How would you react if you lost your scratch pad that was returned by a stranger with this entry?
Just last week, lying next to me was a dead woman whose throat I’d just slashed. I was callously lingering in a pool of her blood. Whores are undeserving; they’re as worthless as my mother was. She too was a whore who’d bequeathed me with twelve bad-ass siblings with different baby daddies. I had to vie for every morsel of affection and attention. She eventually abandoned all of us, and I fell into the throes of remorse and depression, all alone in that gloomy castle-like orphanage. All the siblings were separated. And it wasn’t until recently that I’d come in contact with one of them. He’d found me through the Internet, and I’d just arrived in London a week ago to reunite with him. Consequently, it is a stretch for me to share anything particularly my heart. I laid there beside this young creature of about twenty-five years my junior, examining the gash in her throat Id so skillfully crafted like a surgeon. Id slashed it slowly and deeply as she yelped for mercy and drew her last breath. The sex was lewd and brutal; Id taken my sweet time. Earlier, I had punched her in her face, disfiguring her gravely. She howled in agony and terror. When she attempted to escape, I snatched her by her amber-streaked tresses as she squirmed and resisted me. An ample tract of weave dislodged from her scalp. Incensed, I tossed her roughly on the bed and proceeded to brutalize her as she begged for mercy that merely fell on my deaf, deranged ears. She was mine, all mine, as I diminished her to an empty shell of herself. I was determined to avenge my mother through my victims tortured soul (Unknown).
Scratch Pad, a mini-thriller short story, is a roller coaster of twists, turns, and surprises.
