causing a scene (1)

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Sometimes I could still feel their blood on my hands , like an infection with no cure

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Sometimes I could still feel their blood on my hands , like an infection with no cure. A scent of a strong perfume that lingered in the air for too long and was now thick enough to cause pounding headaches.

No matter how many times I washed my hands that day , their blood would still forever stain my hands.

Occasionally, I would see them in my nightmares. They wouldn't be alive. It's not like they were haunting me. Just their lifeless souls staring right back at me as I look at the chaos I had created.

James Bryant , Patrick - his last name still unknown to me- and Brentley Ace were innocent men, atleast in the arks eyes.

I was seen as the psycho , the freak and maniac who murdered 3 men on her 9th birthday .

It should've been the other way around , they were the guilty ones not me.

Some would say what I did was brutal and at first I convinced myself to believe it was only self defence. Yet as I sat in my cell , the 4 bright walls surrounding me, my face in the glass reflection staring back at me , my remaining positivity had slipped from my slender fingers.

I was a murderer.

But one fact that I would never let slip from my memories was that what those men did was not to be forgotten , and their names shall forever me engraved in my brain -not for the right reasons . They deserved it. Did they?

My thoughts were ripped from me when 2 guards entered my cell , their guns trained to their sides.

I inspected them carefully.

One guard was holding something in his hand. It seemed to assemble the shape of a wristband, spikes sticking out from the inside of it.

I wasn't of age yet. Or had I got so lost within my thoughts for the last 5 years that I had indeed got caught up in time and miscalculated when my death day was due.

"Prisoner 189 face the wall." the guard on the left said sternly , not a muscle in his body twitching apart from the ones around his mouth.

"What are you doing i'm not 18 yet?" I questioned , my curiosity getting the better of me.

Those 8 words were the most I had spoken in around 11 months.

"Quiet, hold out your arm." the other guard ordered.

I did as I was told , holding my tongue as to not make the situation worse.

The torture-looking device was placed around my wrist with a click , piercing my skin , making me almost wince.

I was right , it was a wristband.

The guards led me out of my cell , their hands holding my arms behind my back so I couldn't attempt anything.

Ambiverts /- The 100 -\Where stories live. Discover now