Defining Disaster

Only a Visit

There werent many things on this planet that affected Damian Smith more than a good scary story. He absolutely loved the thrill of the chase, the chance of a death, the fear induced in readers as they sit in suspense waiting for that inevitable jump scare. He loved reading stories about unsuspecting victims and anything that would give him that small disturbance within, the intoxication he felt, the wonderful high after the stories fed his desire.

To be perfectly honest, the idea was inevitable. There was a certain air about him that his friends and family should have noticed right away, yet they didn't. He lived in a world of parties and inconsistency, bathing in the rich chocolate that was his life, living where money was no longer a form of payment but a renewable resource. He began to believe that people were simply toys, nothing more, and toys are meant to be played with. As soon as he saw one, one of the broken, he came up with the idea.

It came to him in his sleep, the sensations trickling up his spine, crawling through his cotton sheets and begging to be acted upon. So he did. He watched the people, devouring each and every one of them, learning of them, excited to choose. For months, he scouted, the anticipation building up as he skillfully wrote each of his letters, his beautiful script opposing the dark black print. When they were finished, he held them close to his heart, allowing for their darkness to soak into him, through him. God, how alive he felt at this very moment, there was nothing stopping him. No human could prevent the future, not one of the feeble beings that surrounded him.

He was confident that they would all come, for the human ability to turn away from a mystery was almost impossible. Not one would be able to resist the strikingly scarlet letters amongst the usual pond of tan. The old white seal would appeal to their contrasting needs, and the thirst for change in the normal routine, despite how lacking of normal it may be, would drag them from their old desk chairs and their aweing onlookers to find out the man behind the mail. His plan was to use this curiosity, this desire, to drag them in and lure the injured minds to himself, where he would feed upon their deranged thoughts and their simple, painful pasts. They were all his for the taking, all his own to use and toy with. None of them realized the truth, not one would know that their small visit would become a lifelong stay.