Creative Writing Assignments

The Shadow

TW - Mention of Rape, Murder, and Torture

Eerie silence. Darkness. Cold air. Smokey, blood smell. Hard concrete floors. Basements typically aren't cozy, but that of an abandoned hospital is bound to be hauntingly creepy. It is said that spirits of fallen patients still reside in the halls. The bombing which destroyed the hospital and killed thousands of people took place 25 years ago. Some people say they can still hear the screams of the innocents who perished during the bombing. It is more likely to be the screams of the people who have been kept there since.

Bodies litter the hard floor of the basement. Some fresh. Some stale. The bodies are set in a deliberate formation. There are hundreds. All with blond hair, all women. Ages 12-17. The room smells of death. The air that gets inhaled stings of hostility. The scene is one of pure nightmares. One no one would ever imagine on their own.

I didn't do it. He made me do it. He forced me into this pattern of violence. He is the one who really stalled the young girls who lay dead upon this floor. He is the one who stripped them of their clothing and forced himself upon them. He is the one who tied that to walls and sliced their flesh. He is the one who reveled in their agonizing screams. He is the one who finished them off in torturous ways. He is the monster, not me.
He comes in my sleep. He plagues my dreams. He plagues my mind. He plagues my soul. He plagues my heart. He controls my heart. He controls my mind. My mind and body isn't mine. It's his.
He appears as a plume of smoke. He is a faceless being. He has no physicality. He speaks to me telepathically. No one else hears what he speaks of. No one else hears of his terrible plans. No one else feels his presence. No one else knows he exists.
He uses me. He uses my body to commit his atrocities. My mind is his. My body is not my own. My soul is drained. My heart is torn.

He tortures my mind. He haunts me with memories. Bad memories. Memories of being beaten by my drunken father after school. Memories of being made out to be useless by my mother on a daily basis. Memories of my older siblings taking out their endless frustration on my body. Memories of hopelessness. Memories of dread. Memories of heartbreak. And memories of violence.

He killed another one today. Her screams pierced my ears. They caused me a migraine. They were high pitched and full of terror. She was only 13 after all. Still a child. A child with a bright future. A child with a most loving family. A child with a childhood the exact opposite of mine.
He placed her in her pre-determined spot. The formation was almost complete. I hadn't any idea what it was. He chooses where the bodies lie, not I. He chooses how they die, not I. He chooses how long they live. Not I.

Today marks 200 kills. Not one discovered. Not one saved. The formation is complete. His work is done. His goal is achieved.

200 blond haired feminine bodies lie on the floor. Their blood stains it. The room of death, as they say, remained there for decades.
Years later, police arrived. Inside, they found 200 blond haired feminine bodies arranged in a specific order. And a single male body of a man. His lips painted with dried blood. The message was received.

        "Schizophrenia" 

How deadly it can be.