It was one of those times in his moments where there was only one recourse of action and as much as it really hurts and really is very insane to do that â John was the insane man to do it. The voices in his head had foretold what was about to happen, and flashes of war, cries of battle and gunshots and cannon fire could be heard as he sat there in his van. The anxiety biting into his mind and he could not cope for it any longer. Just outside, the sound of music coming out from one of the rather lavish houses in the residency and the cries and shouts of joy of the kids in there was just egging him on. Come on, John, the voices whispered. Itâll be just like old times, itâs just you defending yourself, the sounds and the chaos will soon come to us, you gotta do what you gotta do, as he could not take it any longer. He exited the van and went to the back doors, pulling on a mask over his head to conceal his identity, before pulling out a blunt object â a clichĂ© item, but it makes a whole lot of difference, as he wielded a barbed wire baseball bat and headed to the house.
Sluts, the voices chorused. Whores, degenerates. All must go, as he knocked on the door and the unsuspecting people in the house lets him in â and what a chorus it was as the cries of joy turned to anguish and fear, as one by one fell to the bat with a sickening thud and a squelching of flesh and bone meeting steel and wood. One by one he raised his arms and swung the hammer, and every time he did, they fell down in a heap on the ground. He was not done, as he went upstairs and cleared out the rest as well. He trailed onto a woman clad in a scantily clad outfit with cats ears and a tail, as she scrabbled into a room and as he walked in, he watched her take a lamp to defend herself, as she taunted him. In response, he pulled off the mask he had on, as he came face to face with the woman who had ruined everything. âRemember me?â He spoke, voice chill and unnaturally calm. âYou took my woman away from me. I take your life next, you little bitch.â He said, as a quick kick to the gut took her out as he pushed her onto the bed. âBut you know what. Letâs make your passing a lot more aggravating for you.â He said, as he pinned the young woman on to the bed.
Remember seemed too casual a word, Max was engulfed by the memory of the worst night of her life. Sure, it had been an accident, and any authority figure would have told her the same. But that didnât change the fact that it had happened, that she had been hungover and reckless and probably shouldnât have smoked that joint right before getting out onto the road late at night. It didnât change the fact that she hadnât actually waited around for anyone to come and fix her mess, but had driven off in a blaze of terror, struck to the very marrow by just how broken a body could look after being hit by a car going full speed down an empty dirt road. The sudden recognition had frozen her stubborn bravery in itâs tracks, leaving nothing but emptiness. It felt like all of her organs had fallen out of her body, leaving nothing but a cold wind in their place. â I didnât -- â She stammered, falling back as her one weapon cascaded from her clammy fingers, the lie impossible to tell as the wound that had lay festering under her skin was prised open and all the guilt she had built up over the year leaked into her bloodstream. â I-It was an accident! It wasnât my fault! What the hell was she d-doing in the middle of the road like that! â But if she truly believed that, why didnât she raise so much as a fist in retaliation as he beat her down and pushed her onto the bed? Why did it feel almost as if the world was righting a wrong, finally bringing balance, blood for blood? Tears were streaming freely down her face and she canât remember when she started crying, and his hot breath against her face feels so repulsive that she doesnât care if she deserves this, because she canât die like this. Her hand reaches up and his flesh is hot and soft under her sharp, bitten fingernails, and she claws at his face with all her might, spitting in his stoic features as she howls for help.
If her hands hadnât been clasped over her lips, the two tussling over her head would have surely heard her broken cry ring out over the carnage that reigned. Her therapist had called it PTSD, but Emmeline privately believed that it was the spirit of the woman that haunted her waking life. After it had happened the girl had found it hard to go on, and Maxâs repeated claims that it had been an accident had never made the killing easier to internalise. Her body showed up in her dreams almost every night, the way her blood had seemed almost black in the moonlight, her body splayed at the most unnatural angle. The days were worse, even the sound of a car starting made her want to scream, and it was impossible to know what would trigger the visions of the dead woman, or the horrific confusion of not knowing what was real or where she was. There wasnât a moment that went by that she didnât feel her presence looming behind her, and she was constantly on the cusp of falling right back into the nightmare that never seemed to end, right back to that dirt road, right back to her dying screech, to the horror that she had started and that the killer on the bed seemed intent to end tonight. Could she find it in her heart to blame him?Â