A weight in her hand made her raise it and she stared at the kitchen knife clenched tightly in her fist. She turned it over catching the glint of the moonlight and giving ruby glow to the stains on the blade...
"They're all victims, John." "Not fuckin' likely!" The Sheriff questions a severely traumatized child with the questionable Dr. Chandler.
There was no such thing as an honest smile on an adult.
Something grew in Ayida as this thing bore down on her. something that cut through the emptiness and numb. Relief? No... death. It reached for her.
“Get them used to seeing her face.” Get them “adjusted” to seeing me and living next to me… It’s messed up, isn’t it? Why doesn’t anybody ask me if I wanna live next to them?