Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-27905100-20160330215906/@comment-27905100-20160330231829

Please don't read that. I have the slightly edited story below. It makes more sense this way

 It’s a miserable night. Raining, dark and cloudy. So cloudy, In fact that the only light illuminating the streets are the streetlights. You’re just about to go to bed when you hear a thunk. You start at the noise, but then realize that it’s just a flyer coming through the mail slot. Strange that someone would go through the trouble of walking up and down all the houses in your neighborhood just to put flyers in your mail, as the houses in your street are very well spaced apart. So well, in fact, that on a night raining hard like tonight, you can’t even see your neighbor’s houses, nevermind a flyer-carrier.

 Inquisitively, You look at the flyer to see that it’s been tucked away nicely in an envelope. Examining the envelope further reveals no address, stamp, or return address. Your interest piqued, you rummage through the kitchen until you find a letter opener. Once you find one, you tear open the letter and several pages, neatly folded together fall on the floor. Kicking yourself for your clumsiness, you take a look at the sheets of paper on the ground to fund the bunch stuff held together by a string. Breathing a sigh of relief, you take your letter opener and cut the string.



 And then you start to read.



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 Regarding Georgie 



 Hello. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it. My you’ve grown. Just look at you. Getting older, more grown up, more mature. Feeling older, too, I’m sure. How old are you now? Forty or so? Don’t worry. You’re not that old, and in the near future you won’t be getting too much older.



 Now, George, how long has it been since we have seen each other? Maybe thirty-nine years? Ah, right, you wouldn’t remember. Of course. You were just an infant. A small babe in a nice family. And if I remember correctly, you spent the rest of your life in an orphanage, until you were 16 and could move out. Oh, your friends, they got adopted. But never you. People didn’t want to adopt you. You were tied to something. And even though it fell out of people’s minds, whenever they saw your name they’d remember. George Harrison. The son of the big shot. But you lived in an orphanage, right? That can’t be true. George Harrison, the no-name orphan is who you are, what you are, right? Well, George, I have something to tell you.



 You see, at the orphanage they never told you what happened to your family. They said that they left you on the doorstep. They said the father abused you as a baby (which does explain the scars on your stomach). They told you that you were in a car crash, and your parents died. They tried telling you everything, except for some. Included in those few stories that they withheld was the truth.



<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"> I’ve never been to an orphanage, but I think that I have a general idea about how it was there. Crowded children in tight spaces with few toys to play with, Creaky floors, and boring wood walls all painted white. And a rat’s nest that they never bothered to clean out. When it was time to sleep you were in a cot next to 20 other cots. I bet you slept next to the bully in there who would, in the middle of the night, would wake you up just to slap you. But it wasn’t all bad. You slept near your friends every night. You had your teddy and a few toys until said bully took them and flushed them. I imagine that you would have gladly traded your childhood with another little boy. You would have loved to have had an actual family, instead of sitting in the orphanage and waiting to be adopted. But you never were. You just kept on asking where your parents were. Don’t worry. I’ll answer that soon

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none">

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"> I’m sorry. I haven’t introduced myself yet. How rude of me. Here I am talking about your life when I haven’t event hinted at mine. Now let’s see, where to begin. Oh. I know. Perfect. I, like you were led to believe of yourself, am a victim of abuse. My father would frequently hit me for doing things wrong, and not just a spank-type slap. It was as hard as he possibly could. The full force of that usually would knock me down, and if it didn’t, he’d just hit me again. Not only that, but sometimes, if I was bad, such as talking back, or crying, he would wrap his hands around my neck and start strangling me until I couldn’t breathe. I’d stop crying then. Not because my life hung in the balance, but because with the air cut off from my lungs, I didn’t have a choice. When I told my mother, though, she didn’t decide to put a stop to it. She decided to join in on the fun. And then it got worse. I had to do horrible, awful things, and they did horrible, awful things to me, too. I ran away when I was 13. I don’t know how you feel about my situation, but I know I would have loved to switch places with you.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none">

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"> As for names, I know yours, George Harrison. I’m not sure you know mine, though. I am… let’s see… how shall I put this? I am the woman who has remained unfound for thirty-nine years. Oh, yes, they all gave it their best shots, but nobody caught me. Since it would be suicide to reveal my name to you, as you will surely give this to police as evidence, I will refer to myself as what the papers throughout town referred to me as. I’m the Baby Alive killer. I know that this sounds stupid, but there’s a dark reason for this. See, I left you alive. I didn’t take your life then, but only through an accident on my part and incredibly low odds being surpassed on yours.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none">

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"> I’m getting ahead of myself, but I suppose that I should tell you what really happened. You see, one night when your family was at home, I was out taking a drive. I wasn’t going anywhere, really, just going, and seeing where the roads took me. And then I had an idea. I had a knife on me, as I planned to kill myself that day, but I thought about the idea. More and more I thought, and more and more I considered it. I thought about me getting the world back for what it did to me. Getting it back for everything that happened when I was a child. I thought that I couldn’t have killed myself until I had gotten revenge for my parent’s acts. See, It’s not my fault it happened, it’s theirs.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none">

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"> I stabbed them. I snuck into your parent’s   house and fucking stabbed them. It was a great feeling, to steal away the life of another. It was beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I (not joking) became sexually aroused! My heart was beating 250 rpm, and damn, it was loud. I couldn’t hear for shit when I did the act, but now I remember vaguely hearing their screams, and their cries, begging me for mercy. But my parents never gave me mercy when I screamed and cried. They only hurt me worse, so why should I be any different?

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none">

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"> When I saw in the daily press (I was checking the publicity the murder had so far) I was astonished to hear that you were still alive, albeit in an unstable condition, I screamed with rage. I couldn’t believe I had let one of my victims survive! I had failed to kill a baby, an infant, so small it couldn’t understand what had happened. I was sure I was done for, but then I realized you couldn’t speak, you couldn’t remember me. I followed your story in the paper every day since then, wishing I had finished the job.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none">

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"> I suppose you’re worried for your life now. You shouldn’t be. Trust me. I know that you’re thinking “why should I trust a crazy psycho like her?”, but believe me. Please. I only need my memories, and I have my memories. Those are enough to sustain me through this throughout the rest of my life. I will go on with my memories and you will go on with your life. One problem, though. My memories are getting a bit hazy, and I think that one more round will just be enough to restore them to crystal clear.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none">

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"> Hope you’ve locked your door.

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<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"> -The Baby Alive Killer

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<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none">

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none">

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none">

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"> Horrified by reading this letter, you check behind your back to make sure nothing’s there. Luckily, nothing is. Still tense, you glance out the window to find… nothing. Well, there is nothing there, now, but it looks like something was there a minute ago. You hear the sound of somebody fumbling with your house’s doorknob.

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<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"> You scream.