Delphian || h.s.

5

There are a lot of things that we can't explain. Confusion and doubt and uncertainty is an emotion that runs through many people's mind. Almost always on a daily basis. Right now, all of those things are running through my mind, along with those emotions there is sadness, anger, disbelief, shock. This wasn't all because of the beautiful painting of the women named Fiona, all of this was after that. When I stood up and another door came into my vision, not a normal door, but one that lead to something underground. A door that hid under the chest.

After I saw the picture, I set my back against the chest that it resided in so that I could comfortably examine what I'd found. Though, the chest moved after I set my weight on it. I fell back on something cold and metallic, which was different than the cement ground that I walked on moments ago. This door had a lock too, one that looked a lot like the lock that was on the chest. I soon found out that the key that opened the chest was the key that could open the lock on this trap door. Who knew, right?

At this moment this is where the confusion resided, along with the uncertainty. After I'd opened the door, there was darkness. I could see a ladder, but after a few rungs it was dark. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if it was a good idea to actual go down the ladder. I thought that if I went back to my house and fell asleep I could explore what was in the trap door tomorrow when the sun was shining and I was less tired, but my curiosity was killing me. I felt that if I didn't go down this door now, I wouldn't ever find the courage to come back in this room' let alone go down the freaky ladder.

I took a deep breath and decided to descend into the trap door, opening up my phone and turning on the flashlight. All I saw was the ladder, moving deeper into the ground. I stepped down and began climbing the wooden rungs, closing the door above me. The thought of a man or a woman or even an animal at the bottom getting ready to attack me crossed my mind and I hesitated. I shook my head, willing away the cowardice and continued to climb.

When I reached the bottom, the room was dark, a chill traveled up my body as I felt the cold of metal touch my arms from walking along the wall. Thinking to myself I couldn't help but wonder what this room inhabited. Could it be just some storage? Or maybe a car? Or maybe a room full of immigrants that took shelter and now live here? I was scared, which was a weird feeling to me. I was never scared, but as I felt my pulse speed up and my skin become slick with sweat, I knew I was terrified. My face felt hot and the cold room did nothing to ease the temperature of my body. I could feel my breath become shallow and I continued to feel my way along the walls, searching for a light switch.

I thought about turning around, about climbing up the ladder and placing the chest back to it's original spot and locking everything. I thought about forgetting about this room and the painting and Harry and maybe just maybe get my dad to like me again; trying to get my life back to normal.

Then, as I was picturing my life as it used to be, as I hoped it would be again, I felt the light switch and flicked it on.

Warm bright light flooded my eyes and I squinted from the sudden intrusion. After my vision became clear again, I realized that if I decided to turn around and try to fix my life, it would have been one hell of a boring life.

I let out a loud laugh as I took in what was surrounding me. The room was all metal, the walls and the floors and the counters were reflective and I could see my face in a million different places. I saw knives and guns and weapons that I hadn't even heard of hanging on the walls, there were saws and drills and needles.

Why hadn't I known this place existed sooner? Was it my father's? I figured it was his, because my mother wasn't the type of person to keep weapons hidden away without a soul knowing about it. She wasn't even the type of person to be violent in any type of way. I was still laughing, joy filling my body at the sight of all the wonderful weapons. I walked to the nearest assault rifle, it looked to be a XM8. The metal was shiny and slick in my hands. I smiled to myself thinking of all the things that I could do with this. Holding the gun the right way, with the back pushed into my shoulder blade and the barrel stretched out in front of me, I imagined pulling the trigger and hearing the loud bang of a bullet flying out.

A chill ran down my spine as I thought of the bullet flying through the head of some poor innocent passerby, falling in a heap of blood and limp limbs. I loved the image more than I could say with words.

I set down the gun, back in it's original placing, as I noticed the mass amounts of filing cabinets and desks lining the other side of the room. Curiosity getting the best of me, I opened the cabinets, noticing each of the tiny subjects that the files consisted of. Moss, Menrick, Miles. What are these?

I grabbed the one that read 'Miles' and opened it, instantly noticing the personnel chart that had a picture of a older man, maybe around the age of 50. His name was Adam. Adam Miles. All of these files were people.

I flipped through Adam's chart some more. Candid shots, taken from far away, as if someone were spying on him were the main part of the file. Near the end, however, were gruesome shots of his body, mangled and cut up in tiny pieces. Shot after shot were his parts hung up or in a bloody pile, until the final picture showed a black bag being buried in the woods.

Each and every file after that was the exact same thing; older men, around the age of 50-60, with their body parts cut off, buried in the woods. It was horrifying. In some shots, you can just make out a small hand in the corner or a woman with her back to the camera. The woman had strawberry blonde hair, and her skin was very pale.

Suddenly, the room I was in became eerily quiet. I had no idea what to do with the information that I just discovered. Who killed all of these people? What was the significance of the woman with the red hair? My head was spinning with the images of all the mangled bodies that I just witnessed and I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. There was a garbage can on the side of a large table and I ran to it, releasing the contents of my stomach into the small black bin.

Sitting at the table, I tried to calm my mind and my body; breathing deeply until I could feel my flushed face cool and my palms stop sweating. Turning my head, I discovered multiple letters and signed receipts. They must be for all the weapons. I picked one up and expected to read my father's name down at the bottom, where you had to sign for the shipment. Instead, I read my mother's name. Some were signed with Fiona's name. These were my mother's weapons. My mother owned this room, owned the pictures of all the mangled bodies, and so did Fiona. Near the end of the stack, I found a picture. A picture of Fiona and my mother smiling brightly at the camera, blood covering their bodies and their faces.

My mother killed all of those people.

Fiona wasn't just a made up character in a painting, she was a real person.

AN 

Is horrendously late due to who I am as a person. I'm hoping to start writing soon but I'm not making any promises 

Siairra