Monsters

Prologue: Oh, The Brush Glides Easily

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Chapter 1a: I Hate Modern Art

The rain was gone now, dissipated and scattered faster than fruit flies on a disturbed rotten apple or possibly flies on a fresh piece of carrion. Particularly the carcass of a college student stabbed and strangled in his own apartment, with no trace of the killer save for the murder weapon and a piece of canvas.

“This is disgusting.” Said the rookie, forget his name, don’t care. This isn’t the first time he has bitched about a gory crime scene, and it probably won’t be the last time I have to say:

“Get used to it.”

He turned to look at me; I anticipated his words, as we have the exact same conversation every time. “It’s a sad day when you get used to something like this.”

I looked down at the body, the sight truly was disgusting. The victim had a large gaping hole in his stomach, creating a lake of blood which spilled over his sides and stained the off-white tile below. A broken bottle lay by his side, obviously the weapon the killer used to enact such violence. Higher up, the victim’s neck was bruised and yellowing, and a look of complete terror was locked forever across his face. The morticians will have a hard time prettying this guy up for a funeral.

I sighed, “Welcome to San Paro, rookie.”

There was a silence for a few moments, as we stood in our positions, looking solemnly down at the scene. I looked back towards the desk he laid beside, having a stare down with the painting that was left on the desk. It was an empty canvas, save for some weird abstract shapes.

I hate modern art.

An officer came through the only entrance into the apartment, closing the door lightly behind him. It broke the silence, but only barely.

“We’re going back to the station.”

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Chapter 1b: Portrait of a Monster

It was humid in the station, particularly in my office. A plain room, I didn’t feel like personalizing it much. A desk, a computer, and a file cabinet, that was all I needed at work, the only splash of colour being that of the painting from the crime scene, which I had propped up against the back wall.

It wasn’t long before my partner had already infiltrated my desk, typing with nimble fingers, screens flashing and blinking across the old computer monitor.

I couldn’t shirk the feeling I was being watched; I looked back at the painting.

It stared back, its yellow orbs burning a hole in the back of my head.

“Here.”

My partner’s voice broke the silence, the painting suddenly losing its form as it became only a painting once more.
“Molly Mason. Does the name ring a bell?” He said, as he looked back at me, a fat finger pointed at the mugshot of a young woman, barely even seventeen.

“No? Should it?” I asked.

I looked over the mugshot that flashed on the screen dimly. I felt the eyes on the back of my head once more, scratching impulsively in an attempt to shake the feeling.

I looked back and the painting grinned.

“She is the daughter of Derek Mason. Remember him? He was during your time, I believe.”
That name did ring a bell. He was the shortest running commissioner in the history of San Paro. He was forced to step down because...

“No way, that’s her? What does this have to do with the case?”

My partner laughed, I didn’t think the painting was bothering him. I could feel the sweat start to roll down the side of my head. The painting was unnerving; I couldn’t trust the monster.

“Ms. Mason lived with the victim.”

Chapter 2: With Large Yellow Suns

She was going somewhere, she just didn’t know where.

Driving for about six hours now, Molly couldn’t stop, propelled eternally by the sight of her boyfriend being strangled by some...

Monster

A new monster, twisted and evil, unlike any children’s fable or horror movie could conjure. The sight of her boyfriend’s terrified, the sound of his choking, his stifled cries for mercy as the monster killed him in cold blood.

“Sick.” Molly said to herself, fighting back tears as she tried hard to focus on the country road that extended out in front of her for miles, endless, much like her journey, a journey which was only stalled by one minor set-back.

The engine of the Patriot sputtered, trying desperately to draw gas from the empty tank, letting out one last sigh before dying, the wheels falling limp and slowly spinning to a stop.
Molly stared out of the front of the truck, expecting the truck to jump back to life, somehow and some way commit some miracle, some rebellion against the laws of nature.

But it didn’t.

Molly leaned down slowly, resting her head on the large steering wheel and began to snivel, the snivelling turning into spaced sobs, the sobs turning in weeping, the weeping turning to a pure howl of strife. Tears collected along her cheeks, trying lines of redness along the freckled skin. She cried for what seemed like hours, pain welling up in her cheeks, her eyes reddened and bloodshot, disgusting snot gathering on her upper lip, which Molly wiped out without regard for civility, brushing it onto her pant leg. Her fist slammed against the dashboard, against the horn of the car, breaking the natural silence of the forest which surrounded her.

She stepped out of the car, examining her surroundings with swollen features.

There was a sign.

The monster had taken his life, and Molly had taken his car. What difference would it make if they were to use the cottage as well?

Decrepit, infirm, weak, lost.

The cottage was more or less a mirror of Molly, a being of which she could relate to.

It didn’t take much to break open the door, and the noise it made was devoid of hope, the sound of defeat as the monster forced it open. Molly stumbled in after, the smell of dust and decaying wood filling her nostrils as her feet kicked up the dust in the worn and faded “Welcome” mat below. There was scurrying within the hollow walls, rodents stirred by the sudden appearance of a predator.

It wasn’t long before the tired and defeated Molly found the bed, collapsing almost immediately on the dirty mattress below.

Not even sleep offered asylum.

She spiralled, continuously down, looking up towards... Nothing, there was never anything. Anything that was was now gone, lost much farther up. Even if anything was visible it would only be a spot, a speck, a useless piece of hope. But then there was something, something that touched and felt, that saved her from the abyss below. That something set her down on the swirling darkness underneath, and grinned at her, and stared at her...

With large yellow suns.

Wake up, stand up, and brush the dust off the dirty, emaciated arms. She made her way to the bathroom.
Switching on the light, she looked up towards the mirror.

There was a monster.

Intermission: Survival

It wasn’t long before the monster learned to survive...

She had lost count of how many attempts she had given, but her determination was stronger than any mortal being.
Crouched in the brush, staying as silent as the forest around her, she had become one with her surroundings. She might as well have been a rock.

Crack.

She turned her head quickly towards the sound, her fist tightening on the handle of the rusty steak knife in her hand. The moonlight shone through the trees, casting eerie shadows on the surroundings, though revealing other portions of the hectic growth of trees.

A small doe, maybe mid-adolescence, stepped into the light. It picked innocently at the weeds below, unaware of its unfortunate label as prey.

She observed it for a few minutes, remaining completely still in her small bush, her heart pumping quickly, her mind going over the plan in her head.

She would jump out of the bush as the doe neared, taking the knife and plunging it slightly left of the large neck muscle that protruded. The knife would sever the jugular, causing the doe to bleed profusely, until it lost consciousness... until it died.

There was another crack, the doe drew closer. She was ripped from her trance, draw back into moonlit reality. There was one more step...

She jumped out of the bush, taking the knife and plunging it slightly to the left of the large neck muscle that clenched in response to the ambush. It whinnied loudly in pain as the blade of the large steak knife severed the jugular, taking off into the forest in an attempt to escape its inevitable death.

She humoured it, standing in place, her tired, empty eyes following it as it ran. A small grin drew itself across her shadowed face as the doe collapsed further down, prompting her to began making its way towards the suffering animal, picking up the bloodied weapon that had been flung out of its fleshy sheath.

It was wheezing, small beady eyes dashing wildly around the area, jaw agape with its large tongue hanging out in a rather unflattering manner. She knelt down beside the creature, brushing a hand over its muzzle.

“It's just... survival.” She said solemnly, gently caressing the side of the animal’s face as she brought the blade of the knife to it’s neck.

Slit.

Blood pooled underneath, staining her worn jeans at the knees.

((Just sort of as an aside, any constructive criticism or discouraging remarks are greatly appreciated!))

((I'm sorry Dolly, I'm sure I sound like a broken record. I just wasn't sure, because I know my writing isn't flawless, and I want to improve my skills as much as I can. Thank you for the little corrections though, and I'm afraid I was aware of the rogue apostrophes, I just thought that Word was being weird when it was trying to correct me!))

Intermission II: North Passion County, San Paro

Following a string of unregistered deer deaths across the county, investigators have found the bodies of two men in the eastern reaches of Passion County. While investigators are withholding the identities of the bodies of the two men, they will say that the bodies were discovered a few miles apart from each other, with one suffering from severe stab wounds to the neck and chest, the other having sustained a shotgun blast to the head. The local sheriff is unable to provide any suspects for the murders, though it is believed that the particular shotgun belonged to the stabbing victim.

More information will be provided as it is released.

(( You, Sir or Madam, are a writer. A very good one at that, and I applaud thee.))

Chapter 3: Homecoming

I took Monster home.

That’s what I started calling it at least, since the painting was never given any name by its creator, not even signed by this ‘Molly Mason’. I wonder how many Van Gogh’s, how many Piccaso’s, and Dhali’s went unsigned and uncovered, their beauty never exposed to the world.

My door was locked when I got home, the resonation of music sounding from within the darkened home. Dawn was home, and that was quite clear. I raised my hand, clenched in a fist, bringing it down on the door with a firm knock. There was a moment of relative silence, the music making a sudden drop in volume as, from within; I heard the pattering of feet. My hand clenched on the monster under my arm.

My daughter was into this modern art shit. When I gave it to her, she was ecstatic, though I never told her what it actually was. That it was actually part of a crime scene, the creation of a disturbed and lost mind.

“Do you actually care, detective?” That’s what the commissioner said, when I protested the dropping of the Mason case.

The problem was that I don’t actually think I did. That college kid died, and that was the end of him. I never knew him, nor will I ever actually meet him now. His life was null, it was unimportant to my own, and it didn’t make a bit of difference whether he was alive or dead to me.

But, then again, I’m a detective; I should care because finding his killer is my job… At least for now it is, with the dawn of the City Security Act.

My daughter, Dawn, was sixteen and a complete left-wing. She hated my career choice and I hated the look of disappointment she always gave the badge that sat on my chest. She listened to all the anarchic and obnoxious music, read all of the pseudo-intellectual books on politics and authority.

I don’t think I hated her though.
It wasn’t until a few days later that my daughter actually dropped the question, in the middle of dinner. It was just us two that night.

“Hey Pete, who created that painting you gave me?”

She never called me ‘Dad’, even though I was her biological father. She thought it was some symbol of unwarranted authority. I don’t hate her for it though.

“I don’t know, some bum selling his stuff in a Havalynd artist’s alley.”

She grinned, picking up the obvious fib, replying with her usual mock-arrogant gusto.

“That’s interesting, because a certain site I visited had some leaked information about a strange painting found on a crime scene.”

I growled. It was out of frustration, not hate.

“Okay, Dawn, it’s from a scene. They closed the case, saying there were much larger problems to deal with.”

Dawn scoffed, shaking her head. “Probably more important to look after the murder of some oppressive capitalist, fuckin’ pigs.” She muttered under her breath, taking in a forkful of mashed potatoes.

“I care. Don’t swear. Besides, you know how San Paro is now, especially with the dawn of the CSA. The riots have the office busy twenty-four-seven.” I retaliated half-heartedly, because I wasn’t too sure if I cared yet or not.

Dawn growled at me, just like I did earlier. I guess she is a lot like me in some aspects.

“Don’t order me around Pete, I can say whatever I want! It’s just a word.” She paused for a moment, pushing at her food with the fork.

“This CSA thing is so stupid. It’s the exact opposite of what we need for social progress!”

I gave her a strange look. I find it interesting that all she can do is pout and moan about ‘social progress’ and ‘authority’ but never actually offer any solutions.

I decided to delve.

“So, what is it that we need for social progress, Dawn?”

With that, she left the table. Leaving bits and pieces of her dinner on her plate.

(Keeps getting better and better, Molly. This certainly sits as one of the most emotionally stimulating pieces that I've read.)

Chapter 4: Cannibalism?


A red mirror had formed on the ground beneath her feet, a lake fed by a similarly red river which flowed from the lifeless corpse of Molly, which lay just a few feet from her. Her hideous monstrosity of a figure reflected in the strange substance, though the image brought forward no emotion, except for an overwhelming sense of power, immortality.

Her gaze moved from herself to the carcass ahead, which she examined which dark curiosity. The slender, thin body, naked and sprawled on the ground carelessly. Her eyes were open, wide-enough to assume that her death was a horrid one, far from any quick or painless or enjoyable death. She left the world in fear.

She took a few heavy steps forward, till she felt her toes touch the snowy, cold skin of her former self and she was once more looking at a mirror, but instead of showing her hideous figure... She saw a reflection which transcended time, revealing herself not now, but then. She knelt down, running a twisted claw down the center of her torso, soft enough to be consider a loving touch, but hard enough to create a deep incision which would rend flesh and muscle to expose the disgusting innards within.

There was no blood as she reached deep inside, and began to devour herself.