She stood on the stage, sweating under the sweltering lights. A red microphone was thrust into her hand, echoing her slanted breaths and nervous coughs. The anticipating audience gazed up at her with charcoal eyes and wide-lipped grins. Misshaped heretics waiting to hear why she was here, in hell.
It was time to give her confession.
Amongst her muffled weeping, she told the story she did not tell anyone. In all her years she had kept this locked up inside her, the story she thought of when she first woke up and when she first went to sleep. The story which made her who she was, and was bound up irrevocably into her very essence of self. And she hated it.
They sat with bated breath while she told the story of her first murder. How the love-struck boy took her into his heart, and she festered there, silently but surely, eating away at his very core. Then she left. And he could not take it.
She told of the hand around her throat, the tears trailing down his cheeks, the inane grin plastered over his sculpted face, as he ripped out his heart from his hollow chest and showed it to the trembling girl.
And in place of a heart, was her.
But she was afraid, and so she ran. Running to the oppressive silence her room, she hid under her covers like a child, crying into her pillow and begging for some sort of release from these relentless emotions.
The next morning she gazed at the calendar. The ninth.
The ninth, she told herself assuredly, would be a better day.
The ninth, he had said to himself that very night, I do not care for the ninth.
And so the towering bridge seemed a welcome release.
Back on stage, she finished her story. It was over, she had said it. Said the one thing which must never, could never be said.
For the people would realize that she was not a good person, she was not even a person. She was a filthy, rotten thing that must be flung to the ground with distaste, crushed into the dirt and stomped underfoot for what she did. It was not fair that she was simply allowed to continue with life as if nothing had changed. She remained unscathed, and that was not real justice.
Silence. Indeterminable silence. She swallowed, and her fear echoed through the auditorium.
Then the laughter began.
Hundreds of wide-lipped smiles warped into sadistic grins, grins raising the skeleton roof and turning into hysteric cackling. Tears ran down their shapeless faces, as they laughed and laughed. They set the hall ablaze.
‘D-did you hear that?’ a shrill voice cried, ‘she killed him!’
Their squeals rang in her ears.
‘To feast on a person so completely, to drain every essence of his being… to render him so totally obsessed then just leave’, they cried between jagged breaths. ‘It is perfectly poetic!’
‘I bet his blood still stains the very ground she treads on!’ another voice screamed, spittle dripping down their fangs.
She looked down at her crimson stained hands, and it all came flooding back.
Read the rest of my musically inspired series, A Tendency for Bitterness, here! There’s more Twenty One Pilots on the way!
Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt