1 a.m.

Saturday Night

Saturday Night

Every night Morella broadcasts a radio show at exactly 1:00 a.m. for ten minutes. She sits curled in a ball in the large over-stuffed swivel chair, speaking to people who may not even exist, or worse: don't understand what she's saying. If there are people, they listen, of course, but do they hear? She doesn't know if they do, and goes into the throws of anxiety knowing that they may not.

So, thinking that there is no real way to get her point out any further, Morella sits in her chair every night and speaks into the headset about anything of interest to her, thoughts that plague her, or literature that expresses her opinions.

Tonight she has her headset on and the broadcast frequency going. Her auburn-gold eyes peer unseeingly over her arms draped over her knees. Pale pink lips move smoothly over the words as she starts a quiet rant about a famine-starved third-world country that was recently bombed. Bombed just that day, in fact. She told the listeners about the footage she'd seen of a man's body wrenched apart by a grenade he'd flung himself over. Morella detailed how his intestines drug in the dust, his eyes glazed over and coated in dirt, how next to the man was the dismembered head of an oriental woman. Her lips had been cut from her face.

Someone out there had to understand how horrible the incident was. Morella had to try to influence someone's understanding of something like that. Events of that caliber, of that grotesqueness, happened every day. There were more people causing it than working against it. This was how Morella tried her best to help, by attempting to persuade others into action.

However, she only felt more alone that ever. For all she knew she could simply be speaking to herself. It could be that not a single other life form out there had ever heard a single word. Not even one. The anonymity pressed that much closer and she curled a little tighter. Not the anonymity of herself, but the anonymity of her thoughts, her opinions. She didn't matter, but what she thought did.

She glanced at the Mumbo Jumbo alarm clock next to the monitor. 1:03 a.m.

"I have another story for you that I like for the fact that it shows how someone abused can completely destroy the person wronging them. The main character is a girl, just a normal one. She used to be normal, at least. She was an orphan, and she went from worse to bad in the care of her adopter. I present "What You Did".

What You Did
"Wha-what a-a-are you g-going t-to do?" the man stammered, struggling through his fear to crawl away from her.
The young girl didn't reply. In the dark of the attic, she was like a slim shadow with orange eyes that glowed down at him. Her tapered, thin fingers curled around the handless display dagger that the man had kept at one time in his den where he would entertain other men before the evening really kicked off. She remembered once how he told them it was once owned by a member of the Medici royal family of Italy. She had known he was lying then but hadn't the courage to disprove him at the time. Now she did. Now she had so much that she could kill him with it. She turned the chromed blade so that a sharp glint of moonlight glared into his eyes, blinding him further.
"Answer me!" he screamed, his voice cracking like the bone in his leg as the heavy metal object slammed onto the strait of his shin. His screams punctured the quiet of the attic air jaggedly. He gripped his leg and screamed more as he stupidly tried to apply pressure to the shattered bone.
The blade came down again, this time sharp edge down; she sliced his fingers off and halfway down into his leg. His agony was deafening... He thrashed and convulse on the floorboards, spraying blood everywhere in his unbridled pain, splashing her with it.
She plunged the long blade through his abdomen with enough force to pin him to the floor with the hilt-guard pressing into his skin.
"You remember me, don't you?" she questioned, tilting her head to the side so that it was all the way turned over like a bird, making her appearance unworldly. Her voice was gravel and broken glass, pitches throwing at awkward intervals as if she hadn't spoken in years. "When I was a little girl you adopted me from an orphanage in the slums of Russia. I can still remember the magical feeling I got when I thought such good things were coming to me. "She paused a moment as she looked at him, waiting for him to quiet down enough so she could speak again. "Things did come to me, even on me, but none were good. None at all... Locked in this very attic for seven years, used to service your nasty friends, starved until I can hardly eat without pain, made a circus of for the sickest purposes."
She straddled his waist, reaching into his pants with one hand while cutting the fabric away with a smaller knife. "Tonight," she said, gazing thoughtfully at the soft member she grasped, "I plan to do the same to you, for myself." and with that, she carved the member off him.
He flailed horribly, gutting himself upon the long dagger in his stomach, screeching his agony to the world.
"Now now, dear, no reason to throw such a hissy," she reprimanded as she began to carve into his bare chest. "I'm very much your master tonight, and you will be a good bitch."
"I'LL MAKE IT UP TO YOU STOPPLEASESTOP!" he pleaded.
"No," she said calmly, uninterested, "I can make it up to myself."
She finished, her carving very messy due to his thrashing about, and stood away from him. A gun, small but with much impact, glinted in her hand from he didn't know where, and many shots were unloaded into his remaining leg. That done, she pulled up a chair and sat watching as the life drained out of him, his writhing no more than twitches, until finally he stopped altogether.
She changed her bloodied nightgown for a nice white dress and left the mansion behind her as she walked away down the long, lonely country road.

"I think that for the rest of the week I'm going to do this, sit and tell stories."
The alarm clock began blaring the Teen Titans theme song right as Morella finished her sentence, and promptly she shut off the broadcast and stopped the clock going off. With deft fingers, she clicked on her radio so that Opheliac by Emilie Autumn began to play. Her body remained curled tight in the chair. The only light was that of the screen. The only one privy to her thoughts was herself.