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Quiet

By , Huntington beach, CA

It's quiet. All he can hear is the clock ticking. He sits there, in the corner, waiting. He appears calm, taking slow, deep breaths. His mouth is dry, his hands stiff and cold. Perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of excitement. Not even he himself knows, he thinks that it's some strange combination of both. He can hear them now. They just entered the house. He loosens his grip on the blade, then tightens it again. His other hand has started to fiddle with his jacket zipper, he hasn’t even realized it yet. They’ve started arguing. They always do that, even from next door he can hear them most times. Though from inside their house it's less muffled. They might be awhile, he thinks. He’s less nervous now, but just as restless.
He starts to think back to the first one. Her name was Mary. She was a nasty old woman, he despised her. The only reason he put up with her for so many years, was because they were related. If they weren’t, he probably would have done it sooner.
He remembered her eyes. The way she stared at him, or maybe it's more accurate to say through him. Those eyes would search every inch of his being to find what was wrong with him. She always found something. He hated those eyes. He remembered how her skin looked, it was so weathered, like cracked leather. He hated looking at her. He remembered her voice, a shrill screech that made his ears bleed. That was the worst of all. He could hear it even now. It used to make him nauseous... It still does.

He remembered how he snapped. It was hot, and he was tired. So very tired. She was complaining. He can’t even remember what she said, but she was definitely complaining, she always was. He just wanted quiet for once. He just wanted her to be quiet. That’s why he sewed her mouth shut. He doesn’t know why he didn’t stop there, but it doesn’t really matter in the end. All that’s important is that he didn’t stop, and he wouldn’t this time either. Even after the muffled screams and the blood, he wouldn’t stop. Not until it was quiet.
They’ve started to come up the stairs now. They’ve walked into the room. They’re surprised. So is he, they're younger than he thought they’d be. He almost feels bad. Almost. He's the first to move. He decides on the man first, he looks stronger.
All he sees is red, a deep, sickening red. All he can hear is screaming, he’s not sure if it's theirs or his. Probably theirs. He’s finished the first one, but he’s still not done, as much as he liked to be. It still isn’t quiet.
He hates the smell of blood, it reminds him of Mary. The girl ran down stairs, she tries to run outside, but he’s on top of her before she can reach the door. He's realized he dropped the knife. He’ll have to improvise. It's okay though, he likes it better this way, cleaner, less blood. The girl starts to cry. So does he. It's not that he wants to do this, he has to. He can’t stop himself. The girl looks at him, eyes pleading. He hates it, doesn’t she realize it’s not his fault. The girl uses her last breaths to try to beg, but he can’t stop now. It's too late.
He’s finished. He sighs, he didn’t realize he was holding his breath. He hears the clock ticking in the background. It's quiet now, but it won’t be for long. He knows that it's only a matter of time.






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