Writing

Short Story: The Beginning, Middle, and the Ending

I could begin this in so many ways. I could tell you about my childhood or about how it all ends, or from the beginning, but who can really tell where their life began and where it was just a dream others told you. But I will start by saying that you shouldn’t try to reach me once this letter finds you. It’s not safe, and I’m sure they are still watching me and you… You don’t want them to notice you. But, if I’m really still and slowly glance over my shoulder, I can see them. One of them, at least. They are still here, but as long as I don’t try to run, fight, or harm myself, they leave me alone. Especially now as I have done what they asked me to do.

But you. You, I want to keep to myself. I know I hurt you when I left without saying goodbye and when I disappeared out of trace. It’s just that they would have used you to get to me; make me cooperate like they did to others I have known. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I had let them break you. For a moment there, with you, I could pretend that my life was mine to keep and share with you. You let me love, live, and experience joy unlike I have felt in years. With you, everything was possible.

I should have known they wouldn’t leave me alone, never. You remember the broken window and your place trashed. That was them. They did that to warn me, to make me see them again. I ignored their thread, and I stayed with you for a month, and then your mother died. The police, they were lying about it being an accident. They just couldn’t see how a heating unit falling over your mother could have been a murder. Not when she was so sweet and loving. But I saw it was their work. They couldn’t kill you, so they took her out, knowing I wouldn’t cooperate if you were hurt. Their plan worked. It devastated you, constantly asking why, and I couldn’t say it was because of me. That’s why you and I could never be.

I’m sorry. I should have left you when they first appeared, but I was selfish. I needed to be with you and feel alive and loved. You can’t believe how long it has been before you that someone held me. I can still feel your soft, warm body against mine. Your skin and your lips. Again I’m selfish. I try to apologize for bringing suffering into your life, and all I can do is write about your lips. I miss you, and I love you. I will forever do. There’s no one like you.

But I promised you the truth, the why and how, or more like the beginning and the ending. So you will have it. This all started when I was five. They came to me; told me to do as they said. Everyone around me thought I had an active imagination and made them up. In my teens, I made myself believe so. That all those things I had done were just a bad dream. I have killed. I have. They asked me to. And no one would ever consider a girl in a green dress with golden eyes would take their life. You should have seen the surprise when a knife, a bullet, or a string pierced their skin. All of them died in disbelieve. Now you know what I’m capable of doing. I have caused accidents taking dozens of lives just because they asked me to. I’m weak, and I should never be forgiven. Oh, they tell me that it is for the greater good, that I’m making our future better, but I know they are lying. What future demands for so many dead bodies? And yet, I do what they tell me. I could lie that I was helpless, that none of this is my fault, but I have learned not to fool myself. You see, the honesty of it keeps me sane.

And yes, I have tried to pry into the future they speak of. They choose to keep me in the dark. They can only be lying. And yes, I have considered this all is in my head. I’m not sure. It all feels too real. And if it isn’t real, then it is me who did those things. But would it matter if they were real or not for my absolution? I don’t dare to ask anyone. Not even you.

So there’s the truth, the beginning, the middle, and the why, but not the ending. Don’t worry, they don’t let me kill myself. They have told me so, and every time I have tried, there has been hell to pay. Yet, somehow they always pull me through, and as I come around, someone close to me, someone I have seen, been with, even just passed by, is gone. Killed. Taken out. It is them. Not me. I wonder why they don’t do the killings as clearly as they are capable of? Maybe there are others like me whose ears they whisper. A new family. But I don’t welcome such company. I don’t want to know.

No, the ending isn’t death. Nor hiding. Not from them. They always find me like they have locked their tentacles on me. The ending is to make me ineffectual. And I have done that. I have taken out my legs and my other arm. I’m locked for good because of what I did. I sometimes feel the pain of my missing limbs, especially when the medication wears off and reality meets my thoughts, but this is better. This is good. My body is mine and not a weapon for only gods know what. My last deed was to kill a scientist for some space program. I did just that and more. They never saw it coming. Now they stare at me, the one in the room with me now sigh and moan, but I will never be out. I’m broke beyond repair.

That’s my story, and I wish I could send you this letter, but I can’t. It’s better if you hate me for abandoning you in your time of need than hating me because of my cruel deeds and because of what I cost you. You gave me a reason to live. Soft skin pressed against each other, feeling as another heart beats. I live for that moment from now on; happy knowing you are out there perfect and still in my memories, and all they can do is go to hell.

Thank you for reading, and have a beautiful day ❤ 

© K.A. Ashcomb

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