Murders by IT

His baby blue eyes flashed with horror before the knife plunged into his chest. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he was gone. Pools of blood swam around his body.

 I felt shocked. My breathing quickened. Tears trickled down my face. My face, hands, my entire body drained of colour. I was frantic. The entire world was spinning around me. I had just seen a murder, and I just had to get away.

So I ran. I ran to my car, got inside, turned it on, and just drove home. IT made me run.

As I parked my car in the driveway, my hands were shaking, and I felt sick.

I went and had a long shower, scrubbing every memory of that man from my body and letting it wash down into the drain.

And I then got into clean clothes, the soft, clean, linen smell that I felt was soothing but in a way deliciously suffocating.

Then I made myself dinner and watched my usual 7:00pm show, which was on every day of the week.

After my usual show ended, I entered my room and slipped into my bed, turning out the lights.

My thoughts troubled me for a while, but I fell into a restless sleep, riddled with guilt.

I had horrific dreams, or flashes of scenes, like from a cinematic camera. Flashes of someone yielding a knife, and his eyes before the knife plunging into his chest. Then, a lifeless body being dragged. Blood was everywhere, and then I saw red liquid being washed away. I heard whispers, dark, urging me to kill. I awoke in that instance, panting, the world spinning again.

The next morning, I couldn’t keep sane. It was quiet, much too quiet. I was shaking, and the world around kept spinning. I just want IT to stop. Just STOP.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. I went to go open it, finding one of my few friends and neighbour there. I told her to come in. We went into the kitchen, but it was silent for a few minutes.

“So How’ll ya’ll been?” My friend asked in her thick Kentucky accent.

“I’m fine,” I said shortly, looking down.

“Aww, Come on! Tell me what’s got that frown upside down!” She replied in her annoying, peppy voice.

“I said I’m fine,” I muttered, fists clenched.

“Please? You can tell me any -

“Please? Will you please SHUT UP!” yelled at her. She was whimpering now. Pathetic.

I turned around, trying to breathe. But I couldn’t. The whispers, they wouldn’t stop; IT wouldn’t stop.

I had to make it stop. I wrapped my fingers around the knife before I even knew what I was doing, and suddenly she was gone too. And it felt good this time.

We spread the walls and floors with quite a bit of her blood. I trailed my finger along the blood on the wall. It was a dark red cherry colour and it smelt intoxicating. That smell drove me crazy. I wanted more. I dipped my finger in the blood again and again and again; I smelt it, and some I even licked some off.

And that’s when everything came together: I had killed the man. The man with the baby blue eyes. I had killed him. And I killed the girl with the Kentucky accent too. I lent down next to my friend. Her lifeless body was sprawled across the floor. She had a terrified look on her face, as if she had been frozen in time. I trailed a finger along her face; she was cold, freezing cold, in fact. And I left a kiss on her cheek. My red lipstick stained the spot on her pale skin. I got back on my feet and left her there, her blood covering the walls and floors, helpless. And I laughed at that thought.

So when police came to my door on a Saturday night, as I was enjoying my usual show, as they handcuffed me and read my rights and then driving me to the police station. I laughed once more. I told them all about how I killed the Kentucky girl and blue eye man. I told them how the man had begged on his knees for mercy, how he had a family at home to support. I described how the Kentucky girl had put up little fight, but whimpered like a pathetic dog would when they’d been kicked. I said that her blood and body were in the kitchen; I hadn’t bothered to clean the mess because I loved how the smell of my victim’s blood made me feel.

I was taken to a cell then, escorted by a guard. This cell provided nothing other than a toilet, a metal bed, some food, and a newspaper.

“You’re on the front cover,” said the guard to me gruffly, before pushing me inside the cell and locking it, standing right outside the door.

I sat down, looking at the newspaper, and there I was, a picture of me on the front cover.

A 25-year-old female whose identity is unknown has been charged for brutally stabbing a man, Matthew Douglas and her neighbour, Jessie Phillips, with a two-day gap. The police described the woman as a psychopath who thought killing people was "pleasurable" and it is said she is a mentally damaged woman, She will be sentenced to life in prison."

Once finished reading, the guard who was standing outside the cell, asked: “Did you do it?”

“No” I replied vaguely. “IT did it”

The guard was silent after that.

6 months later

I need IT to go away. It was too quiet, and it was killing me. All there was surrounding me was concrete and silence. The walls had small lines all over them, created by my fingernails, counting down the days until I die in this dark hole. I had tried countless times to get away, stabbing myself with a plastic fork., picking fights with the biggest men in here. At one point, I’d almost considering gouging my eye out. But now, right now, it was the only way. I had to get IT to go away, to leave me alone. I had created a rope from the little bedding I had, attaching it to the ceiling. And as I slid my head through the rope, you can imagine what happened next. I was gone, just like the blue eye man and Kentucky girl had been all those months ago. My body, lifeless, dangled from the ceiling, eyes closed as if I was sleeping, and my tears streaked down my face. The last thing I smelt was the blood from my victim’s body, stilled engraved into my fingernails.

IT was gone. And so was I.