To Hell and Back for You

Chapter 1: A Crazy Hope

"Daytonsville, Ohio. 1991. The end of an eight-year horror in the small, US town. The exact number of casualties remains unknown with as many as a hundred strange, unsolved, or related deaths reported in the case, all suffering their fate at the hands of one Lloyd McGraff. But how could this possibly be when McGraff was officially pronounced dead in '83? Tune in next week for another bone-chilling episode of Mysterious Murderers."

As the images on the screen changed to an anti-drug PSA, I grabbed the remote and clicked the set off. Letting out a groan, I sunk back into my raggedy couch and lackadaisically threw the control onto the floor whilst simultaneously pulling my phone out of my jeans to glance at the time. 10:50 pm.

I had missed my DAA meeting again, but I had watched every episode of Mysterious Murderers religiously for the entire two seasons it had aired. I wasn't about to choose listening to a bunch of recovering druggies drone on instead of seeing the latest segment. It had been a good one too. In the early 2000s, there had been a string of people found decapitated along Chile's coast; one for every year until 2009 when they suddenly stopped, leaving no evidence of why the seemingly random citizens had been slain or who had done it.

To be honest, they'd all been exceedingly entertaining, but something about this teaser for the McGraff story really sparked my interest. Maybe it was just the fact that I lived in Ohio or maybe I was putting off the inevitable by desperately searching for any small reason to stick around. My gaze dropped, staring not at the phone in my hand, but at the arm it was attached to. Red droplets littered the skin in even patterns along the small lines I had absentmindedly carved there only perhaps twenty minutes prior.

I had worked a couple hours longer than my scheduled shift that day and when I had made it home, plopped onto the couch and fell asleep, still in uniform. I woke up right before the show started and during it, my hands found the box-cutter that was always clipped to my jeans for easy access at the store since part of my job required me to check package contents regularly. 

I had begun fiddling with it, one thing led to another, and well, now my arm looked like I had stuck it into a box with an angry cat inside. The wounds were shallow, far from fatal or even leaving scars. It was barely enough that I could see them, could feel the sensation of damage. I had managed to kick the drugs, but then the self-harm had gotten worse.

Sighing, I stood up and went to the bathroom to wash myself. They weren't even bleeding anymore, but I knew from experience that they still needed to be sanitized in order to stave off any infection. Over the years, I had numerous infections and I preferred not to take the chance of needing to go to the doctor for antibiotics and subsequently being admitted for psychiatric care. 

I mean sure, I could lie about where the cuts came from, but that would only hold up so many times, especially when I had a medical history of abuse and self-harm. So off to scrub the germs away I went, just in case I ended up getting sick. 1991. My mind returned to the details the host had shared during the end credits. 

Hm, it was 2020 now so this McGraff stuff happened like thirty years ago. The odd thought that my family might know something about it struck me, instantly causing me to laugh out loud before the idea was even finished. Like it mattered if they did! My only living relatives were a half-brother that likely didn't exist and my deranged father. Thirty years though, albeit older than me, wasn't that long past. Surely there are still people around who were there during those events.

While I mused, I let one hand rub my damaged arm under the water running softly from the bathroom faucet. I couldn't feel the scratches, only the dried blood peeling away and the cold stream washing it down the drain. Turning off the water, I grabbed the thin blue towel hanging above the counter next to the light switch and rapidly pat-dried both arms and hands. I then tossed the cloth onto the marble, ignoring that the lazy attempt had it falling into the puddle slowly leaving the sink.