The Ravenwood Chronicles

Chapter 3- Forged to Death

        Alright, I’ve told you that, and you haven’t tried to run away. I think I can trust you after all. This is going to be a bit hard for me, I’ve never really had anyone to trust aside from Adam, or Caron(though the latter was forced).

        My name is Diana Ravenwood, and, as I’ve already told you, I am a serial killer. I pick my victims from the families of those involved in the arson of my mansion, and subsequent murder of my mother. All in all, I would say it’s a pretty good life. Though it is hard with a fifteen-year-old angst-ridden teenage brother.

         Yes, it has been eight years since the fire. I have still been killing. It’s not the sort of thing that gets boring. Everyone’s reactions to being murdered are the same, yet different. There are subtle nuances in the way fear grips them. A man might try to fight back, while another might be paralyzed with horror.

         I don’t look like I used to, but that’s to be expected out of a twenty-three-year-old woman. I’m small, slender, and muscular because, if you didn’t know, murder is an occupation that requires one to be fit and strong. 

         My hair was fittingly the color of a raven’s feather. I was kind of pale, but not pasty, and my eyes shown a brilliant silver.

         I think those are my most distinguishing feature, my eyes. They always seem to capture my prey before the fear hits them. The last pretty thing they see in their lives. 

         After the ball I had thrown didn’t go as plan, I was forced to find a different way to force death upon Caron’s mother. I spent many hours planning, but I scrapped every idea I had. Without killing Caron, nothing seemed to be suitable for her. 

         “I’m having the serial killer’s equivalent of writer’s block!” I exclaim. Adam wasn’t home. He was out with some friends, so I wasn’t afraid to yell this out loud.

         Sweet Adam, he was the only family I had left. For his sake, I was extremely discreet with my little hobby. I decided not to hire help, I didn’t trust them with my food.

         Caron opens the door to my study, and sits across from at my desk.

         “How’s the plotting going?” he asked. He took it extremely well when I too him I was going to murder his mother. In fact, he didn’t seem to care at all. I wonder just how close he was to his mother.

         “Terribly. Everything short of killing you just seems to good for her!” I replied. He must have noticed the frustrated look on my face, because he chuckled a little. The look on his face seemed to say that he had an idea that I hadn’t thought of.

         “Why don’t we fake my death?” he said with a devious grin. I thought it over, and I saw nothing wrong with it. I like this guy. He’s almost as evil as I am.

         “Okay, but let’s not make it a murder. How about you fell ill, and nothing in my shop could save you?” I add, “Why are you so willing for this? I mean, this is your mother we’re plotting against.”

         “She’s a clingy bitch. Everywhere I go, she has to follow, or I have to check in, or I can’t be out after seven. She’s be systematically ruining my life. She hasn’t even let me move out, something about my sister missing me. But I know it’s because of her,” he rants. He really hates his mother. Well, his mother can die. I was planning on that anyway.

         “Well, I think we should bring your sister here. She does need someone to watch over her, after all,” I say. The plan has been made, now we just need to put it in motion. We decided that must be done by the coming Saturday, because his mother plans on coming to check on him. And that will ruin the entire ploy.

         I called his mother to my mansion, and told her the news. As I gave her the news, grief glazed her eyes over. She just nodded as I explained that it was excruciatingly painful for him, and that now he wouldn’t feel any pain. 

         She then left my home with a stupefied look on her face. I relished in the agony I knew she was feeling. It made me very happy, until I realised that she heading for the window at the top of the staircase. The only unpleasantness I felt was that she was going to break the beautiful stained glass. I worked hard on that.

         “Une, deux, trois,” I said as I heard the glass break. As soon as I said “trois” I heard a loud thud signaling that the body had hit the ground. It worked, but I wished she had waited to kill herself until she had gotten home.

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AN: It seems I can't stop writing. XD I just like the way the story is going. It seems to just work for me. Always feel free to leave constructive criticism. I could always improve, but I just don't know in what ways.