User:DeathsofaNightmare

I: The Death of the Dark String

Dark String. Yes, nasty name, but that is my name. I died by the metal string, and I kill by the metal string. Fifteen years ago, I was only a teenager that knew nothing of the world. No one loved me and no one cared for me. I only wept behind the screens where no one would ever find out. They assumed I didn’t care. That I didn’t care if they called me “monster”. Such a name soon became what everyone called me. My seven different teachers only accepted papers signed by Monster; my family called me that only when they had to talk to me; and my classmates said that name when they wanted me to come do their dirty work. It started when the girls’ clique started noticing my appearance: black, long, and even hair tied in a ponytail, creamy skin, pale and smooth, and long fingernails that didn’t need nail-polish to look like pink nail-polish were on them. They were jealous, because a boy shouldn’t look prettier than them. My face was in the range past cute into pretty. They were jealous and they became even more so when the boy who the lead girl liked told me he liked me. I was rarely noticed in the class, so when he first saw me, he thought I was a newcomer. A girl newcomer. I told him I wasn’t a girl and he blushed furiously, thinking still I was a girl and part of the clique, trying to play a nasty trick on him, and ran away. The lead girl hated me then, because the boy hated her. They started referring to me as Monster: “Hey, are you talking about Monster?” “Yeah, I am…who’s Monster again? Does it even exist?” Then the boy, angry and revengeful, started following on. I began to stop going to school after my own teachers called me Monster. I stayed home, but home wasn’t any place better. In fact, it was worse. My brother and I, closest of brothers, hung together for a couple of months, but then he too started following on this new popular trend of calling me Monster. I thought he was under pressure, but then I found out that he had decided upon this under his own will. I ran away to the streets, wishing to join some street gang to live without the name Monster everywhere next to me. I could kill if I must have to. But no one accepted me. Everyone thought I was a girl, and that girls don’t belong in street gangs. Finally one of the gangs said yes, but their eyes told me other. I immediately changed my mind, wanting to run, but then they grabbed my arms and tore my clothes off. Discovering I was a boy indeed, the leader of that gang thought I was trying to make him look like a fool in front all his gang members despite my efforts to remind him I told him I was a boy. The leader went completely berserk, stabbing me while completely senseless, but purposefully avoiding all the places you stab when you attempt to kill a person. I went dizzy and fainted after struggling uselessly against the knives that nailed me to the ground. When I woke up again, pain was tearing through my cuts and my eyes hurt like the eternal fire of hell burning through me. The actuality of it was that I snapped awake because of the pain. I shut my eyes again, screaming out. But I couldn’t. My mouth was gagged and I was bleeding in the liquid. In a tank of lemon juice. I stared painfully at the group of smirking boys, each of them laughing and pointing at my pathetic form. Then as if on cue, a new transfer of the acidic liquid poured down on my numbed cuts, and this time it was worse, as if they had also added salt into it also. Each time it was worse, like more ingredients that caused pain was added into each mixture. Slowly my eyes went blind and I couldn’t see them anymore. At that point, I closed my eyes and the dirty rag flowed out of my mouth. Bubbles streamed out then became so thin the boys couldn’t see them in the murky yellow juice. Then, my hearing still in my aid, even if the voice was fuzzy and unclear, the leader yelled at one of the members to do something to me. I felt like a rope or thin string was coiling around my neck but at that point I didn’t do much. I was tired, and they must’ve thought I was dead. Then he yanked. Harshly, like he was impatient to get it over with. My hands flew to my neck in a desperate move. The teen was scared, probably thinking I had become alive from the dead. He jerked harder and my strength was failing fast. Then before I knew it, my head was completely ripped off and sailing through the secret dungeons where the gang kept their illegal activities hidden. After that I didn’t know what happened. After all, what is death to a dead man? But the answers I got out of some threatening later to the gang member were that the gang was scared, really scared now, and sewed my head back together to my body so my family could bury me right, otherwise the neighbors would look at them as selfish and unloving. They were both, even if they don’t show it outside. The gang left me in an alley corner and waited for my parents to come find me and to think I had my throat slit. My parents did come, and what I got from my brother was that they had but me into a cheap coffin and burned the coffin. No one cried, but he knew everyone did have hidden peppers in their handkerchiefs from the amount of them dropped on the floor. He didn’t know why I was alive after such an amount of torture and burning. I didn’t know either-all I knew was that I somehow sank into the dirt during the burial and woke up with half my face decayed but wearing a mask stained with dried blood and holding a string and dagger, wearing a belt holding rope and vials of chemical lemon liquid and knives, and wanting to see spilled blood. I suddenly rose from the soil, making all the ladies screams, and the men shriek like ladies. I murdered everyone there, even my own brother. I roped the people by families together, then choosing one from each family, normally starting with the men of the family, stabbed them about a dozen times, then poured the sour water over them, raised them from the puddles of blood, and repeated the process throughout the whole night. I spared my brother the pain though, by letting him bleed to death from a slit wrist that I put in hot water after I gave him amnesia. I kept his body as a doll and covered it with china to keep in protected. The next day I went into a search of the gang that murdered me. I tracked them down, and when they saw me, they freaked out. Half of them suddenly decided to jump down right there off the building’s side. I didn’t care-as long as the leader was there, I was fine. He was, after all, mine to kill. The way I died, the way he suffers. I approached him with the string tightly wrapped around my hand, glaring at him menacingly with a dagger in my hand as he slowly back into the wall… He screamed as the dagger struck the palm of his hand and sank into the skin, drawing blood and tearing flesh onto the wall behind him. I laughed insanely as he tried to tear the knife from his palm, only enlarging the cut the blade had made. He begged me to let him go, he’d do anything, anything. But would I? He killed me. Did he listen to my pleas? No, sir, he didn’t. And to God’s grace and mercy, I am a sinner and I don’t forgive as easily as Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior. So bless my soul during to judgement, I didn’t let him go. Instead, I threw more knives. It was a pleasure, watching him writhe around and scream. I licked the container that held the lemon water inside. It was amazing, the way that this vial works. I had no need to refill. It automatically refilled itself. The gang leader watched me fearfully as the swirling lemon yellow liquid spun around in circles as I rotated the glass bottle. “Have fun,” I said. I dumped the whole bottle carefully into one of his gaping wounds and drew out another bottle, his half muffled yelps beating into the hot damp air. “Please…no…let me go…” he cried out. My eyes suddenly hardened. “Let you go? You just attempted to kill me four days ago. I begged you then; you refused me. What makes you think I should let you go?” I showed him the twin cross-cuts that the diamond shaped dagger had made in my hand. I slowly poured another vial of liquid over his eyes. “This. You did this. And even now the scars bleed. I can kill my own family without blinking an eye. I can kill anyone and anything without so much as a twist in the heart. Go die,” I said venomously, and smiled darkly. I tied the string around his neck and pulled relentlessly. “The end has come, and no one can avoid it.” And my eyes darkened and wiped the blood on my face onto my blood-stained sleeve. Then I walked off searching for a new body to kill.

Because, what is death to a dead man?