𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 ➺ 𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗺𝗶𝘀 / 𝘀𝘁𝘂 𝗺𝗮𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗿

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚

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Quinn Fletcher

She was a genius.

Plain and simple.

She excelled in everything she put her mind to, whether it be, academics, music, art, sport— she wasted no time adopting each one into a masterful art. She was a role model to her peers, a shining image of what to strive for.
And she despised it.

She hated how easy everything was for her, she wanted a challenge. No matter what new hobby she took up— they always succeeded in boring her to sleep. She ached for something— anything! To excite her, stimulate her mind, to keep her wondering, force her to dig for answers.

Quinn Fletcher was a girl without passion; a sentence worse than death for a human yearning excitement.

That was until one day she stumbled upon her mother watching something on the television. The sun had long since retired and the moon's intrusive glow served to illuminate her mother's horrified expression. The girl watched from afar the program her mother had been torturing herself with. A monotone voice leaked from the grainy speakers, uttering a name before showing an image of a black figure draped in a long trenchcoat, adorning a top hat.

This was the point when something shifted.

Engrossed, obsessed, fixated, all meaningless descriptors thrown at her by her parents, for her relationship with her new found hobby. Which was surrounding herself with despair and horror. Anyone none the wiser would think her living quarters were a cell in a madhouse. Her walls were overshadowed by images and documents and reports— All detailing some of the world's most grotesque and vile crimes ever committed. And in this room is where she would spend years of her life.

As she became older she only grew more fascinated with the depths of human depravity. Concern from her parents only grew once they began to take note of glaring changes taking place in their daughter. Her hair was overgrown, untamed, borderline unruly. Her complexion dulled and her eyes sunk. She would be seen mulling around in the same clothes she wore days previously.

Although neglectful, her parents were not fools— They took note of the telltale signs of depression and made the decision to hire a therapist without informing Quinn. Her mother in particular dreaded her daughter's reaction to their attempt to help her. She could already feel that oh so familiar lifeless stare of contempt burning through her skull.

However, unbeknownst to Quinn's dear parents— Their efforts to aid their daughter would all be spent in vain. For she had already stepped into the inky black of human depravity, letting it chew her up and spit her out into something unrecognizable. Forever staining her hands with that vile crimson ink and dooming her soul to damnation— for she had already committed the most unforgivable sin.

Murder

*

"Darling, could you come out for a moment?" Her mother spoke softly knocking on Quinn's door. She heard shuffling and the sound of a door closing on the other side before the door slowly opened. "Yes, mother." Quinn answered through the 2 inch gap in the door, only allowing her mother a sliver of an interaction.

"Could you come down stairs I would like you to meet somebody please come down stairs." She spoke sweetly, but it only irritated Quinn. She always hated her mother's sickly sweet tone of voice. It always felt as through she was speaking down on her as if she was an infant.

Quinn sighed before stepping out of the room and closing the door, following her mother downstairs. As the living room came into view Quinn noticed a strange man sitting on the sofa smiling and laughing with her father. He was lanky, and wore a tailored navy blue suit that harmonized nicely with his caramel skin.
He looked expensive. Which didn't shock her— Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher had plenty of money to spare to afford their daughter a decorated psychiatrist.

The man's eyes, shielded by thick framed glasses, shifted to Quinn causing Mr. Fletcher to turn to his wife and daughter. "Ah, look who decided to come out of hiding!" Her father laughed boisterously— she wanted to bite his ear off. The stranger stood and made his way towards her, taking his hat off revealing dark brown curls. He offers a hand to her. "Pleasure to meet ya." She stared at the man's face for a moment before locking her hand with his.

"Pleasure."

*

"Can you tell me about your special interest, dear?" His curious amber eyes peered at the girl on the sofa as she fidgeted with her fingers. "It's just a hobby." She feigned shyness to the point of nausea. She just wanted this session to be over with.. This torture had began over a week ago, but every session feels like a little eternity. Even so, all that's been discussed is her father's absence and the irritating habits of her overbearing mother. As well as her chronic boredom.

It's all been leading up to this.

The man, who she's come to know as Mr. Dexten, laughs. "I hear it's much more than that." She remains silent as he looks at her expectedly— he sighs. "Would you mind showing me if you don't feel comfortable talking about it?" Quinn's head shot up at this. "I admit I'm guilty of being curious." He chuckles scratching his stubble.

Quinn suddenly stood from the sofa and dashed over to the staircase only to peek at Dexten over the wooden railing. The man laughs before getting up and trailing behind. Quinn smiles and ascends the staircase in strides, stopping at the top to wait for her therapist. "Are you excited to show me?" She nods. Although, rather.. unorthodox, he's pleased Quinn is enthusiastic about something.

She waits for him with a smile at the door that he can't help but return— masking the dread layered under his intense curiosity. Quinn lays her hand on the nob and turns, opening the door with a creak before slipping inside. It was so dark Dexten couldn't even make out anything in the chamber of a room, nor where Quinn had gone.

Suddenly, the lights turn on making the man wince silently. He took a step into the room and physically felt a shift in the air— it unnerved him. He shook the feeling away and blamed it on the AC. Only when his eyes had adjusted did Mr. Dexten understand what concerned the girl's parents so deeply. The walls weren't visible, every ounce of paint covered by another image of a mangled body. When there weren't images there were papers, and papers and papers. Consisting of different reports, documents, files and the like— Each meticulously detailing each and every gruesome detail down to the blood type.

"Quinn, this is.." Beautiful, the girl in front of him had a beautifully haunted mind and it was written all over the walls. "My hobby." She spoke staring at the one wall that had a center piece. There was a picture of a figure in a trench coat and top hat in the middle of the wall, surrounded by faces, red yarn and question marks. The man's eyes widen at his realization. A soft gasp escaping him causing Quinn to examine him in her peripheral.

"You're trying to find Jack The Ripper?" He asked, she smiled for a moment before frowning once more. "My parents aren't very appreciative of my efforts." The man couldn't help but frown. He sympathize with the girl on account of also having inattentive parents. However, she was clearly mentally unstable— and to that..

He smiled.

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