Killer Instinct: Carrie Unleashed

Chapter 1: A New Start

Carrie White’s deep, raw groan was the only sound permitted in the desolate, oppressive space. Her heartbeat hammered in her fragile ears, drowning everything else. The darkness wavered, blurring the room into formless shapes. Her mind branded one violent memory: the utter chaos of stones pelting down in a relentless rain, followed by the sickening sounds of shattering glass and the tearing, splintering shriek of wood as the entire house collapsed inward. A crushing weight of heavy debris pinned the struggling girl. Her breath snagged, lodging in her throat in a short, desperate hitch. A strange, damp heat spread, slick and cloying, a sensation that masked the fiery pain already blooming in her hands. An intense moral revulsion, colder and more profound than the fallen stone that trapped her, seized her muscles.

She sucked in a desperate, painful breath, though the air caught in her throat. Her trembling fingers brushed rough cloth, then encountered the chilling, rigid stillness of a loved body. The terrible truth settled over her. It was a sensation both cold and crushing, a weight that left her chest hollowed and her lungs aching. Her fingers traced the familiar crown of copper-blonde hair, matted with fine dust. The hair framed a face. Lips were stained blue, eyes locked in permanent stillness. The thin white nightgown clung to the slender body, caked thick with grime from the floor.

A raw, animal shriek—high and desperate—ripped from Carrie. She used a surge of frantic adrenaline to shove the unbearable debris off her chest and scrambled free. “M-Mama…” The single syllable was a dry, broken whisper, lost above the ringing silence. Nothing. She crawled, the sharp debris tearing her palms. Reaching the body, her quivering fingers gripped the shoulders. She shook her mother, demanding a response.

“Mama, please,” she begged, her voice rising to a frantic, piercing plea, “say something! Open your eyes!”

A wrenching, hollow sob escaped her, becoming a sound of despair. She pressed her burning face into the sticky, dust-matted crown of her mother’s scalp. Tears blinded her as one painful thought hammered against her skull: Why won’t Mama wake up?

The strange, sickly warmth coating her fingers distracted her. Her focus pulled from the grief, she raised her hand, fixing on the wet, crimson smear marring her palm. The sharp, metallic scent of blood choked the hot, stagnant air, clinging to her throat.

A memory flashed—the knife. It glinted in the thin light. The horrific echo of a desperate struggle returned with the image. Margaret’s last ragged breath stilled, a last whisper.

A deep, chilling shiver ran through her body. Her hand slapped over her mouth, muffling a choking cry. No, no, this isn’t real. Mama is fine. She has to be. Nausea clawed at her throat. Carrie fought for air, her lungs burning. She rested her forehead against her mother’s cool scalp, clamping her eyes shut against the horrific scene.

Then, the venomous whisper: “She deserved it.”

The malicious thought hissed inside Carrie’s mind, cold and sharp. Her body became rigid, and her head whipped around, scanning the perimeter. The broken shadows of the rubble offered nothing.

“Hello?” she whispered, her voice tight with dread.

Her chest crushed inward, squeezing the air from her lungs. She fought to take a shallow breath. It must be a nightmare. I have to wake up now. Mama will be alright.

“Deny it all you want, but this is reality.”

The shattered walls caged her. She stared at the debris, her shallow breath halted. The sight yanked her back to the cold, oppressive dark of the Prayer Closet. The place’s despair seized her. A stonelike rigidity came over her.