Sins [On the Record]

Prequel to Deliverance

Have I ever told you about insanity?

Now, don’t be afraid. I am not here to hurt you. I see your eyes, and the desperation embroidered in them. They’re crying out for help, what a pathetic creature you are. I do not mind. I do not judge. I am here to simply remind.

Think, if you can manage, of why you are here. Surely, these giant mushrooms, mazes of vines, and lethal roses are familiar to yourself. It has been years, quite, but not enough for you to forget. You want to. I bet you do. However, your dastardly fate has you returning here yet again. What have you done this time?
I see. Your house burnt down. Your families were choked to death. You’re in a mental asylum, having holes drilled into your skull to prevent violent and psychopathic outbursts. That’s quite the eight years. A pity I never got to say goodbye to Lizzie. Did she scream? Did her petite body grotesquely contorted as the smoke filled her lungs and flames peeled her skin?
Don’t look at me like that, dear girl. I’m merely an impartial observer. I am inside you, you know. It must be quite shocking to remember that after all these years you still haven’t gotten rid of the desire for the macabre. Did it excite you, the screams of your dearest sister filling the night’s void buried in tinder and ash? Were you sweating not from the intense heat, as you clutched your pitiful stuffed rabbit and laid down to cry?
No need to be so shrewd, dear girl. We both know you’re not responsible. After all, how could a sweet child a mere ten years of age exude such hate and viciousness as to suggest she would drown everything she ever loved in a hellish inferno and watched in unfold like it was a circus act.
That aside, welcome to your new home, or perhaps old. I’m getting older, maybe. Are you? You’re a budding young girl in her sweet teenage years. I’m sorry they straddle you in a straightjacket and toss you about like a rag doll into whatever medical experiment they see fit. Such is the state of medicine in the nineteenth century. Crude, is it not? Well, no matter, because you’re not like that anymore. You’re here, and you’re free. Naturally you’re still hopelessly delusional, but let’s take this success one at a time, shall we?
I can see your expressions hardening. You’ve changed, dear girl, yet you never did. You’re still that straight-faced annoying troublemaker of old, with a head bigger than a house and brain smaller than a tea cup. That’s quite alright, though I can see the years have not treated you kindly. Try moving your arms. There you go. It’s nice to be able to see your fingers without having the uncontrollable desire to scratch your own skin until you bleed, is it not?
I’m sorry I’ve gone on for too long. Alice, be a dear and pick up that kitchen knife from the vines, would you? That’s good. I can see your fiddling with the sharp end. I can tell, with the ways your fingers twirl around the cold steel and clutched onto its solid hilt, that you like it. I see you’re looking at me now. I’m afraid not my dear girl, killing me solves no problem. Instead, it would merely rob you of a chance to escape from this hellhole of your own making. I am, however, very willing to be your guide.
Look at that blade, and you can tell. You’re here to kill, and kill and kill and kill until there’s nothing left. You’ve done this before, though through other means. I suppose this is enough to set you on your way. You know what you have to do. You know it in your heart. I’ll see you on the other side.
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