The Asylum where she lived was old. Almost too old to be standing so proud in the forest. It was in the middle of nowhere.
She had been locked away when she was 8, after killing her parents, the neighbors that went see what happened when they screamed in agony, and slicing a policeman’s throat with her teeth.
When she was 14, she managed to break out of her cell, and Hell broke loose. She killed all of the doctors and workers she hated so much, together with the prisoners.
No one had the spine to go there, not even the police. She had been living there since everything happened.
Helena, by Misfits, played on the rusty, old radio that laid on top of a dirty table, a big quantity of bottles of whisky and other types of beer laying beside it. Some were broken, leaving pieces of glass on the ground, while others simply laid fallen on the table.
You didn’t need to be a genius to know that the girl sitting on the dirty bed was an addict.
Blood streamed down her back and onto her bed while she used her razor to make deep cuts into her skin. One after another, new on top of old, she craved a figure on her pale back. Angel wings. Her parents always called her their angel. Until she killed them.
She loved how blood felt against her skin, how the sticky substance would be in extreme contrast with her pale fingers. She just loved the feeling of killing, the feeling of seeing the life fade from her victim’s eyes. She loved the thrill, the adrenaline. She loved the panic in their eyes, how something always made them run for their lives. Hope, maybe? She didn’t know why they still insisted on running. It was no use. They would all end up dead anyway.
The word Venus had been carved into the wall. Venus was the first star to rise in the morning, it was the morning star, it was Lucifer. It was her.
She let her razor fall, getting up from her position on her bed to get the beer bottle laying on her desk.
Her body was covered in scars. Arms, thighs, torso. She had long legs, long arms and a medium torso, making her scarred body look like a model’s. Her long black hair, the only thing covering her body, cascaded down her shoulders and down to her b**t in beautiful waves.
For any man or woman, it would be hard not to stare. Either it was for her scars, or her curves, but it was almost impossible to keep your eyes from roaming down her body, and she knew how to use it against you.
She took a big sip and closed her eyes to focus on the beer’s taste and the sensations it brought, quickly opening them when she heard footsteps.
Whoever had the guts to walk into this asylum, surely would meet her fury.
The sound of people choking on their own blood filled the night, and when the silence finally managed to restart the peace, she entered her bathroom, opening the shower and letting the water wash away all the blood on her body.