Dead Hearts

Prologue

        "We stopped checking for the monsters under our beds once we realized they live in our heads."

 

       City - Tokyo

       Time - 1:28 A.M.

       Twelve hours since escape

       

        

        I couldn’t resist. I didn’t stop with just one hit. I had to keep going. I just kept hitting and hitting and hitting with the glass bottle until I felt him go limp. The man who tried to fill me up at a bar was now lying in front of me covered with a mountain of blood. His insides where splattered across his lap and on the alley ground. He was a filthy man, he didn’t deserve to even look at me, and now he will never see again. Not in this lifetime, anyway. He reminded me of an old pervert in some crazy thriller movie like Hick. Well, he wasn’t that old, but he smelled like cheap beer and Camel cigarettes. He was repulsive and deserved to be killed by yours truly.

        It’s been seven long years since I’ve felt this empowered by beating the soul out of someone’s body. It felt good. I like this feeling. I know this feeling. I crave this feeling.

        I could feel the power I had over him take control over me. It was intoxicating – the feeling of having power over another human being. To have someone shaking and screaming in fear because of your actions was like a drug. You couldn’t just do it once. The moment you take a life is the moment you are destined to do it again. That’s how it was, and that’s how it was always going to be.

        You could sugar coat it if you want, say that it was only self-defense, tell people that you had no choice or that you were only doing it for the greater good, but in reality, you liked it. You like killing and you like to watch them suffer. You get high off of the adrenaline of pounding a baseball bat or a knife or a shovel over someone’s head. It’s almost better than sex. Of course the men in that disgusting place of an isolation institution helped me… get off, but there was nothing I was lusting for more than a kill. Even as I felt them groping me with their own sexual desires, I only wanted one thing – blood on my hands.  In fact, I wanted it so badly that I even harmed myself just to get the feel of the warm liquid inside of me.

        I bend over and scrape up some of the man’s blood off of his chest. The red substance rolled down the tip of my finger and dripped onto the sidewalk. Back then, I would have given anything for this sensation. Now that I have it, I want more. I think though, I’m going to find a suitable victim and take my time. I can’t very well go on a killing spree. Then I’d get caught and have to go back to that God forsaken “prison”.

        I don’t think so. I’ll be murdered myself before that ever happens again.

        I can’t go back now. Not that I’ve had my taste of slaying someone. That power of slaughtering another human being embraces you and feeds you and devours your very soul, sending it to the very depths of Hell itself. Because Hell is where you belong after you do the unspeakable deed, a place where the tortured souls and sinister people wind up. Hell is your new home. Hell is where you will be for the rest of eternity as you scrape the walls of your own personal self-destruction box where you will be burned until Hell burn’s itself. Killing is a sin and yet we find ourselves doing it over and over and over again as we smother our victims with the same malevolent intent to kill. Its life or death, kill or be killed, survive or be consumed by the darkness.

        The Devil’s on your side now. I hope you’re happy –

         Because I am.

 

*Thanks for reading! I know it's short but it's only the prologue, so. Anyway, hope you like it! Bye! P.S. I'm not that good at horror/thriller type stories, so if it sucks I'm sorry!*

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