Prologue 1-Tracey Beringer

In films, corpses are supposed to look real, but you can clearly tell they're fake. By how the placement of the blood trails to or the position of the "dead" body, it can never look fully real. From the amount of detective and horror films I've watched, I think I can confidently say I can tell the difference between real and fake corpses. Not an ability to brag about on the playground, but an ability nonetheless. Unfortunately, that is being put to the test as I view two corpses in front of my very own eyes. But they weren't any normal corpses. No, no, instead they looked to be burned to a crisp with slash marks cut under that layer. There was no doubt that whoever did this had already cut them before they burned them with the lighter that was left at the scene. A very cold liquid dripped from the corpses onto the broken floor. How the floor was broken could only be assumed from the weight of the combined corpses. Incidentally, I added a new liquid to the rotting bodies.

My very own vomit.

I only came right back from school, after a victorious day defeating the school bullies at last, and this is what I come back to. Mangled and distorted corpses right in front of the doorway to the bathroom. When I saw the grotesque sight, my initial reaction was to vomit out all the food I had consumed throughout the day and cry out hysterically like a child.

Not my proudest moment.

But, I would assume anyone would do that in this situation. Your first thought won't be to think rationally and keep calm, right? It would be to freak out over this new scene presented to you. Every emotion you ever felt would rip out of your skull until the emotions wore their selves out. Which, after an hour or two, those emotions fully evaporated, and I could calm myself down.

It was time to analyse this Godforsaken sight before me.

Now, who would do such a thing in my own home?

I instantly thought of my sister, but that would be impossible right off the bat. She currently resided in prison. Then I thought of my parents, but that would also be impossible. My parents were not only the kindest people I know, but they had schedules so busy that I'm surprised they don't have a stress disorder because of it. But there's a logical reason why it can't be them as well. The entrance to my house, upon closer inspection, had been broken into with the knob loose enough that it was no wonder my keys didn't unlock it. Because of the rain during the morning, they were somehow mud tracks all over the house, from the top to the bottom floor. The backyard door was wide open, with no thought to have closed it. Not only is the murderer unintelligent—opposed to my brilliant parents—they won't have to break into their own home.

And the most damning piece of evidence was our very own house phone.

If my parents were to be late to work, even by a minute, their bosses would call them to give notice. My parents were never the type to own smartphones despite the digital age we live in, so they would have to ring up the house phone. I only know this from the many times I was home alone or sick on weekdays, and how startled I would get when the phone rang, with how rarely it ever does ring. The first thing I had to do was check if there were any voice messages. If they were, I knew my parents had some type of hand in committing this despicable crime.

Fortunately, there were no voice mails on record. In fact, the last voice mail was six months ago, and nowhere near today.

I breathed a deep sigh of relief. I'm thankful they had been on time today. My parents usually leave home early and arrive home late, so I'm fully sure and confident to say that it must have been someone with that I had no connection. For whatever bizarre reason, they choose my home as a dropping ground. I live relatively far from the main neighbourhood, so the criminal must have thought my house to be the perfect place. After breaking in, they fled inside as the criminal checked every possibility of an individual, which explained all the mud tracks.

I can't exactly come up with a valid explanation for the burn or cuts. The criminal may have done it before arriving or during his search. The cracks on the floor also present a mystery. I doubt the corpses are that heavy, and unless the criminal has immense strength, he may have killed them here.

The more I kept thinking, the more mysteries cropped up, although I really shouldn't be thinking this hard on this. After all, this is a job for the police, and they will eventually bring justice to the despicable murderer.

I returned my attention to the house phone and started to dial the authorities. The buttons on the phone felt oddly cold. I started to notice that the kitchen itself was unusually cold as well.

Suddenly, I heard something move and dropped the phone flat on the ground. I looked behind to see nothing but felt a cold, numb hand grab my neck. It gripped my neck like cloth. Then I saw the left hand of this mysterious person move aside from my face. It revealed a short, cooking knife which pressed against my neck ever so carefully.

I attempted to shake, but even then, the mystical being grabbed my shoulders, signalling to stop any part of my body from moving. I knew then this person could be the murderer or a surviving member, but the latter didn't make too much sense. If it were to be a surviving member, I doubt they would resort to killing the first person. Besides, it's likely been hours since the crime took place. Why would they want to stay here instead of leaving as far as possible?

There's also the possibility of the person mistaking me for the murder, but I strongly doubt that. I think they would notice if I was the one who killed someone or not.

Alas, even with all this thinking, I can't help but sweat and be fearful of my life. I'm still just a child. And being the child I am, the only real action I decided to take was to turn my head around.

Not the smartest move, but I have nothing else to lose besides my life.

And then, I saw it.

The face of the murderer.

A tall female with long, pure black hair that tangled its way down to their shoulders. Her hair looked unclean and messy with a disgusting smell. She had grey eyes, filled with nothing but a goal in mind. That goal was beyond me. The clothes she wore were very well-dressed but ruined with the colour of blood all over.

Worst of all, I recognised it as my very own mother.

My mother?

My m-mother?

No.

No.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. GOD NO!

It isn't possible. It can't be true. There must be a mistake. There must be a misunderstanding in my sight. I tried with all my brainpower to think of some alternate conclusion. Perhaps a bit too much because my body went limp and proceeded to fall on the kitchen floor.

Very hard, in fact.

The pain accelerated throughout every part of my body until I couldn't move any part of myself. Instead, I became an object as I lay on the kitchen floor.

Waiting for the moment I could feel something.

Waiting for the feeling to return.

Instead, to my great dismay, the murderer walked toward me. She slowly bent down and grabbed my body tight enough to lift me up. Using her legs, she pushed my being upward before fully carrying me like a newborn child.

As if I weigh nothing in her arms.

As if those lives she carried weigh nothing in her arms.

Every step she took had a weight of emptiness. Or, a more precise word would be familiarity. It was almost like she had gone through situations of similar calibre. As a bird knows through practice how to fly, she moved through practice on how to walk. She knew what steps would be risky or safe. She knew what steps would take her to the destination faster. She knew what steps would safely arrive her to end many lives.

Even if I could not feel myself, I could feel her body bending downward. With that motion ongoing, she loosened her arms to drop me. Instead of another hard floor, it was the sofa she chose to place me on.

My body still had no feeling, but my mind could still feel for what my body couldn't.

Absolute terror.

What if she were to kill me right now? How would she do it? Would she kill me as she did with the others? Cut parts of myself until I was a bloody mess, only to burn me afterwards? Or is my mother a cambial, who will eat me alive? Would the feasting be slow or fast-paced? But then, what if she actually wants to sexually please herself? Were those corpses raped before or after? In fact, how were they raped? Did she touch them in places one would never dare let another human even consider holding? Did she touch them in places that puzzled them with pleasure and insanity? Or what if she simply pleased herself, and forced them to do the raping, only to kill them after?

Or then, what if she simply killed them?

No torture, sexual assault, or disturbing methods of murder.

Just killed them.

End their lives.

Just like that.

And that was what I feared most.

That's what I feared, she would do to me.

Until the door opened.

What came out was a tall, slender man, lacking in any muscular shape. His suit was unable to hide his very visible bones, and, perhaps, even organs. Nevertheless, he wore a sharp suit and clean, gelled hair that spiked out just enough to barely hide his large forehead. His face carried no side of either, and simply had the look of a capable and trustworthy man. His eyes - meant to be filled with the soothing colour of a deep, blue ocean - were filled with the darkest depths of the ocean, seeming to reach out and drag all those who entered.

This was my-one and only-father who walked in like a king entering his throne room.

Before he seemed to notice us, he took off his shoes in an orderly way, while taking care to not bring any dirt into the house. Once they were safely placed in the shoe rack, he moved his way towards a nearby chair. Doing so with impeccable grace and subtlety, he sat down on the one-armed chair across from me. From only my right eye, glancing at his figure, I could only hypothesize that he finally seemed ready for what he wanted to finally do, or say for that matter.

"I ask you to hold on to any questions you may have, my dear son," he ordered. "I know you're going through a lot, but I rather not deal with your intense urge of seeking any kind of enlightenment at this very moment." He started to cough loudly after he finished his request. My mother merely stood there as he coughed harder and harder, not showing any signs of concern or sympathy. His coughs had the sound of a dying horse on its last legs.

He finally regained himself and looked towards me in an almost pitiful way as you would a mentally disabled person that once had a brilliant mind. For what felt like a long time, he finally spoke.

"I think it is now time to tell you the truth. Or rather, confirm it, as I think you can piece it together by now. Your mother is a full-blown murderer, and I have been helping her cover her crimes from the watchful eye of the law. However, today's events were not planned at all. In fact, none of this should have even occurred, but your wonderful mother decided otherwise." In the final line, he said with such anger the murderer, wavered for a moment. But only for a moment.

My father paused again like he was waiting for something. I realized, soon enough, that he was waiting for the murderer's response. She did notice what was expected of her, but she was still looking for the words. Finally, she responded plainly, "I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

The inconvenience.

The inconvenience of murder.

The inconvenience of ending another life is simply an inconvenience to her.

All the feeling in my body exhilarated back, and I pressed myself forward as soon as possible. Straight away, I turned my face toward her and leapt up to her. Although, it was more of a poor attempt. Before I could leap to her, she punched me. Square in the abdomen and I fell right back to the sofa.

My father only sat there. He looked at me again with those eyes of pity. Like a dog who did not understand what it had done. I could only clench my stomach, trying to stop the pain.

My father sighed. "Please do not give in to an impulse like that. It was a useless effort that only bought about wasted time and energy we could have used for something more worthwhile. Granted, I carry some blame on my part for not only standing by but raising you to react to such statements."

With a loud groan, I managed to spit out, "I'm glad you finally acknowledged it. N-Now, may I finally ask a question?" I needed answers as soon as possible. Even this pain couldn't make me forget that.

"Hm, I suppose you may interrogate both of us now."

Finally.

But, I only had one question in mind.

"Why do you condone her actions? The murderer, that is. I'm pretty damn certain you raised me to not hate people like her, so why let her sleep at night peacefully and not bring justice upon her?"

His face shifted into a chuckle before stopping himself. Then, a moment or two passed before he leered an answer out. "That is a question with a very simple answer."

He stopped grinning.

"I just love my wife."

"Let me ask you this instead, my son. I see the perplexed look on your face, but is love not a valid reason?"

I objected outright. "No, that isn't a valid reason at all. If we use love for anything, then what's the point of justice then? You don't have to love justice to execute it!"

"I disagree. If you don't adore justice, then you simply can not see the different viewpoints of justice! You would be following a guideline, and make no exceptions."

"But that's what justice and the law is!" I yelled out with all my heart. Unaware of it, I was standing up, and looking down at the accomplice of the murderer. She stood as a neutral side, not taking any part of it, which she isn't even allowed to be in this clash in the first place.

My head was pounding with blood and rage over what I was hearing. These people that claimed to be my parent's talk and act as if they have some higher knowledge over me. That their actions are justified, or even downright reasonable. The fact people like this exist always disgusted me, and to see it now after a horrendous crime is unimaginable.

I shout as much as my voice can take it. "Listen to me, justice has a strict guideline that makes no one left out. Even if someone were to go against the rules or laws, no matter what, they should be punished! Love, hate, happiness, and sadness haven't a single place in that system and for you to lump them together goes against everything I know and believe, Goddamn it!

"Irregardless of my feelings toward both of you, you should put be punished for your sins!"

After I let all the words flow out of me, I take a calm, deep breath and sit down.

There wasn't a single emotion left in me.

Justice is what makes up the world and will always make up this world. From the very beginning, when man first evolved and killed a living thing, other creatures attacked that man, sparking justice into the world. From then on, for every action every creature has taken, justice held alongside it. Even the most evil of people had the will of justice, and, similarly, with the most pure of people.

Justice is everything, and everything is justice.

Wars on either end carry justice; the development of technology and science had justice within those minds that pushed it forward; even mindless animals carry justice in one way or another.

Nothing anyone can say will convince me otherwise.

But this accomplice thought differently.

"Ignoramus," he said without hesitation.

"You seem to forget that the sole reason we have these systems is because of love of something or someone. People created laws to punish murderers because they feared and sob for the death of their loved ones. Law enforcement exist because humans want to protect what they love. Even now, you so passionately proclaim your uneducated opinion on justice because you have a deep affection for it.

"Honestly, I cannot help but feel disappointed."

He sounded heartbroken as potential wasted away, right before his deep, blue eyes.

And he declared, "You are no longer allowed in this house."

The murderer then approached me as quick as lighting, grabbed my arm and swung me towards the wall. My back ached from the sudden pain, and I could only stand and watch the accomplice – the true fool – open the door.

"OUT!" He screamed straight to my face. I could feel hot tears start to well up, but I forced myself to not let a single one out.

Instead, I looked at him with my ratcheted pride and shouted, "I'll be back. Just you wait, you fiends."

He responded, "I will wait."

And, with a whisper so quiet, I almost missed it, he said, "... If you choose the right path that is."

I didn't bother to reply and walked right out of my, once beloved, home.

The door shut and I faintly heard a conversation between the criminals.

" ... Wouldn't report us, do not fret... No one will believe him..."

Unfortunately, he's right. It's me after all. Tracey Beringer.

Regardless of my victorious day, that's still who I am.

I walked slowly away from the building into the rocky pathway to the neighbourhood. The clouds in the sky started to darken, and rain once more. Even harder than in the morning this time.

My legs started to walk faster and faster until I went into a full-on sprint. I just kept sprinting, remembering every single moment of that. Remembering the blood, the smell, the dialogue I had, everything and fell down on the ground. The rough, rocky pathway. And started to sob.

I sobbed hot tears, only turning cold with the rain splashing upon my face. I felt so pathetic, that I started to slab myself with a rock. Deeper and deeper until I took a rock and smashed my face into it. Now blood started to pour from the new wounds.

And then, I walked again, feeling empty but oddly satisfied.

I walked and walked and walked.

Then I saw the house. Right near the edge of the pathway. I rang the doorbell and prayed to God, to any higher bring, that he would let me in.

I knew he would let me in physically, but that's not what I meant.

I prayed he would let me in his heart.

So I could control it once more.

And let justice carry out his weapon.

Because justice is all that matters in this wretched, hellish world.

Prologue 1 End.