The Girl Who Cries Blood

Welcome

Welcome. Let us begin with a few facts. I have never been social and well-liked very much. In fact, my entire life has been a mess. My classmates were always frightened of me and never did dare to come close. Many people have said I should kill myself or hide in a cave for the rest of my life. They say I have caused great pain and should have never existed in the first place. I have heard most of the harshest comments you can ever imagine but I do not mind that. My life is not perfect and never will be. I will always be hated, no matter how much time passes.

Now, you may think I am exaggerating but listen to my story before you judge me. You see, I am currently a psychopath and murderer. I killed my entire family and close friends. I am currently in a scientific lab no one knows about. I have been here for five years.

You may think after hearing my confession that I should be executed or in a mentality place but there is one small detail that makes it impossible. You see, I am not human. Or at least, that is what people tell me. I have the mind of a demon and do not feel pain when being stabbed. I do not feel the urge to laugh when someone tells a joke or tickles me. I do not feel hunger for food but blood.

Now, before I tell you how a cheerful, shy seven-year-old girl became a subject of study in a scientific research lab, let me start over. My name is Socorro Morto. I am currently seventeen years old. I love weapons, torturing people, and my favorite hobby is to write. Most of my stories involve murder or pain. I live in a lab in a village called Castle Combe, Wiltshire, I think.

Now, let us get back to my life. As you already know, I have been here for five years, which means I was five years running free. Those were the best years of my life. And you know what, if I had to go back in time and change my actions to prevent this, I would not do it. I would still commit the murders and be here now. I like it here, believe it or not. It might sound crazy but I have a good reason to feel this way.

Enough of this chatty peaceful conversation, though. Let us just begin with me telling you about my childhood. It might be hard to believe, but my father loved me. He would buy me toys, candy, clothes, or anything else every weekend. My brothers received his love as well, I must admit, but I was always his favorite. He always showed me the most love. I loved him very dearly but his actions led to his death. You see, he loved me until I turned five. It was then when he started showing my brothers more attention and love. At first, I did not mind at all. I was happy the attention was not on me any longer but I started getting jealous.

He would stop buying me toys and I tried my best to not get angry. But he soon stopped paying attention to me completely. He would still buy me my school supplies and things I needed, sure, but he never did anything for me unless it was necessary. It came to a point where he started to forget my name. He used to start calling me Amy. I would just react to the name and even made myself think it truly was my name. But he rarely called me and I had to learn from that age to cook and do other things.

I would start cleaning my own room. I would wipe the floor and dust everything. I would do my own hair and wake myself up for school. I would cook breakfast for myself and then walk to school on my own. In short words, I had to start becoming independent from the age of six. As I grew older, he would only talk to me when the school held conferences or school events. Only on those occasions did he smile or show fatherly love. I was grateful he even showed he cared at least on some occasions, so I let myself stay positive. Of course, he slowly stopped coming to those events, and the remaining love he showed disappeared along with them.

I was devastated but still loved him. Of course, my love slowly started transforming into hatred and anger. I could care less about whether he cared or not. As long as he got me what I needed, I could stand his indifference.