Horror and Thriller Fiction posted June 23, 2017

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The One

by frogbook

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The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.

I hear the blood. It calls out to me in a loud crimson voice. It needs me. It wants me to spill it, set it free. I must answer the call.

I paint the careful lines of the clown on my face, careful to turn the corners of my artful mouth upward. I use the blood I keep thinned with warfarin and a constant stirring mechanism, to paint the bright color on a delicate white background. I felt a sexual thrill as I paint it on my skin. It's the only time I can truly smile. I must, so that my lips match the upward slant of my painted expression.

Blood garnered from my friends, displayed in varying poses about my special room. Their permanently stitched smiles assure their happiness for eternity. I knew they thanked me, for I never took a jolly woman from her family, or one pleased at a fruitful new job position, or a woman excited to give birth.

No, I only take the precious liquid from those who are sad, who are lonely, maybe those with no family or friends. None of the whores are happy, no one wants that job. The poor sad drug users need relief from their pain, the homeless left out in the cold to freeze need shelter, so I give them this gift.

They are all dressed in gay, colorful clothes, free of their worries. Hair is coifed, makeup is perfect, smiles in place. Only I wear the clown makeup because I can't quite find that TRUE permanent happiness, so I hide behind a happy face. Even when I am spilling the blood, I am not quite there. I need to find 'the one.' Only then can I join the party.

Ah, but all is not lost, for I have seen 'the one'. I have tracked her, I have learned her every move and way. Soon it will be her time.

Meanwhile, I perfect my craft so that the gift can be perfect for her. Tonight, I will bestow happiness on another sad soul, I have been watching. Poor girl, so young, and thrown out into the cold by her own parents. The shame, the derogation, she must be feeling. You know how the teens are; they must have the finest and the best. One would think her friends would want to help, but they actually made fun of her. None of the parents were willing to take in another feisty teen, so here she is, staying at a drug infested, filthy hangout with a random guy, who says he is just being kind. I, though, know his plan for I see him often, taking in a young girl and starting them into the life of drugs and debauchery.

I approach her now that she is finally away from him. I use the stun gun, as I like to watch the eyes. While she is unable to move, I tie her up and gently lift her into the back of my van.
It doesn't take her long to come around. She knows some choice words for a girl new to the streets. I just chuckle as I know she will soon be happier.

When we arrive at my home, she struggles so much I am forced to use the choroform. Old fashioned, but still effective, and just a tiny bit. I put her in her room, a beautiful room, fashioned in pink with a glorious mattress and a furry comforter. I tell her I alone know how to make her happy. She spits out a torrent which only adds to my proof she is unhappy.

I bring her a beautiful dinner and now I am a bit irritated, as she refuses it. As I take her for her release, she keeps thanking me, as she believes the release to be back to the horrible life where she was trapped. I tell her it is much better, and she won't walk again. I am forced to drag her, though I am not happy to do so. I let her look in the happy room and she is really screaming loud. Screaming hurts my head and I accidently hurt her. She falls to the floor and I hold my ears with my bloody hands. She is spilling the precious fluid. This angers me more. I drag her roughly now, and throw her on the table.

She hits me and I hit her back. I must stop as I need her awake. She is out for now, and it makes it easier to set up the equipment, I used to use as a mortician. I insert a needle then wait for her to wake up. She is groggy, but I encourage her to open her eyes until she does. Now I can watch as the blood is drained. When the soul leaves, one can see it there in the eyes, no doubt a religious experience. That is why I keep the eyes. They seem to retain that last look and I want them in a separate place, a religious artifact, if you will.

After I am privy to this holy experience, and have removed the eyes, and replaced the blood with formaldehyde, I suture the mouth to its smile, the eyes are like clown eyes, those happy little x's. I clothe her in a pretty, pink dress with a rather sexy neckline to show her perfect breasts, and put her in the party room. It's getting a bit crowded, but I am able to squeeze her in with two girls her age. They are all sitting on a sweet little lounge chair with a drink in their hands smiling, smiling, smiling....

Soon I will bring 'the one' to my home of rest and happiness. I have found my long-lost sister.


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