Short Stories

The Taker

It's so quiet here. And dark. But then again, that's how asylums should be, shouldn't they? Dark and silent, and cold.

The perfect place for me.

People keep trying to tell me I'm sick. "Killing people is wrong," they say. "Stop taking their lives from us." I suppose I am. Taking. That suits me well.

I've tried to tell them how I do it, why I have to. It's like artwork, like there's something stuck in your head. A poem that needs to get on paper. You have to get it out. I explained it that way to my mum once.

I don't know why she cried.

At least I'm allowed to walk around alone. I'm not like the ones in padded boxes; I have self control. I choose what to do, I choose where and when to make someone be dust.

My footsteps echo down the hall. The tile is cold against my feet. Should've taken the slippers. I pass the security room, again. The man is laying his face on his desk. There's a red halo around his head.

I'm sure he's just sleeping.

I walk up and down, all over these asylum halls. Nice and cold. Dim. Still. If I listen hard enough I can hear the red drip from my hands. It's lovely.

I don't think it used to be this still.

I reach the main entrance- main exit- and step out into the real air. It's warmer out, and the bugs are talking. I wonder if they're talking about me.

I let a smile pass over my face and close my eyes. I spread my arms and tilt my face towards the oily sky.

I have some artwork in my head that I'm just dying to put on a canvas.