The Forgotten Ones
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All the Gods, all the heavens, all the hells, are within you. —Joseph Campbell
“Have you ever heard the saying; ‘only the forgotten are dead’?”
The young girl shook her head. Tears welled up in her eyes, but they hadn’t fallen yet. This one was tough. She was fighting the terror that was undoubtedly coursing through her body. There was no point in fighting it; her death was inevitable.
“See, I will kill you, but if I remember you, then it’s like you’re not even dead.”
A whimper escaped from the girl. She wasn’t the first one to die, and she wouldn’t be the last. She would be the first to send a message, so her body would be the first one to be discovered unlike the others; the forgotten ones. Their bodies had been left to decay in their shallow graves never to be found. There was an added excitement knowing someone — Agent Caitlin Cade more precisely— would be staring at this girl’s dead body in just a matter of hours.
“Don’t worry baby girl, you won’t be one of them; one of the forgotten ones. You’re going to be found.”
A scream ripped through the room.
“I always like to talk during this next part. I don’t know why. The first few times I thought maybe it was just what was left of my humanity reaching out to offer comfort in the final minutes of their lives, but that’s not it. I haven’t had humanity in years.”
The knife sliced through the air, and the first cut into flesh vibrated to the depths of the killer’s soul. The feeling was orgasmic. Another cut and then another. The smell of fresh blood wafted through the room permeating every single crack and crevice. The beautiful scream that ripped from the girl’s throat was the icing on the cake. Over and over the knife cut into her flesh.
“I saw a therapist once, and she told me that my mind was like a disease. Can you believe that? Someone who went into the business of helping people told me that.”
The girl’s body was lifeless now. There was no point in checking for a pulse. Still, the desire to feel the knife tear through her flesh was uncontrollable. That was the problem with the urges. They were impossible to control. Blood sang a song like the sirens from the old tales, and there was no refusing the call.
“I already knew my mind was diseased, and I’m not going to stop until I’ve infected everyone.”
If only walls could talk, these walls would tell some very horrific stories. Stories that were filled with screams, begging and pleading, but never salvation. This room had never seen salvation.
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