Emotions are overrated (EDITING)
Erebii
  • Reads 3,560
  • Votes 281
  • Parts 18
  • Time 2h 10m
  • Reads 3,560
  • Votes 281
  • Parts 18
  • Time 2h 10m
Erebii
Ongoing, First published Feb 08, 2015
deathfictionkillmurdermysterypsychopathteenthriller
Have you ever felt like you had no emotions for anyone?

That you couldn't care less if your family member, friend or literally anyone died?

You live off the feeling of other people's discomfort and pain?

Chloe Hale.

"If you all could describe Chloe Hale, Hollywood's sweetheart in a few words, what would you say?" A reporter asks.

"Chloe - Chloe Hale is a daddy's girl."

"A 17 year old with a kind heart."

"A girl with big dreams."

"A great child actress."

"She's definitely not what meets the eye."

Chloe closed her eyes as she imagined what would happen if the reporter had asked her that same question.

"Now how would Chloe Hale describe herself?" The reporter smiled at her.

"Oh!" Chloe said, showing her all too white teeth. "I'm a monster." She said whilst looking into the camera.

_____

Hollywoods sweetheart.

That's what they called me.

That's what they all called me.

They built me up to be this princess, with a perfect attitude and a perfect life.

But of course, when the curtains are down, the doors are locked, the makeup is off and that all too familiar fake smile slips off, it's always different.

Chloe's life was a special kind of different.

I mean what's better than killing a few innocent people after a long day of work?

People are all hiding behind a fake mask we all know that.

But who would ever imagine Hollywood's sweetheart was more like Hollywoods serial killer?
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deathfictionkillmurdermysterypsychopathteenthriller
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18 parts

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Nothing left my mouth as I stared at him in shock. He truly believed that I was part of this. The man, who I had lived with and served for months. The man who I had protected with my life and soul. I stood still while, as he backed away from me quickly. "I trusted you with my life." His cry pierced around the empty room. He looked so destroyed and hurt, but mostly his face portrayed rage and determation. "And I protected you with mine." I spoke back loudly. I didn't hear myself say it but I knew I did. I look into his eyes even from our distance they seemed to wallow me in darkness. "I gave you mine." My voice was quiet and cracked. His face changed only for a second before his old one took over again. He doesn't believe me. It doesn't matter what I say or do he won't listen. He will still believe I am the bad guy. Just as Kane said, we will never be equals, we will never be fellow humans. We will always be monsters to them. "Yakov, I am not the bad guy." I plead one last time. His Russian accent comes out harsh with his next words. "Your right," he pauses, "you are the villain." I stumble back as if I had just been stabbed in the chest. It was a horrible feeling. It was never good with the emotions and yet I recognize the feeling as heart beak. I barely breathe in air as I regain my posture. A battle cry from somewhere distracts me momentarily. I suddenly remember Ewan. I glare at Yakov one more time before I take off after the cries of battle. Jade believes she started the war among the human and her kind. Nothing is as it was portrayed. The lies and the truth are hidden among each other. There is is no clear good and evil. How can there be if one does not know what is right and what is wrong. She was prepared to see death, prepared to inflict death upon others without mercy or remose. She was prepared to do her job which the Facility had given her. But now it doesn't seem so simple anymore. Instead she focuses on keeping her friends alive.
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KILLED

22 parts Complete Mature

My best friend's body lies on the wooden floor, her head help up by the rope that is tied around her slender neck, which is secured to the ceiling. Blood still pools out of a wound in her abdomen, creating a vivid red puddle on the cedar planks. Sara's gray eyes are wide open and glazed over slightly, her light hair pulled into a messy side ponytail. When my brain fully registers these details, my hands drop away from my face, I turn on my heel, and then I burst into an adrenaline-filled sprint out the door. I take the steps two at a time, and when my feet hit the snow covered earth, I take off again, running and running as fast as I can, feeling not free, but full of unfamiliar fear. When I tear into the house, I find my mom sitting on the couch, staring at our Christmas tree with a soft smile on her face and a cup of coffee in her left hand, steam swirling up into the air in an intricate and beautiful pattern that only I can see. "Tess? Are you alright?" She's at my side the instant she sees my face, the coffee mug crashing to the floor and shattering to a million pieces, the shards representing my heart. "Call 911", I manage, my shoulders shaking. "Sara's dead." ------- Christmas was never supposed to start like this. My father wasn't supposed to come back, and my best friend shouldn't have been murdered. Now I'm wondering: What have I gotten myself into?

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