Separate names with a comma.
There's something afoot! A new event arrives in October so remember, bigger isn't always better!
Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Kåli-Yüga, May 4, 2013.
Create a plot about a murder of a girl, and why she was killed. Have fun!
“Its okay, Mommy.” Big green eyes looked up into the women’s own crying blue ones. “I understand,” the little girl smiled up at her mother. The women began to cry harder, dropping the knife to the ground and clutching her daughter’s small frame against her own. Sobs filled the cavern. How could she kill her own daughter? Her sweet little eight-year old who looked up at her with adoring green eyes every day. The same little girl who could lift even the cloudiest of spirits with her giggles.
“Anise…” The voice came from behind the two females clutching at each other. A man stood behind them, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but where he was. “It has to be done.” He spoke as he shuffled his feet and glanced away from the girls. He didn’t want to be the one to tell anyone they had to kill their only child. He glanced back, brown eyes full of sympathy. “You both know it does.”
“Shut up!” Anise, the mother turned and snarled at the man, tears running from cold blue eyes. “Why should she have to die? Why not someone older? Why not me instead?” a terrified gasp came from the small body in her arms. Little hands clutched at Anise’s shoulders even tighter. Anise gave her daughter a small reassuring squeeze. “I was the one who let,” she paused and a flash of sorrow speared through her eyes, “it happen.”
Years ago at the age of 19, Anise met a man in a bar. The gentleman was one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen. And he had taken interest in little ‘ole her. They talked and drank for hours. After a while, one thing led to another and nine months later there came a child. A little girl with the mark of Satan over her heart. This little girl, as she grew ripped a hole between Hell and Earth, just by existing. Now, eight years later, the hole was nearly big enough for high leveled demons to just waltz on over to their city. Tomorrow evening, the portal would finally be big enough for them. That is, if the little girl allowing the hole to grow lived through the night.
“Mommy…” The little girl spoke again, this time muffled by her mother’s shirt. The little girl squirmed around some till she was able to peek up at the woman holding her in a very protective manner. “If I die, all the bad people go away.” The little girl paused as the tears finally began to fall from her eyes, her lower lip trembled some. “Mary, the young girl’s friend from school, will stop being sick and Domo, their dog, will start being nice again.” She sniffled as snot began to run down her face. “And you won’t have to fight and get hurt anymore.” The little girl closed her eyes before she opened them again. A glint of determination seemed to make her green eyes spark. She gave her mother a stern look, as stern as an eight year old could be. “If you don’t do it, someone else will.” She paused, her lower lip starting to tremble again. “I want you to do it mommy.” The little girl nuzzles back up to her mother. “It won’t hurt if you do it.”
Anise trembled at her little girl’s words. How could such a tiny little thing be so calm about her own death?
“Anise.” The brown eyed man spoke as he looked at his watch, alarm flashing through his eyes. The woman’s head shook in denial, even as her hand reached for the knife she had thrown down. For this to work, the little girls heart blood had to be spilled, Satan’s mark had to be pierced. Anise shook harder, her hand trembling so hard that the knife nearly clattered back to the cavern floor. The man behind them walked around them, stooping to light candles that illuminated a circle drawn with blood and chalk upon the caves floor. The ritual had to be completed within ten minutes. Or the demon apocalypse would tear the world to pieces. The little girl hugged her mother tighter, trying her hardest not to cry. She knew her mother was just seconds away from throwing the knife away again. She knew if she asked, her mother wouldn't let a thing happen to her. Her mom would take her home, put her to bed and take her to whatever was left of school in the morning. All she had to do was ask. She kept her trembling lips sealed, tight enough to hurt. It’d be so easy to be selfish. The small girl’s arms tightened.
The man’s voice drifted through the cavern, reciting old Latin that neither of the girls in the middle of the circle could understand. Anise, if possible cried harder. Her daughter’s will broke enough for her own sobs to escape into her mother’s chest. It wasn't fair. She didn't want to die. She pressed closer, listening to her mom’s beating heart, trying her hardest to drown out the sound of words long forgotten. After mere moments, the dreaded lull of the chanting came.
Swallowing, Anise buried her face in her daughters hair and lifted the blade, it was a terrible thing, long enough to go completely though the young girls body without hassle, thin enough to just slip between her ribs and through her heart to break the mark on her chest. Anise pressed the tip to her daughters back. She froze, she couldn't do it. She nuzzled her daughters hair. She loved her too much to kill her. The man widened his eyes. Time was running short. He couldn't pass the circles barrier to push the blade through. He stepped closer, wishing he could just rush in and shove it through the girl to end this all.
“Mommy?” The little girl tilted back to meet her mother’s eyes. Both of them had tears and snot running down their faces. The little girl forced a smile. “I love you.” Before either girl could blink, she shoved herself back onto the blade. Her mother screamed and went to pull the little girl closer, shoving the blade the rest of the way through her heart as she did. Another scream seemed to be ripped from the woman’s soul. She pulled the blade from her daughter’s body and hurled it against a stone wall. She pulled the paleing body tightly back into her arms.
“No, no no no no.” The chant slipped from her lips even as the man’s chanting started back up. The circle around the girls soaked the blood into it. Old magic began to work and the hole between Hell and Earth was sewed up, using the little girl’s heart blood.
The room went silent, the chanting stopped, the little girl stopped breathing, and both adults held their breath, one in horror, She had just murdered her own daughter, the other in worry, had the ritual worked? The sun rose outside. There was no smell of sulfur, no explosion, no demon horde invading. The man released a breath seconds before another scream ripped from the woman’s throat. Then silence followed by a thud reached the man’s ears. He looked back over at the circle. Anise lay unconscious clutching at the dead body of her only daughter.
He closed his eyes and took a long deep breath. It was done.
[[THE FOLLOWING IS AN EXTRACT FROM THE TRANSCRIPT OF WASHTINGTON POLICE DEPARTMENT'S INTERROGATION OF PETER SLOATHE, CONDUCTED ON 13 JANUARY. THE NAMES OF THE OFFICERS AND THEIR STATEMENTS DURING THE INTERROGATION HAVE BEEN REDACTED FOR SECURITY REASONS.]]
So this is the part where you get me to answer a lot of questions, right?
I mean, here I am in this fine little interrogation room with the monochrome, featureless walls and nothing but your hideous fucking faces and a two-way mirror for visual stimulation. I mean, what the fuck is that, some sort extended police metaphor? 'Look to your own sins' or some shit? I'm guessing you've got a bunch of folks sitting behind it right now, too, watching these delightful proceedings and ready to eat up every fucking word I say.
So let me paint you pigs a word-picture, then.
Yes, my name is Peter Sloathe. Yes, I live on 23 Barton Road; it's the little house with the red bricks. Yes, I was born on August 12th 1987, and I do indeed work as a nurse at Saint Margaret's Hospital. Don't smirk like that, you fucking ape, this is the twenty first century; plenty of guys work as nurses now. Yes, I live alone, yes I was questioned by the police in connection to a series of death threats made earlier this year.
But let's stop dancing around the issue, here. Ask the question you wanna ask.
Did I kill Miss Jenny Carter, Secretary of Defence for the United States Government, on the night of October 31st?
You already know the fucking answer, or else I wouldn't be here, but you wanna hear it from the lion's mouth don't you? Get it all on a cheeky little recording so you can play my confession in court when you try to get me convicted? Well, maybe I'll play ball with you, asshole, but if you want a confession you're gonna sit the fuck back and listen to what I have to say. And don't roll your eyes like that, motherfucker. You know you don't have shit on me right now, so either you pay attention or I stop co-operating and start hollering for a lawyer.
Do you fine officers of the law know what the greatest lie that's ever been told is? I'm talking bigger than Santa Claus or the Easter cunting Bunny, more widespread than faith and more vitriolic than organised religion. It's a recent lie, going by the scale of things, but that hasn't stopped it from becoming more widespread than the common fucking cold.
Care to make a guess? Speculate? A wild shot in the dark? C'mon, you guys are cops! You're supposed to be good at deducing stuff!
Fine, you fucking spoilsports. I'll tell you.
The right to life. That's the biggest crock of shit that's ever been forced down your throat, and you probably never even realised it.
We love our rights in this fine country of ours. Our right to freedom of speech. Our right to live as we choose. Our right to drive big fucking cars and shooting big fucking guns and to tell anyone who disagrees with us to go fuck themselves. We have a government that we elect to represent these rights, and fine fucking pigs like yourselves to protect them, and a big old military to enforce them.
But they're an illusion. A well-enforced illusion, but an illusion all the same.
People die every second of every minute of every day. Right this moment someone just breathed their last; some gangbanger just took a nine-millimeter to the face, some child in a third world hellhole just lost it's life to a disease we've been able to treat for decades, some family just got smashed to pieces by a drunk-driver. Life isn't some sacred, untarnished thing that we have a right to.
Life is cheap. Life is arbitrary.
Life is unfair.
A couple hours from now, one or both you might get shot responding to a domestic dispute. Tomorrow a thirteen year-old child somewhere will be told that they're dying of an inoperable cancer. Somewhere right now there's a war being waged, where young men are blown to pieces and torn apart by the instruments of death that we as a species are so good at making. I mean, stop and fucking think about that for a minute. We can't cure cancer, but we can make devices that can kill people on the other side of the world in an instant.
We don't give a shit about the sanctity of life. So why the hell do we all pretend that we do?
Because the fact that we don't care terrifies us all. Thus we've crafted this lovely little lie. This bullshit that life is sacred, that we have the right to it, all the while ignoring the truth that's screaming in our face, every moment of every day. We draft these lovely pieces of legislation, outlining how torture is immoral, how killing and genocide is wrong, and then we let war criminals and mass-murderers sign it. We're so used to this fucking lie that no-one even blinks an eye at this gigantic contradiction any more.
Tell a lie long enough, and people will start to believe it.
But it's made us all lazy.
In centuries past we didn't fool ourselves with this crap; we knew very well that every day could be the last day of our lives, that at any moment someone or something could come with the intention of killing us and everyone we've ever loved. We accepted the reality that life isn't fucking democratic, that it doesn't give a shit about your “inalienable rights”.
I mean, who the hell decided that you get to keep breathing right now? Or you? Or the assholes watching from behind that mirror? Why does Joe McFuckface down the street, who's subsisted on a diet of fast food and Coca-Cola products for the last decade but hasn't had the fucking courtesy to at least die of heart failure, get to keep living when right now some poor bastard, who's only wrongdoing was not having the sense to be born in a country with decent a medical service, wastes away and dies?
When you boil it down to it's core, the only person who gets to decide if you should keep breathing is you. And if you want to keep fucking breathing, you have to be willing to defend yourself. But no-one's willing anymore, no-one thinks they have to. They're thinking, “but isn't that what the police are for? Or the Army and the Government?” And as they think this there's images flashing across their fucking HD TVs, of riot troops beating legitimate protesters to death in the streets of some country, of military forces and governments massacring their own citizens.
For years I've been coming to this slow realisation, and there's only so long you can live with this knowledge without losing your fucking mind. Believe me, I tried. I tried to work this whole thing out; I figured there was something really goddamn wrong with me, went to see a shrink, started eating healthier and exercising regularly.
And then you know what I realised, officers?
I realised that the problem wasn't me. The problem was every other motherfucker in this country. Those lazy shits jabbering on about how they shouldn't have to lift a finger even in the name of preserving their own worthless, miserable lives.
Something had to give. Something needed to be done. So I decided that I was gonna pull a little stunt that would raise the blinds and blast some light onto the huge fucking elephant sitting in the metaphorical room.
Which brings us back to the issue at hand. Did I kill the Secretary of Defence?
To be fair, you'd think you fuckers would protected her better, right? But then, who better to kill when trying to make this point than the person apparently in charge of preserving the illusion I'm trying to dispel? I gave her a fighting chance, and fight she did. Thought she was gonna escape at one point, too. But I got her, in the end.
Two shots to the stomach with a pistol, I believe it was. Then I cut her carotid artery; she bled out in seconds.
I am not unnecessarily cruel. There was no need to make her suffer. I guess, at the end of the day, you can call me an honest monster.
That answer your questions, officers? Can I see my lawyer, now?
[[PETER SLOATHE ESCAPED FROM POLICE CUSTODY ON 29 JANUARY. HIS WHEREABOUTS REMAINS UNKNOWN AND THE MANHUNT IS CURRENTLY STILL ONGOING, AS IS THE INVESTIGATION INTO THE MURDERS OF SEVERAL OTHER OFFICIALS IN WASHINGTON STATE.]]