless corpse, the head in question was on the vanity desk just beside the remains. The flesh had all been melted away, the eyes were no longer in the socket, and the mouth had fallen agape. That was not how I left the body, the fire had painted a much more gruesome scene than I remember, but it didn't disgust me – I was intrigued by it. At the time I stabbed my mother to death, I would have given my soul to watch her corpse burn up, but looking at the pictures, they did nothing for me. I hadn't quite figured out if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

I felt a slight tinge of guilt, of course. After all, she was my mother, but she treated me like I was worthless in life; but what Gerard said stuck with me, even though I was growing more certain they were lies. I never saw the kindness he spoke of, I only felt the wrath she handed out. I could feel my face twitch and deform at the thought of her. She still made me angry from beyond her grave; she was still torturing my emotions.

I turned my attention then to one of the other papers I had grabbed. I needed to calm down, I could feel the rage growing inside me again; I felt like I did when all this started, when I woke up bloodied in bed. The next piece I looked at was just a picture; it showed a young boy with lacerations around his neck. They were deep and raw, and something about his neck looked out of place, something was sticking out from the side – it was broken. As disfigured as his face was, and as swollen as his body had become, I could tell for certain it was Malcolm. I felt sad at the sight of him, he was indeed my only friend, but he had all those notes and diary entries, I couldn't just let that go; he would have eventually ruined me.

But I felt sad only because he was so young. He hadn't even been kissed; there were so many things the boy wouldn't get to experience. Perhaps he reminded me of myself, my life was effectively over, and although I felt the penetration of sex, I would never experience the true touch of a lover; I only knew what it was like to be defiled, and for that I was bitter. I went onto the next and last piece I grabbed. It was of the house, my house – or rather what was left of it. The once mighty Victorian structure was reduced to a charred black shell of its former self; it was in effect, used as an oven. Inside I cooked one dead bird and one live one; the live one surely suffered the most horrendous of fates, as the already dead fowl was his mates.

He claimed to have loved her, but why was he never back to the nest on time? He was always out late cavorting with God knows, but nevertheless, he spent his entire life with that chick who had been bled like a stuck pig, and then he roasted with her too. It served him right, my father, he deserved to burn, no matter how much he seemed to care.

"Lizzy...?" A voice said bringing me back to reality.

"Huh?" Was all I could muster in return. I was lost in the memories these pictures brought back. In fact, I felt a smile of euphoria still on my face.

"Are you alright?" The doctor across me asked.

"Hmm... Yeah, I'm fine." I said in return.

"Are you sure, I mean...those pictures are pretty...graphic." He said struggling to find the words. It was true, the pictures were violent and gruesome, but after all, I was the one who set up the artwork for the photographer.

"Mmhmm." I said with more cheer than I expected, "they all had it coming anyway." I said nonchalantly to Martin, who sat back slowly in his chair. He clearly wasn't expecting that.

"What do you mean?" He asked eyeing me cautiously.

"They deserved it. The liars, the cheaters, the..." I searched for the word, but I couldn't think of it.

"The what, Lizzy?" Martin asked, yet I still couldn't think of it, so I said the only word I knew that could describe Mr. Gabriel.

"The rapist." I said. Martin sat up, but then leaned in close to me. I caught him looking past me to the mirror and I could have sworn I saw him shake his head ever so slightly.

"What rapist?" He asked me softly. I crossed my arms and looked away in shame; that was the first time I felt shame about what happened with Mr. Gabriel. I'd been angry, I'd been upset, I'd felt defiled, but never shame. I suppose it was really the first time I had admitted it, and when I did, I felt so weak, so vulnerable, so... Disrespected.

"Mr. Gabriel." I said softly. Martin leaned back in his chair again and studied me up and down. He had something he wanted to say, I could tell, but he kept it to himself.

"What?" I snapped feeling overly defensive. Martin took a deep breath and began to stroke his chin as if deep in thought.

"Why would you think you were raped, Lizzy?" He asked me, still in the thinkers pose.

"Because," I started, "I remember it... Mostly. He was on top of me, whispering things to me, and when I woke up..." I stopped, remembering the bloodbath in my bed. I choked back a sob, and continued, "When I woke up, there was blood... a lot of blood." I finished.

Still Martin eyed me from the furthest point of his chair as if he needed to see my whole body as I spoke.

"Lizzy..." He leaned in and rested on his elbow on the table becoming very solemn and serious quite quickly; that troubled me somewhat. He continued slowly, as if to help me understand better the seriousness and the realism in his words.

"You were unconscious a long time while in our care, and in that time we were able to conduct a full medical work up. Lizzy, there were no signs of sexual abuse or assault..." He finished.

"What...?" I said softly, but intensely as this would be a defining moment in my young life, and would shape the future like a sculptor working with clay.

"The only physical trauma you had... I mean, the only injuries you came in with were that gash on your hand, and a slightly bruised sternum, the kind of injury we might see if say a child, or a weakened person would have attempted CPR." His words cut through me like a hot knife dissecting a stick of butter. It burned and stung, but I still couldn't believe it.

I lunged forward in the chair ferociously, and screamed, "No! I was raped! I know what happened! You weren't there!" Martin wasn't quite prepared for that, in fact, neither was I. He jumped back and nearly tipped his chair over, and I nearly pulled the I.V. line from my arm as well, but that didn't deter my onslaught. I continued my tirade – truth be told, it was just beginning.

"That asshole raped me! My mother was a fucking bitch who hated me! My father was a lying, cheating bastard! And Malcolm, fuck Malcolm, he was a two-faced little shit!" I shouted, not even knowing I had those words in my vernacular. I was furious; I couldn't have been just a simple minded murderer. I was on a mission, sent from Gerard to ensure my own salvation. They couldn't have been innocent, nobody was innocent. All those thoughts flew through my head as my outburst continued.

"They all fucking deserved it, each and every one of them. Slicing, hanging, burning, stabbing! They each got what they had coming! Gerard told me so, why would he tell me otherwise?" Of course, deep down, I knew why. He wanted his innocent souls for his precious garden.

However, in my confusion and anger, I admitted my guilt. It was at that moment that two large grey suited men burst through the door followed by two orderlies. I continued to scream and shout nonsense; I fought the officers and the orderlies, but it was obvious who was going to win that battle. But before I was restrained and tranquilized, I caught the look on Martin's face. He looked sad that it came to what it did, but there was a hint of confusion in his eyes as well, and then it all went to that familiar black.

Chapter 13

WHEN YOU HEAR MY VOICE SAY the number one, you'll wake up, a hollow voice rang in my head, three...two...one... and in a brilliant flash of white I awoke in a familiar place. It wasn't the hospital in which Martin worked, and it wasn't my childhood bedroom, either. No, it was a place I spent a good amount of time in. The brown leather couch, the mahogany desks, and the rustic decor – yes, it was all very familiar. It was Dr. O'Neill's office. My sessions have been going on longer lately, and the treatments seemed to be working, at least for now. But they wouldn't have been the first to succeed only to have me fall back into remission.

I lay on the therapy couch for a moment to gather myself, I let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting – he kept is as such so I wouldn't wake up blind. When I was ready I swung myself up right and sat with my head in my hands.

"Why do you keep making me relive that time?" I asked as he penciled down some notes in his journal, all the while keeping one eye on me overtop his reading glasses.

"Because, Lizzy, it will help both you and I understand better the reasons for what you did." He said, "Besides, you're becoming incredibly more detailed with every session. It's quite remarkable." He said making me smile. He was truly a kind and gentle man.

"Now, Ms. Walker," he said with a smirk, he knew I didn't like when he called me that, but it was all in playful jest. "How does reliving that specific time make you feel? Are you more understanding of how the event's played out? Are you more aware of the reasons that drove you to do what you did?"

"You mean kill my family, my best friend, and my baby sitter?" I asked open and directly, he nodded.

"Indeed." Is all he could say.

"No, not really. I mean... I believed what that man inside my dream said." Dr. O'Neill held up a hand to stop me, I knew why.

"Sorry, in my hallucination."See, when one's unconscious, one can't dream – at least in the words of my doctor, so it must have been a side effect from whatever I ingested in the tea. "Anyway, doc... I believed him, he was very believable – he was very real. I remembered it all so... vividly, his words, what he told me, even how I felt when he said those things. And all the things he told me made sense; at least they did at the time." I explained.

"Mmhmm, very good. You don't still believe it was real, that Gerard and František were real, and that this... otherworldly domain truly existed, do you?" I turned my head away from him; I couldn't look him in the eye at the moment.

"No. Of course not." I lied; I still believed in the place even after all this time. How could I not? Gerard knew things about my parents and Malcolm that I didn't even know. Take the art school classes for example, I had no idea, yet in the rubble of the house, sitting in an evidence locker somewhere there is a brochure to the most prestigious art school for youth in the American Midwest. I saw it with my own eyes during a trial, and that was for the first time. Nevertheless, I told Dr. O'Neill what he wanted to hear, though, I don't think he ever believes me.

"Good girl, Lizzy. All you have to do is put the pieces of the puzzle together. František, the friendly companion from your hallucination is easily mistaken for Frank, your school's janitor. After all, František is often shortened to Frank in many Eastern European nations. And Gerard, well – we all know who's name that is, don't we?" I did know, I found out soon after the incident who also bore that name.

"Mr. Gabriel." We said in unison.

"But Doc," I pleaded, "I had no idea that Gabriel's first name was Gerard, and you said it was hallucination, the second time I hadn't had any tea!" I said in a near frantic mess, but I held myself from boiling over.

"Lizzy, sweetheart, we've been over this countless times; the memory of the hallucination was still fresh in your mind, and your state of mind allowed you to be vulnerable to such images. Besides, you were so desperate to believe in it, your mind eventually gave into that desperation." He stopped and took a breath. He laid his pencil and journal on the small table beside him and looked at me sternly, as he often did when he was concerned for me.

"Oh, and as per your physical last month..." He looked down and away, "You've not been deflowered. You're still pure – a virgin. You weren't raped; I can't say for certain what your babysitter did that night, but it wasn't rape." He looked at me with caring eyes, and unfortunately, he spoke the truth as the evidence suggested.

"You'll be eighteen soon, you have to get past this, you'll no longer be a ward of the state which means you'll either need to learn to care for yourself, or you'll be locked away for good at Torchridge. The decision's ultimately up to you." Torchridge – that wasn't a place I wanted to end up, the asylum for the mentally insane; more or less where all of the truly psychologically deranged end up, and as the doctor said, I will too when I'm eighteen.

"Anyway, Elizabeth, our time's up for the day. Go on and enjoy what's left of recreation time. I'll see you again tomorrow." He said with that kind and sympathetic smile of his. It was sort of strange, and a little bit charming, the fact that his smile always had a hint of sympathy in it even when none was needed. It must have just been a permanent etching on his face, like a warrior's scar from battle.

I stood from the couch and smiled back at him and made my way towards the door, but before I left, I stopped and looked back at him.

"I don't wanna end up at Torchridge, doc." And with an awkward smirk, I left the room.

Meadowvale Psychiatric Facility; this has been my home ever since I was found mentally unstable by the court, and Dr. O'Neill has been my doctor since day one. He was as much a father to me as this place was my home. I'd been here five or six years, and sadly, it was really all I knew; the patients come and go, but they're like my family. Sometimes we get along, other times we fight – the staff don't really like when we fight, though. Often times it means tranquilizer's and restraints are meant to be used, and nobody enjoys being stabbed with a syringe and waking up in a bed with leather and wool cuffs around your wrists and ankles.

As the doctor alluded to, it's recreation time. More often than not the majority of the day is dedicated to doing a whole lot of nothing, after all, a good amount of people here aren't capable of a full thought. So they encourage us to be mentally stimulated, to interact with one another in a peaceful manner, and to rehabilitate whatever part of us is broken. Everybody enjoys something a little different, some like to be outside no matter the weather conditions – rain or shine, snow or hail, they're outside. Some like the common room with all the games, T.V.'s, and movies. I on the other hand much prefer the library.

And why wouldn't I? The library is a wealth of knowledge; between the computers and the internet, the books both old and new, and the myriad of old newspaper clippings, the place might as well be my sanctuary. I've spent a lot of time in here, surrounded by the old wooden support beams and solid oak tables; it was as if this was the only part of the building untouched for decades, maybe longer, the only thing modern about this particular library were the whizzing whirling computers smack in the middle of the room; their gentle humming was the only noise to be heard, it was always quiet.

Given, there weren't many people often in the here, as I said, most enjoyed the rec. room with all the games and televisions to occupy their simple minds. As close to family as they are, they really aren't the brightest bunch. With that said, however, there were a few of us who enjoyed the library. One boy comes down here to draw, another, with an eidetic memory uses the days to memorize the vast riches of books at his disposal, but I can't say for certain as he and I have never spoken.

The library was the hangout for the weird, surely. As much as I was different from the others who frequent the tomb of books, I was indeed very similar. I've been here the longest out of all the patients, yet I have the least amount of friends, if you can even call them that. Most know of my heinous past, and those that don't find out sooner than I would like – and so I'm avoided like a plague ridden commoner. But, it affects me little; I'm not here to make friends, after Malcolm, I've cared little for anybody else. The closest thing to a friend that I have is Dr. O'Neill, and I have no disillusions towards his friendliness – he is paid to be my friend. It's no different than paying a hooker to fuck you, and then calling her your girlfriend after; it doesn't quite work.

Nevertheless, I must confess, I've come to the library over the years with one main purpose in mind: To find the truth about Gerard, František and the world that inhabited them both. I know, the doctor's can prove I was never raped, and that my mother and father weren't horrible people – but I was told all that after I killed them. Dr. O'Neill says it was guilt that got the better of me, that I came up with those scenarios out of a sense of responsibility; after all, they couldn't be proved or denied. The only shred of evidence I have to support such claims is that brochure I caught a glimpse of, but even then, it could have been junk mail delivered to our house.

The good doctor said I probably saw it the day everything all started, and it was stored in my subconscious. It's possible, but I don't buy it entirely, and I'm determined to find out everything I can about the world, the people in the world, and that little boy, Mikey, who may have experienced the same thing I did. Maybe it was something about the suburb I lived in, maybe there was something special about the area; Mikey didn't live overly far from where I did, and we only went to school less than a mile apart. It was too much of a coincidence that he was told to kill his parents and promptly did so.

I couldn't ignore the signs, and from my research, I had come so close, but there was still something missing, the tangible evidence I needed. I didn't need it for O'Neill, or for anybody really, it was strictly for me. If I could prove to myself that I wasn't insane, that's all that would matter. Besides, in no way would I expect anybody to believe me. Nevertheless, I searched day in and day out for something, and as I said, I've gotten close.

The quiet humming of the computers welcomed me as they often did as I pulled my chair close to its soft glowing embrace. I typed in the username and password given to all patients here, and the PC booted up. Of course there are limitations to what we can use the internet for. No emails, no porn, no violent sites, but news articles and stories going back hundreds of years are fine, no matter the bloodshed or death involved. They can only censor so much, after all. I opened up the web browser and it brought me to the home page, which was of course Google.

Previously I searched for Mikey's story, but it came up with very little, just the news articles and obituaries from the local paper. They didn't even write about his death, just a small square in the obituary. That was a dead end, but I broadened my search, looking for strange murders conducted by kids between the ages of ten and thirteen, but that came up with very few results as well. There were one or two, but they didn't have any mysterious connotations – they all pleaded guilty, not insane.

If they had seen what I saw, and what Mikey surely saw, they would have been like we were; near catatonic, violent outbursts... afraid. None of them possessed those symptoms, so I had to throw them out. I thought perhaps my searches were too narrow, I was focusing on the Chicago and surrounding areas, but maybe Gerard traveled around from place to place – in fact I knew it to be true. I knew of František and the fire back in the 1500's, I knew he wasn't from Chicago, or even North America.

That occurred to me yesterday, in fact. I was foolish not to think of it sooner, it was starring me right in the face, and I ignored it; I needed to investigate the death of my companion, my savior... My František. I typed his name into Google, but the results weren't entirely what I was looking for; Painters and athletes were the main topic of choice for those who searched that name, but they weren't for me. So I broadened my search again, typing his name plus fire. Again, not a whole lot came up; nothing I could deem useful anyway, and so I tried again.

This time I typed everything I could think of. I put his name, plus fire, plus the year, plus the country I assumed he hailed from – England. That seemed to be the magic combination. The search results yielded three articles, and so I clicked on the first – it was a dead link. The domain no longer existed. Onto the next, again, it came up empty with the domain name no longer registered. I was growing nervous and impatient. The third and final one had to have something, anything that would bring me one step closer to the ultimate truth. I clicked the blue wording and watched the loading bar on the bottom of the page slowly fill.

I sat with bated breath in anticipation for what might come up, if anything. And then, seemingly in the blink of an eye, a webpage loaded. It was a simple layout, white with black font, but the most striking thing were the pictures scattered on the left and right margins, they drew me in first. The first was a picture of an old burning building, it looked almost like a barn, but it was very unclear. I was able to click it and enlarge it, and upon that close up I noticed it wasn't a photograph at all, but rather a painting. There was no artist cited, but it showed two bodies lying side by side, and the only caption on the page read: Brothers.

I felt a chill flourish through my body after seeing the picture, and so I clicked back to the main article. I began to read, and right from the beginning, it was strange and peculiar, but ultimately familiar.The article grabs no attention by presentation, and if you were to stumble upon it in a random web search, it wouldn't be overly interesting to you. But for me, the very first words caught my attention, and I couldn't stop reading; it read:

This is the true story of a man and his brother, forever lost in a realm that's not their own. A fire brought them there, but it was the dedication of one and the weak will of another that kept them there. In the year 1597 a fire was set in England to the farm house belonging to an Eastern European family, the Kovac family. There was no discernable origin to the fire, and was eventually ruled to be accidental, however within the blaze two lives were taken, Patrick and František.

I stopped reading there to take a moment to absorb it all. I felt almost ill after reading it, but I was beyond curious now, I had to read more, I had to know what else lie within these words. I had been searching literally for years and I had hailed no results; this was far and away the best research I've ever done. The text continued:

The two young men didn't die right away, reports and records from the time suggest they were both in a coma; Patrick for three days, František for a week. A coma in that day and age was nearly unheard of, infection and lack of life support often meant the victim would die within hours, a day or two at the most. But those two held on, or rather something was holding on to them. Various journals and diaries from the medical staff said they would both suffer from randomly occurring terrors, often at simultaneous times. That lasted until Patrick died, once he past, František's terrors stopped, as if he had given up. He remained awake for four more days before finally passing on the one week anniversary of the fire.

I first became interested in this event for one reason – I met František. It was a dream, or so I thought. He came to me dressed as a man would from that era and spoke to me; he warned me of the future and of the horror's that awaited me if I deviated from a righteous path. I didn't see it as a religious occurrence, it was far too terrifying to be the work of God or Jesus; rather I saw it as a demon, or at least a servant of some kind of Hell. He told me parts of his story, he told me his name, and about his brother. He said to find out what happened to him, to prove that he was once a real person, and how he strayed from his path, and now was forever trapped in damnation.

I looked through the record books, I searched the internet, but it wasn't until I discovered a bizarre post on a forum that I got my first lead. After years of searching, I found out I wasn't the only one. Other's mentioned him in far greater detail, and some told of another man, a far more terrifying and powerful man whose name I never found. As frightening as it was to hear the stories from these other people, I also felt relieved that I wasn't alone out there, and chances are if you're reading this, then you've been visited by František, or maybe even the other mysterious man. You are also not alone.

The text ended there. I sat and stared at the screen for what seemed like forever, I felt as if the monitor and I were the only two things in existence, with its soft light blue glow embracing me. I felt a bead of sweat form on my forehead; the writings were so intense that I forgot about the other pictures on the site. There were various sketches and drawings of what the other people had seen; their recollection of František. There were slight differences and many of the drawings were poor, but they all had one thing in common; his eyes were ablaze with a glorious fire.

I was confused, as much as I didn't want to be, but I couldn't wrap my head around it. Everything I was told by the doctor's and counselors; every rational bone in my body told me that it couldn't be real, but there was still an ounce of faith left within me that kept the thought alive that it might actually be reality, and not a hallucination. After all, why would I have continued with the search all these years? I suppose it was that I never thought I would find anything substantial; I thought if I looked long enough and found nothing that the memories would fade away like a bad dream.

But now I've got evidence, as circumstantial as it is. There were other's out there who had experienced what I had, or at least some aspect of it. All the emotions flowing through my body was outrageous. I'm happy, but sad; relived, but terrified; is this really enough to put my mind at ease? I had to look further. Frustrated at the notion of doing more research, I slammed my hand down on the keyboard and then held my head in my hands in irritation. After a brief moment of therapeutic breathing that Dr. O'Neill taught me, I looked back up at the screen, and I didn't expect to find what I did.

When I hit the keyboard, I inadvertently moved the page down revealing one last section I surely would have over looked, a small link at the very bottom of the page with a caption that read: Historical records of František Kovac. With exaggerated nerves, but with heightened anticipation, I clicked it. I waited for the page to load; I watched the small hourglass on the screen turn over and over again until a land deed that had been scanned onto a computer and uploaded somewhere appeared. At the top there was the date, 1596 and underneath there was an address, which I assumed was the barn that was burnt down, and the names Patrick and František Kovac signed on the document.

Not making the same mistake I did earlier, I scrolled the page down, and luckily I did, as there was a news paper clipping from the same year that focused on the two. How that paper survived all those years is beyond me, but there it was, plain as day. It chronicled the brother's investment and plan to turn the old barn into a roost of sorts, caring and training birds such as crows, pigeons, and ravens.

Ravens? The thought ran through my head; I know of a raven, and to think of it, my obsession with the dead started with a crow... It must have just been a coincidence, a lucky happenstance and nothing more. I'd grown a habit of looking too far into things, and it's a habit I've desperately tried to shake. Nevertheless, my curiosity was as strong as ever, and I wanted to find out more. Just as I reached out to the mouse, a hand crept up on my shoulder inducing a high pitched yelp to escape me. I looked back to see the librarian standing over my shoulder.

"Recreation time's over." She said eyeballing me. "And what's that you're reading?" She leaned over top of me, I tried to click the page back, but it was no use. "A house deed with an address?! Elizabeth, you know looking up private information is strictly forbidden!" She yelled grabbing me under the arm pulling me up from the table.

"But you don't understand!" I shouted, but she was to have none of it, she pulled me further from my computer, slowly I could see it's wonderful glow fade away until it was gone like the tail lights of a passing car. I stopped fighting and let her drag me away.

"Oh, Lizzy. Dr. O'Neill won't be pleased to hear about this." She said.

The words hit me like a brick.

"What? No! Please don't tell him!" I pleaded and kicked up more of a fight than before.

"You leave me no choice, I have to." She replied.

"You don't have to! Please, no!" I cried out. If he found out that I was abusing my internet privileges, he'd want to start treatment over again, and that would mean I'd end up at Torchridge in a few weeks.

Kicking and screaming, I was being dragged through the halls of Meadowvale's facilities, pleading as we went, but the librarian was having nothing of it. Some people stopped and stared, other just ignored what was going on, either way, I didn't give a damn. I was relentless in my fight, but it's not what I should be focusing on, whether it was right now, or tomorrow, I would have to face Dr. O'Neill at some point; my time would be better used to think of an excuse; to think up something that might get me out of this mess, and so I stopped kicking and screaming again, and just allowed myself to be ushered through the hallways.

I had idea's pop in and out of my head, but in this circumstance, I would have to be more clever than usual; the Doctor didn't fall for much. I scanned the hallways for a hint at something, but there was nothing but open doors and empty rooms on my right. On my left there were barred windows, but we had gone up to the second floor and there wasn't a lot to be seen, just the crisp blue sky and the tops of a few trees. I looked down at my feet in disappointment; there was nothing I could think of. Perhaps being honest would be the best route for success.

We reached the office of one Dr. O'Neill, my therapist, and the closest thing I've had to a father since I burned mine all those years ago. It's that sort of relationship I'm afraid of at this particular moment, for much like a father would do, he would discipline me for breaking the house rules. He was always harsher on me, but I had no disillusions about it, I wasn't bitter, I knew it was because he cared for me. With that said, he would still do his job, and if that meant his recommendation to the Torchridge committee was that I'd be committed, then I wouldn't have a choice in the matter.

The librarian knocked on the door before barging into the office. Inside Dr. O'Neill sat, more or less as I left him a few hours back. He had his glasses down on the tip of his nose reading something near his lap, and he barely reacted when we came crashing through the door. He merely looked up over top his reading glasses with a curious twinkle in his eye. He raised an eyebrow at the two of us.

"Yes...?" He asked almost sarcastically.

"I found this one," she said pulling me in front of her, "looking up addresses and strange people on one of the computers." She finished. I looked to the ground in shame and felt a tear or two well up in my eye, but I dared not let the doctor see this admission of guilt.

He sat back in his chair and let out a sigh all the while sizing up the situation before he spoke.

"What sort of addresses and people?" He asked the librarian.

"Well... I don't rightly know. I saw what looked like a land deed and a news paper clipping." She announced.

"So, what you're saying is you didn't actually see who this property belonged to or where it's from?" he asked again; I felt the librarians grip loosen and her weight shifted as she took a step or two backwards losing confidence in her accusations.

"Well, no. But that's beside the point; it's still against the rules." She stated.

"No, not really Mrs. Sutherland." He said which surprised the Hell out of me. "It could have been literally anything. Who has land deed's now-a-days? It could have been a picture she stumbled upon; and what is really beside the point is that your firewalls shouldn't allow her or any other patient to gain access to sites they're not allowed on, correct? They're children, of course they're going to stumble upon things they shouldn't, does it mean we should hang them?" He said waiting for her to answer, but barely gave her enough time to think of something to say.

"No, it doesn't. This isn't a witch hunt, ma'am. These are kids who lost their way, or had their way taken from them. Unwarranted punishment will get us nowhere, we're here to help and guide them." He said. I was shocked, stunned, in utter disbelief – so much so that did my best to hide a chuckle and a smile. I've never been stood up for before, and it made me feel special. Dr. O'Neill sighed again and shook his head. He looked at the two of use standing in his doorway and signaled for us to leave.

"Thank you, Mrs. Sutherland. You may go." He said very lethargically, "but leave the girl." He said, and my heart dropped a bit. The librarian let go of my arm in a semi-violent manner, shoving it forward in disgust before spinning on her heels and slamming the door shut. I watched Dr. O'Neill sitting there massaging his temples.

"What are you trying to do, Lizzy?" he asked, I didn't quite know how to answer that.

"What... What do you mean?" I asked rather skittishly. He jumped from his desk throwing a pen across the room, I'd never seen him so worked up – so angry before, and truth be told, it frightened me.

"What do I mean!?" He yelled, "Lizzy, you've been here six years, your eighteenth birthday is in one week, and you have an evaluation with the board in three days. You were making such wonderful progress, you never broke a rule or stepped out of line; why now?" He pleaded.

"I... I don't know. I was just reading a story on the internet and clicked a link at the bottom of the screen." I said, telling him the truth.

"What story?" He asked.

"What?"

"What story!? What were you reading?" he shouted. I had to think quickly; he knows of František and Gerard, so I couldn't reveal that to him.

"I..." I stopped, I couldn't think.

"You were reading shit about your hallucinations, weren't you? About that otherworld and the men." I was shocked. How could he have possibly known?

"What...How...What?" Was all I could muster in the moment.

"Lizzy, it's my bloody job to know. There have been better liars than you in this office. You don't think I believed for a moment that you were over what you think you saw, do you? I mean, that's not something somebody gets over, especially not somebody as young as you. Lizzy, you believed that there was a world where your parents and friends were tortured. You, for all intents and purposes, lived through their individual sufferings. How could I expect you to just forget about that?" He said flustered, angry, and all around upset. I knew he cared, but I had no idea to this extent.

"I'm sorry." I said; what else was there to say? He looked at me softly – caringly and smiled a small smirk.

"You were coping so well, I was proud of you. But then you go and get caught snooping around at things you shouldn't have been looking at in the first place; you broke our trust, Lizzy..." He said.

"I know... I'm sorry." And I truly was; Dr. O'Neill was the last person I wanted to wrong, but I did and there was no turning back. The librarian on the other, now she was a right bitch, wasn't she?

"What are we gonna do now, Lizzy?" He asked me

"I... don't know?" I responded.

"I have an idea." He said; I looked at him quizzically.

"No computer privileges until after your hearing with the board." His words spewed out like knives, each stabbing me in the heart. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes; I was so close to finding the truth, and now years of looking are gone to waste.

"In fact, Lizzy... Just to be one the safe side, no more library visits until after Thursday."

"What?!" I shouted out. I spent the vast majority of my time in there, and there was absolutely no other place I really wanted to be.

"I'm sorry, but you leave me no choice. If you don't want to end up at Torchridge, then it's for the best. You don't want to be caught again, and surely Mrs. Sutherland will be watching you like a hawk if you found your way down there. We can't risk any more incidents before the hearing. It's for your own good." He said to me. It made sense, sure – but I was still fuming, I didn't want to hear it.

"It's almost dinner time anyway, why don't you head on down to the cafeteria and grab something to eat. I'll see you tomorrow for our session." He said sitting down back at his desk. I just stood there watching him shuffle through some papers. I expected him to look up and smile at me like he usually did after our sessions, but he didn't even acknowledge that I remained in the room. I closed my eyes, and felt a tear stream down my cheek; I took a deep breath, turned and opened the door and left the office.

I wasn't hungry and I didn't want to go to the cafeteria for dinner. I was angry, and I wanted to vent, I wanted to go back to the only place I knew that would calm me down, the only place I felt welcomed and alone at the same time. I wanted to go to the library. The heavily windowed wall let the sun shine through into the corridor, illuminating it with the brightness of the heavens. I stood and basked in it outside Dr. O'Neill's door for a moment while I gathered my thoughts. I continued with the breathing exercises, but they weren't working. Everything was building up inside me; the banning of the library, the hearing with the committee, and lastly that cunt Mrs. Sutherland. I needed to go for a walk.

The premises were often quiet, unless a patient threw some sort of tantrum, but they were few and far between, after all, they kept the more unstable people in a different wing of the hospital. But the hospital at this time of day, during dinner was always the most peaceful; most everybody was at in the cafeteria eating, or being fed – it was at this exact moment that I would have the entire facility to myself; I could go anywhere I wanted; and so I began to wander. I walked towards the dormitories. Not a lot of people spent time in their rooms when they didn't need to. Each and every door could only be opened from the outside; each and every door was solid steel, most were a dull grey from dirt and grime build up over time that have just stained it entirely; and each and every door had one small barred window high enough up on the door that only the older patients could see through it.

I remember when I was first admitted in, I spent hours, days, months, even years trying to peer out that window after lights out, but it wasn't until about two years ago that I was tall enough to actually see anything. I had built it up so much in my mind that I thought I would see the nurses and orderlies having a party, or that all the other patients were about wandering around, and I was the only one locked away in my depressing dark cell. But that wasn't the case – it was actually quite dull. The halls were too dark to see anything, and the occasional nurse would walk by with a flashlight to brighten her way, but all in all, it was boring.

The worst aspect about the cells is that they were just that – a cell. They made me, and many others here, feel like they're imprisoned. We couldn't help but feel trapped, like caged animals; it's strange, in a place where freedom is quite abundant, the only thing that is truly ours is the only thing that truly restrains us. I often wandered around the complex, visiting all the areas that I'm not prohibited when I'm not in the library. As much time as I spend surrounded by knowledge, I do need a break every so often, and today is a special occurrence.

As I said, the time when I'm not in the library I spend wandering the grounds, but there are always people around; privacy in this place isn't forthcoming, it's something that needs to be taken when the moment arises – and this is the perfect time. Everybody's in one room, leaving, more or less, the entire facility mine for about an hour. I smiled at the prospect of some time to myself, not worrying about rules and regulations – just me tasting that piece of freedom we all desire so much. With that thought I took off down the heavenly hallway with no destination in mind; part of freedom is having the will to not be on a set path, to brave the unknown, to go wherever your body and mind take you.

I walked in near giddiness down the hallway to the first stairwell; I ignored it – strolled past it with not even a second thought. That's not the path I wanted to take, evidently, and so I kept walking taking the next right, then left down this sharp and winding trail. It was quite exciting, if I'm honest, as sad as that sounds. However, the unpredictability of my inane meandering is a refreshing change to my daily routine. I skipped down the next hallway, but took a sharp left into the third stairwell and headed down. I leaped two stairs at a time, swinging around the corners on the handrail; I didn't have a care in the world at this point. Dr. O'Neill expected me to head to the cafeteria, but he trusted me too much. It's not often that I took advantage of his trust – but he did ban me from the library.

I deserved a bit of freedom and choice, and that's exactly what I was taking. My feet landed on the last step with a mighty thud. The hollow bang echoed slightly throughout the empty walls, and as I looked out before me, I could still hear it reverberating. The place was absolutely still; I loved it. But what lay before me I loved even more, it was the courtyard – and like everywhere else, it was empty. I didn't spend much time outside; after all, there was nothing out there for me. I didn't want to partake in any schoolyard games with people who have a barely functioning brain, I didn't enjoy the fresh air, and I especially didn't like the trees spread out along the premises. It was one tree in particular that I didn't like, and I'd avoided even looking at it for years.

I reminded me so much of Malcolm, and how it ruined our friendship. On the far side of the courtyard there was a huge willow tree, its limbs and greenery had grown wildly, and its trunk was all gnarled and deformed. It branches hung low enough that if you walked under it, they'd be at eye level. It looked almost exactly like the tree I hid the bird in – the same bird I dissected with my hands in the tree house on that fateful day. It was from that moment on that Malcolm became distant, he fell ill, both physically and mentally, and the poor boy different, forever changed for the worst.

The therapy with Dr. O'Neill made me realize that I'd never really forgiven myself for what happened, how I effectively ruined his life, but as much as that may be true, I found myself staring through the window fixated upon that tree. I'd avoided it for years, but at this moment, I couldn't have felt more drawn to it. I hopped off the final step and onto solid ground, I walked towards the door that led to the courtyard, pushed the handle and with a click, it opened the way for me. The air outside had a bit of a chill to it, more so than usual for the time of year, but the sun felt warm upon my face.

It had been so long since I last just walked outside that it actually felt nice to breath the fresh air, to feel the sun on my skin, to experience it all again. I walked slowly towards the back of the yard, but I wasn't distracted by anything, I had my mind focused, and that's where I wanted to go. I past the hop-scotch outline painted onto the concrete, and all but ignored the many assortments of balls strewn about the surface. I walked past windows without a second glance. I nearly blocked out the chirping songs of the various birds, I merely heard them subconsciously, like they were the echo of a memory in the recesses of my mind.

And then I got to the tree. I stood below it, feeling dwarfed by its awesome presence. It was massive; I hadn't realized just how large it really was. The branches hung down at least fifteen feet; I reached out and felt one, I ran the vine like tentacles through my hands. They were rough and abrasive, but the texture was fascinating. I walked under the canopy the branches made; it was like walking into a different world. The leaves acted like a curtain, blocking out the sunlight as it tried to penetrate, though some still snuck in leaving wonderful patterns of abstract light upon the ground the trunk.

I felt like I was inside a kaleidoscope powered solely by the sun. I embraced its wonder and beauty. I held out my arms and spun around taking it all in – this is what freedom was. I closed my eyes and inhaled the crisp fresh air, making sure to fill every inch of my lungs with its refreshing quality. I held it in for a short time before letting it all out slowly so I could feel every molecule of it brush over my lips, and then I sat. The grass was green and soft under me, I clenched a handful of it just to feel it, and then I ripped it from the ground so I could smell it. Grass has an interesting elegance to it, and for the first time I'm discovering that. I'm beginning to see the small things in life are more valuable then we give credit for.

I lay down in the soft embrace of the greenery, but as I did so, I bumped my head. Ow! I muttered and grabbed the back of my head spinning around to see what it was; it was an overgrown root. I blinked rapidly, ridding my head of the recently acquired cobwebs and that's when it hit me – that's the reason I didn't like the tree. That root, the one I just hit my head on, was exactly like the one I hid the bird under. I was lost in the beauty of the moment, and for a brief instant I had gotten over my fears and insecurities; for a split second, I was able to enjoy the splendor of it all. I clenched my jaw as I stared at it, and the more I looked, the more I could feel an anger rise up in me.

One...two... three... fo –Fuck it. I said to myself, I didn't want to calm down and relax. I'd been so long since I felt a real emotion that I welcomed the rush of anger and the pain it brought with it. The last few minutes made me appreciate the value of a true and honest feeling, and that's exactly what I'm feeling now –an honest rage. The therapy and the treatments weren't cures, no; they were band-aids, floodgates if you will. A quick fix to hold back the real people we are from spilling over causing all kinds of chaos. The Hell that would be wrought from the patients inside Meadowvale would be devastating. It was the doctor's job to keep us from being who we truly are.

Well, no more. I won't allow to be held back any longer, I won't be told what to do any more, and I'll start by righting the wrongs of Mrs. Sutherland and Dr. O'Neill. The library has always been my paradise, my salvation – what gives them the right to tell me that I can't go in there anymore. What gives them the right to keep me from finding out about my past? It's my past, and if I want to dig and dig until I find that fossil of truth that lay miles beneath the surface, then I should be able to.

My drifting brought me here for a reason, and it was to show me the truth. My subconscious had me take that specific stairway to that specific door so I could see this wild willow tree. Deep down I knew where I wanted to go all along, what I had to do – what I wanted to do. From beneath the curtained canopy, I began my new journey, but this time there was nobody giving me tasks – my ventures were my own now. I jogged through the courtyard, passing all of the empty windows, ignoring the balls and hop-scotch, and burst through the door form which I had come. I was back inside now, and in front of me lay two options, the same two directions I faced before. Up or Down.

There was a difference this time however; I had the ability to make the choice. I wasn't strapped down to a wheelchair surrounded by nurses, cops, and orderlies. No, this time I was free, and this time I wanted to go down. I grabbed the handrail and leaped two steps at a time until I had made my way to the bottom. In front of me now was another choice: left or right. I hadn't been to this part of the hospital in a long time, and I couldn't quite remember where either led, so I chose right. I pulled the steel door open and pranced through. The further I went, the giddier I felt; in fact I had nearly broken out into a playful skip, as if I were ten again.

I trotted down the hallway, letting instinct guide me again

– I knew where I wanted to go, but I didn't quite know how to from here, so I just gave way to intuition and trusted myself to get me where I wanted. I took a left at the corner, and then I passed a few doors before deciding to take another sharp left through another door. When I stepped through the door, I paused in a bit of confusion. I hadn't been in the part of the hospital before, but it did look familiar. To my left there were books; to my right there were books; all around me there were nothing but books. I couldn't have made my way to the library, could I have? I slowly inched my way in, peering left and right studying the place.

It wasn't too long before I realized that it was the storage room for the library. New shipments, old worn out books needing repair and just over stocks and multiple copies took up residency back here. I walked along the wall, looking up and caressing the spines of the books with my fingers; I wasn't supposed to be in here at the best of times, but I really wasn't supposed to be in here during my ban. Nevertheless, I didn't care, and this was my destination – the library.

What I really wanted to do was research more about the stories I found online; I wanted to know about the others who had run-ins with Gerard and František. No, it was more than a want, it was a need. I needed to know about these other people, what tasks they were given, if they ended up dead like Mikey did. I snapped myself out of the daze from looking at the sky high books and scanned the room for a way into the main library. I couldn't really see, a lot of the room was a mess, but there was a wall mounted rolling ladder across the room, and so I made my way. I stumbled and tripped over loose books and such before reaching it, I climbed up about half way and inspected the room for the other exit, which I found, but what I didn't expect to see was the window directly above it. I was able to see out into the main floor, and what I saw was eerie; the library was quiet at the best of times, but I had never seen it deserted before. There wasn't a soul, not even Mrs. Sutherland was perched in her high chair behind the reference desk. The view I had was nearly directly behind said desk, and from where I was I could see the entire library, it was no wonder why she sat there, and it was the perfect vantage points for seeing everything and everyone. The only clear view she didn't have was of all the computer screens, which were still on.

I hopped down from the ladder and made my way through the maze of books and debris before poking my head out from behind the door. Just because I couldn't see Mrs. Sutherland doesn't mean she wasn't lurking about somewhere. Slowly I crept out into the room; I stayed crouched so that the desk was still covering me from any prying eyes that might be watching. Still creeping slowly, using the desk as cover, I popped my head out from around one side of the desk; there was nobody. I felt confident enough now to make a run for the computers.

Leaping from behind the big wooden desk, I more or less sprinted in the near perfect dark towards the glow of the computer monitors, like a fly attracted to the florescent blue light of the bug zapper – I just hoped they wouldn't fry me in one way or another. I cleared the distance in no time and pulled out the chair from the same computer I was using earlier – I hoped the history saved so I could revisit the site. I shook the mouse to wake the monitor from its screen saving slumber and typed in the password. Just like I wished, the PC sprung to life revealing the desktop. I doubled clicked the web browser and the trusty Google home page faded onto the white page.

My first instinct was to search the history. I clicked the button on the toolbar, but alas, it had been wiped clean. Shame, I thought this was going to be easier, but it still shouldn't be overly difficult. I typed in the same search parameters as before: František, plus fire, plus 1597, plus England. And just like before, I was matched with three results. The first two, if I remembered correctly, were dead links, so I went right for the third one. I clicked it and waited quite impatiently for it to load. The little hourglass turned and turned, but the page remained white. It must have been a slow connection, so I waited some more, my gaze fixated on that spinning digital hourglass. I took a hard breath out of frustration and let it out as an angry huff. Why was it taking so long?

Just at the point of my frustration, something came up on the screen. There were words upon the page, but not words I wanted to see: Page could not be found; domain name not registered. I starred wide eyed at it. How could that be? I had only just looked at it under an hour ago. This wasn't right. I clicked reload and waited again while the hourglass mocked me, flipping away, knowing something that I didn't. It knew the page wasn't there, it took it's time just flipping and twisting, taunting me, until, yet again it gave way to the cursor. The reload resulted in more of the same. The page could not be found; it made no sense! How could somebody have brought that site down in a matter of thirty minutes?

I clicked back on the browser, bringing me back to the search query. I clicked on the first link, thinking maybe the results were switched around. I figured maybe since it had been some time before it was last clicked, maybe it brought the site I wanted to the top, as sort of a popularity filter. It wasn't, this time it was instantaneous; I clicked the page loaded to the same error I got the first time. I clicked back and tried the second link – it was more of the same. Anger began to build hardy inside me. One last time I clicked back and tried the third and final link.

This time the hourglass only flipped once before revealing nothing but that error message: Page could not be found; domain name not registered. My eye began to twitch involuntarily. The white screen with those nine words was the only thing on my mind. What happened to it? There was no way I imagined it, was there? Just as I began to mull it over more in depth, something drew my attention away from the screen, and my thought process; it was a click, a jingle, and a swoosh. I looked over to the main door, and stepping through was none other than that chubby little librarian, Mrs. Sutherland. My first instinct was to sit there and carry on my business, but I quickly reconsidered. I closed the window and shut off the monitor so that if she walked by, she wouldn't see somebody had signed in.

I quietly stepped off of the chair and rolled it back under the desk without making a sound. Slowly, while keeping my eye on here, I slipped back into the shelter of the mystery aisle. It was ironic that I was surrounded by the likes of Anne Rice, James Patterson, and the occasional Dean Koontz and Stephen King novels, but this wasn't the time to pick out some midnight reading material. Getting caught would be the end of me, surely. I couldn't see her, so I closed my eyes to better tune my other senses; I could hear her feet shuffling along the floor, I heard keys land heavily on a table, followed by the squeaking of wheels on a chair. I waited, but I didn't hear her sit, which made me nervous.

Maybe she noticed the black screen of the monitor. I shouldn't have turned it off, I should have just left it and let the screen saver come on, but I panicked. Regardless, I remained still but I opened my eyes and looked out into the main area for shadows or any movement of any kind – thankfully I didn't see anything. I hadn't noticed, but I was holding my breath and unexpectedly, I let it all out in what I felt was a hurricane of a sigh. I stood as still as I could and dropped my head. I hoped she didn't hear that. I waited, every second feeling like an eon, but again, there was no movement of any kind.

That's when it hit me; the lights hadn't even come on. I felt comfortably concealed in the darkness, as it's been my friend in the past; I had prayed that our relationship remained strong. I poked my head out from around the towering shelf to get a better look at where the librarian had gone to. Slowly, I crept one eye out just enough so that I could see the reference desk – but she wasn't there. Atop it there was a cup of coffee and a small lunch bag, I pulled back inside the nesting of shelves to collect my thoughts. I didn't know where she was, and that didn't sit well. I felt like the upper hand was slipping and gradually being given to Mrs. Sutherland.

I was uneasy, and I could feel a sense of anxiousness coming on; an anxiety attack would be the last thing I needed. But, I still had the element of surprise; even if she knew that somebody was here, she didn't know it was me, and she didn't know where that somebody was. I still had the upper hand indeed. I decided to peer out again and hopefully see something else that I missed before. So again, slowly, I slinked my head out, but as I did, the lights flicked on! My heart jumped into my throat and my stomached turned to knots all in the blink of an eye.

Swallowing hard and feeling as though I've been spotted, I braved the thought of peering out again. When I did, this time I saw Mrs. Sutherland dancing from the back room, the same room from which I entered. She came out wearing headphones, hence the dancing. I felt a wave of relief flush over me; partly because I hadn't been spotted, partly because it was slightly entertaining, but mostly because as long as wore those headphones, she wouldn't be able to hear me. I brought my head and I leaned up against the shelf; this is why I felt the need to come here, I cared no longer for the article and the vanishing webpage, it was just a facet to get me in here, to face my true destiny.

The awkward figure of Mrs. Sutherland danced foolishly about inside of her contained desk as she organized items on her desk. She spun and flailed, it looked like she was having a good time; too bad she didn't know I was watching and planning. She continued her routine totally oblivious to her audience of one, an audience that was soon to be part of the show. The more she moved and pranced, the closer I snuck. I stuck to the walls and weaved in and out of shelves, ducking under tables when needed, and all together being as quiet with a mouse – a mouse carrying a hardcover copy of Britannia's Encyclopedia.

Mrs. Sutherland was a short and stocky woman and she didn't move very gracefully. As she prances, she stumbled, as she air drummed, she lost balance – all together, they entire scene was awkward, if not slightly amusing. Those observations weren't really to critique her ability to dance, but rather her rate of survivability in the face of an attacker. She was short, as aforementioned, which gave most predators the advantage when wielding a weapon designed for a knockout blow from a sneak attack. She was stocky, chunky, pudgy which made her slow on her feet and in her reaction; it also probably meant she had some sort of respiratory condition, which means if a scuffle broke out in defense of said predator, she would grow tired easily. And lastly, she wasn't graceful upon her feet, which meant an ambush wasn't necessary as she wouldn't be able to run– but it was by far more fun.

I was so close to her now that I could hear her humming the tune being played through her earphones, but I couldn't quite make it out. I suppose adding tone deaf to her list of faults is suitable. The poor woman was talentless, quite hard on the eye, and chances are alone, but on the bright side, it means she probably won't be missed by many, if any at all. She twirled one last time with her eyes closed, I stood a mere foot away from her yet she had no idea I was standing there, stalking her. She stopped with her back to me, but I didn't move, I just watched and waited; I wanted to see the look on her face when she saw who it was standing there. Suddenly though, she stopped whatever it was she was doing on the desk and stood straight up. I smiled. Slowly, she began to turn her head to look behind her; a sensation must have gone off in her body, something in her soul surely sent an alarm off. Most creatures can tell when they're being watched; apparently even humans haven't lost that primal stir.

When she finally turned her head, her eyes widened at the sight of me and she jumped backwards, almost enough to fall over. She braced herself against the desk in fear, trying to regain her composure. I tilted my head like a dog watching her owner make a fool of himself doing the simplest of tasks as she stumbled around, attempting to get back upright without the assistance of the desk. She began to calm when she realized it was me, and she was able to steady herself. With a mighty shove off the desk, she became perfectly vertical; and with a mighty swing of the massive Encyclopedia she was horizontal.

The book came across her cheek with such a force that at first I thought it snapped her neck. Teeth and blood flew from her mouth, the headphone it struck shattered, and the other dislodged somewhere else before she fell to the floor like a tree being hacked down. The commotion she made when she fell caused the desk chair to topple over, pens and papers that were on the desk now littered the floor. I stared at her body laying there lifeless on the ground. I wonder if I had killed her that easily; just like that, one swing of the bat, so to speak, and it's all over. I sincerely hope not; I wanted to have some more fun with her first.

All of this reminded me of when I was twelve, when I got to have fun with people for the first time. Thanks to Dr. O'Neill's hypnotherapy treatments, I'll never forget what it felt like to string up Malcolm from his bedroom window, or what it felt like to carve the head from my mother's useless body. It all led up to that fateful moment when I cut the cock from that bastard Mr. Gabriel – Gerard Gabriel. Seeing the fat librarian lay before me, any and all feelings of whimsy left my soul for good, or so it felt. I never wanted them back again – they made me weak. I thought of the tree outside and it's wonderful and glorious display of psychedelic colors – I thought of the luscious golden orchard behind Gerard's marvelous castle... and no longer did those images make me feel warm and free, all it made me feel was nauseous.

I felt as though I'd never see the beauty in the world again, but looking down at Mrs. Sutherland's body I know there's still beauty out in the world, it's just in different places than most people would find it. She twitched slightly, and then she let out a soft moaning; clearly, she was coming to. It didn't seem like it took overly long, perhaps she has a thick skull to match her thick body. She moaned again, and this time her eyes began to twitch, attempting to open – that I could have none of; so I pounced. I leapt atop her oversized body and straddled her gut between my legs. She attempted to fight, but she was still a bit groggy, unfortunately for her. Her arms flung aimlessly and weak, like she was throwing around a wet noodle, and when they got close to me, I just nonchalantly batted them away.

With my prey incapacitated on the ground, her weak points were left open and vulnerable. Her head lulled to the side, and that's when I saw my opportunity. In the blink of an eye, I shot my hands out and wrapped them around her neck. I squeezed and clutched with every bit of strength I had. The sense of dying must have overcome her as her will to survive kicked in with a bit of strength of her own. Suddenly she found some of power within her meaty arms; she started to swing and flail around like a fish out of water, some blows hit, but most missed. The punches that hit landed on my shoulders and ultimately didn't hurt all that much, not enough to knock me off anyway.

Besides, I was focused. My eyes were locked on the kill, and no amount of force would stop me. She managed to land her hand on my face and push back with all she had, but ultimately she didn't have much leverage, or she may have pushed me off of her. Nevertheless, with her hand firmly covering the majority of my face, it meant I couldn't quite see her, and I wanted to watch the life be sucked from her body. So I bit down as hard I could on the fatty outside of her hand. I felt my teeth penetrate, followed by a very metallic like taste. She wanted to scream; I could see it in her face and feel it build in her throat, but nothing more than a broken whimper escaped her lips.

She was bloodied and losing air, but not fast enough. Apparently strangling somebody with your bare hands is an investment in time, energy, and strength, but it was quite alright, I had time. The longer it takes the more fun it is; every second that passes the weaker she becomes – every second that passes a little bit more of her dies. I wasn't going to give up, I've reached the point of no return and I plan to never turn back. I'm going to see this through to the very end, I want to see her fight up until that very last moment when her body seizes up then falls limp.

Her arms still flailed around, but they lacked the control and vigor they once had. She was fading now; it would be much longer until she died. My grip and begun to wring tighter without my even knowing it; I wanted this to happen so badly that my subconscious took over – I don't even remember exerting that much force. My grasp was so tight that even my hands began to hurt and feel raw from all the rubbing of her neck, but I still had more than enough in me to see this through. I clenched my jaw and barred my teeth using every last bit of force I had, I leaned down on her windpipe, shutting off any bit of air that may have been sneaking through.

I felt her shake, I heard her moan, but mostly, I felt her give up. She never did stand much of a chance. First knocking her out with the book, then getting the high ground on top of her and using my leverage to apply as much pressure as I could, she was never going to live past this evening. It was fate. I was drawn here by that invisible force that guides us all; I was drawn here to kill the fat librarian who wronged me. I watched her face, which was now turned and looking straight at me. I watched her eyes, big and blue, stop living; there was nothing there but a single welled up tear that didn't get the chance to fall. I could see right through her eyes, seemingly into her soul; it was as if a sort of connection was made through strangling her.

I felt quite close to this kill, it was intimate. It didn't have the same feel to it as when I strangled Malcolm, I had a belt to aid me; no, this was with my bare hands, and it was like nothing I had ever experienced before. The single tear dangled on the precipice of her eye lid, teetering, but it hung tight to its place as if it didn't want to fall. It was the last bit of warmth her body had, and by some force, it remained there, perched - clinging. It made me curious; I leaned in and looked at closely, so close that I could see my reflection in her crystal blue eye. That took my attention away from the tear for a moment as something looked off. I touched my mouth and looked at my hand: Blood. I nearly forgot about biting her hand, and the blood that followed, the same blood that now masks my face. I pulled back and covered my mouth with my hand; I had to get it off, it would surely settle and stain, and then there would be no way to explain it.

I got up off of the body quickly and looked around. The Library was still well lit, and anybody could walk in at any second. I didn't even think about such thing while strangling her, but it always seemed that I was given time while committing the art of murder. It was strange, but I didn't have to think about it now. I had to clean myself up, and do something with the body; I didn't want it discovered, at least right away. I tried to remain calm despite the panic that started to swell inside me; I scanned the library, but I didn't know what I was looking for, so I closed my eyes and started to breath, doing the calming exercises Dr. O'Neill taught me. I still thought they were bullshit, but they seemed to be working.

With my head cleared, I knew what I was looking for – a bathroom, with which the library was equipped! I just hoped the door was open. I went off in the direction of the facilities, but stopped and turned back to the body of Mrs. Sutherland. I stood over her again for a moment, scanning her, just studying her, but she didn't have what I wanted: The keys. I sighed and shook my head, and that's when I saw out of corner of my eye, a glint of metal on the desk: her keys. I smiled and grabbed them and started to walk away, but again I stopped. I looked over my shoulder at the body and realized that tear still hung in limbo. I stormed back to the body and kicked it square in the side of the head. Her neck was so limp the head rolled over with ease, it was like I kicked a soccer ball that was on a very short tether.

I stepped on her head and rolled it back towards me – the tear was gone and I was satisfied knowing that nothing reminiscent of a soul remained. With a nod of approval, I turned and head off towards the bathrooms. I past many mighty shelves of books, I past the computers and glanced at the only one with a black screen as I walked by, trying to ignore what should have been there. I continued on to the bathroom door, I pushed, and it swung open. I wouldn't need the keys, so I shoved them in my pocket and walked into the bathroom. It was dark, Mrs. Sutherland hadn't had the chance to make it back here to illuminate the place just yet, so I did her the small favor of flicking the light switch for her – it was the least I could do.

I went up the mirror, and I saw a familiar face there. The brown eyes and dark brown cropped hair, the porcelain soft white tear dropped shaped face, and of course the blood stained mouth all looked back at me. I couldn't help but smirk; it was nearly the same face I saw in Malcolm's bedroom all those years ago. I turned the water on, splashed my face, and started to rub away. Some of the blood came off, but most of it remained, and so I repeated. Still, a little bit ran off, but the majority still stained my mouth. I pumped the soap dispenser and filled my hand with a huge pile of the pink antibacterial substance and rubbed it all around my mouth. I scrubbed hard enough so that it hurt a little bit, and then I splashed more water on my face to rinse anything loose away. This time a fair amount came off, but there was a ring around my lips that didn't want to just be washed away.

I looked around the room to see if there was anything else, and of course there was – paper towels. How foolish of me to miss those. I grabbed a whole stack and soaked them and then I vigorously rubbed them against my face. At first they were abrasive, but as the water worked its way in, it began to feel soggy, and then it all started to fall apart. I was effectively making spit balls. The clumps fell into the sink, but the once white paper towels had a reddish hue to them mean they were working! I scrubbed until I had no more usable paper, and when I looked into the mirror again, all the blood seemed to be gone. Although my face was quite red from all the rubbing, I still left the bathroom satisfied. I flicked the light off and closed the door behind me, but this time I locked the door – and that's when the idea hit me.

I ran over to the corpse I left behind moments ago and assessed the situation, she wouldn't be easy to move at all, but I had to try; also, her bloodied hand was going to leave a bit of a mess. Fortunately though, it didn't bleed out too much, nevertheless, I didn't want to leave a trail of blood in my wake. I leaned down and unbutton her blouse, struggling, I managed to lift one side of her and slip the sleeve off, it was all I would need. I took the loose end of her shirt and wrapped it around her hand as many times as I could. I felt that my makeshift wrappings would be sufficient. I then took a deep breath and prepared for the long haul ahead of me.

I grabbed her biteless hand and commenced the heaving. I pulled with everything I had, and slowly but surely she inched along. Getting the ball moving, so to speak, is the hardest part, for after she budged from that spot, and with a bit of momentum on my side, she started to slide across the tiled floor a lot easier than I expected. She was still heavy, however, and I started to grow tired and weak, but I wasn't even half way to the bathroom yet. I stopped, breathless and looked around for anything I could use. I knew one thing, I could stand any more, and I needed to take a seat.

We were close enough to the computers that I could sit down, and when I did, I did so with such a force that the chair rolled backwards. It gave me a sense of falling for a second, and so I steadied myself, but it gave me more than that sense of falling, it gave me an idea. I leapt from the chair mere seconds after sitting; I was reinvigorated by the revelation I had just had. I jogged the few feet over to Mrs. Sutherland dragging a chair behind me, I looked at her for a moment, but without over thinking it I knelt down and draped her arm over my shoulder and lifted. The dead weight was immensely heavy, but I used every bit of strength I had and managed to get about a quarter of her body on the chair.

But there was a problem, the chair started to roll away under the weight to one side. I reached out as quickly as I could and stopped the chair from rolling too far away. Now I was in an awkward spot. Half of the enormous woman on top of me, and half of me on the chair to keep it from moving, and without dropping the woman, I pulled the chair back towards us. I used myself as a sort of ramp, laying flat on the chair and pulling the corpse over top of me until she was more or less centered on it. I slithered out from underneath, and voila, she remained on the chair. Breathing a sigh of relief and wiping away the sweat on my brow, I rolled the fat dead woman the rest of the way to the bathroom.

The door swung open and through it we went, I hit the light switch and the electricity flowed, illuminating the room once again. I pushed the chair in and pushed the door closed, helping shut a bit faster. I felt the need to hurry for some reason, but I've recognized when that feeling befalls me, I should listen to it. Quickly then I dumped the corpse on the ground in front of the sinks, she hit with a muted thud and a slap as her hand whipped off the hard tile. I grabbed the chair and swiftly went back out of the door and into the main library. Behind me I closed and locked the door and went put keys back in my pocket out of instinct, but I thought better of it. In the past when I kept a trophy, it had come back to bite me. I could live without the keys, so I threw them off into a labyrinth of shelves; that should be sufficient.

I checked around and made sure nobody was lurking, and I was confident there wasn't a soul around. The only people ever in here were me, and three or four others, none of which had come back after dinner. When I felt it was safe, I rolled the chair back to its empty space and reunited it with its computer companion. I dusted off my hands and headed for the exit; a sense of completion and relief washed over me, and I felt calm – relaxed. I had nearly forgotten what this sort of satisfaction felt like, and truth be told, there was nothing in the world like it.

The library had seen more action in the last fifteen minutes that it had in the last decade or longer, I felt I did a service to the place; once the body's discovered, it'll have a story to be told. Legends of ghosts will be synonymous with it's now desecrated walls – it'll be a place of fame... or rather infamy. It

had given me so much over the years; I felt I gave it something wonderful in return, something that it would appreciate if it were a living thing: A good story. It holds countless tales of every nature, but now it has one of its own, which is all any institution of literature can ask for.

With the library left in my wake, I walked back into the hallway – the main one, not the back entrance I sneaked into earlier, which was risky as somebody could have seen me, but as luck would have it, there wasn't a beating heart around to be seen either way. I felt confident and started to walk with a pop in my step down the hallway to a stairwell where turned up. I hopped the stairs two at a time, I truly felt invigorated, like a new – no, a better me had shed its shell of the past and was birthed a whole new soul. I got to the top of the stairs and swung the door open and started walking down the main hall towards the dormitory area. Killing the woman exhausted me, and I just wanted to lie down for a little while, even if I did have a bit of pep in my step.

Rounding the last corner, I thought of my head hitting the pillow and, with any luck, dream about taking lives; reliving it so to speak. I closed my eyes thinking about that tear that hung in Mrs. Sutherland's eye, the one that refused to fall, the one that hung on until the last minute; until I kicked it into oblivion. But when I opened my eyes I was met with an unexpected face: Dr. O'Neill. I stopped in my tracks, frozen much like a deer in headlights and just looked at him. He looked down upon me sternly, but with a hint of confusion. I think he had suspicions of my visit to the library, but I knew he had no idea of what I'd done; nevertheless, I still felt nervous.

"Lizzy! Where have you been?" He asked.

"Uhh..." I said looking around, stalling for an answer. "I was just walking around, killing time." No pun intended.

"Were you at the library?" He asked gravely.

"No." I said quickly, without even thinking, perhaps I answered too quickly as he eyed me accusingly.

"So if I asked Mrs. Sutherland she'll tell me she didn't see you, right?" He asked, obviously not knowing of her recently unfortunate fate.

"Absolutely not." I said.

"Alright." He said looking behind him, "It doesn't matter right now anyway. I have something to tell you." He said. My interest suddenly piqued.

"Oh? What's that?" I asked curiously.

"You're hearing, Lizzy... It's been moved up." He said sending my heart into a spastic fit.

"What do you mean, moved up?" I asked with bated breath.

"It's been moved to right now. The board had a scheduling conflict, and they were here for a review and asked if you were fit to do it today. Lizzy," he said putting hand on my shoulder. "This could be a wonderful opportunity to get you into a halfway house. I gave them my recommendation, and I feel you're ready – so long as you still see me regularly twice a week. And moving your hearing up, and saying that you're ready for the impromptu nature of it is a huge testament to your emotional capability."

It was ironic that he said that, for as calm as I appeared on the outside, inside I was a chaotic mess; a hurricane was tearing through my body, but I remained very duck like: Calm on the surface, but underneath the water, my feet were busy going a mile a minute in order to keep me afloat.

"Okay" I simply said.

"Okay... Okay! Great. Let's go then, they're waiting for you. Come, follow me." He said guiding me by the shoulder.

We walked down the hall, past my room, past his office and down towards the administration wing. This was where all the files went, where all the busybody secretaries and assistants sorted everything, organized papers, and just made sure all the loose ends were taken care of. At the very end of a very long hallway was a set of large red wood doors; they looked quite ominous. Dr. O'Neill and I stopped just short of them; I'd never seen them before, but they were truly beautiful. They looked original, with intricate carvings etched into them for aesthetic appeal.

"This is it, Lizzy... Are you ready?" Dr. O'Neill said; I could hear the smile and excitement in his voice, but I was fixated on the doors. Perhaps it was for the beauty of it, but I feel it was more for what lay on the other side.

"This is the rest of your life. Just be yourself and don't hide anything – they can tell when people are just saying what they think is the right thing. Honesty is the best route, they know not everybody is perfect, and if you pretend you are, they won't believe it. Anyway, I'm rambling now. They're waiting. Good luck." He said taking his hand from my shoulder and opening the door.

What lies beyond that door is but one thing – my destiny. It's something I have no control over. A group of people decide my fate now and there's no telling what they have in store for me. They were the Moirae, holding my life thread in their hands - they could cut it short, sending me to a life of despair; or they could be generous and give me a second chance at a prosperous life. I suppose now only time will tell; good thing they don't know about Mrs. Sutherland.

The End.

