by Jade Wright
The last stage of decomposition is Rigor Mortis.
I remember the first time I saw it. I was on a road-trip and this horse was just lying in the middle of a roundabout. It must have been hit by a car. It's legs were sticking right up in the air.
I couldn't look away.
In Rigor Mortis all the muscles in your body contract and stiffen up. The body can stay that way for a good day or two.
That is how I want the police to find The Corpse de Ballet.
I have the costumes for it and everything!
The scene will look so beautiful. Maggots and flies will be feeding from them.
I can picture it now...
It can't happen any later than that. If they aren't smart enough to figure it out I'm going to have to plant more clues.
If I leave it too long, their bodies will start to liquify.
Their hair and teeth will start to fall out.
My scene will be ruined.
I can't have that.
I may have lost Luke, but this part of the plan has to play out the way I see it in my head.
It is only a matter of time – and I know I need to make my next move.
I hadn't quite expected it – but I'm having so much fun!
It's become a game. One I think I might just stick around for, even though you put a bullet between you're fucking eyes, Luke, my love.
I let a few more minutes pass me by as I pick at a scab on my ankle. I pinch the skin, forcing the fresh blood out. I let it trickle warmly down into my sock.
A helicopter is circling the woods overhead.
They're getting closer, as I knew they would.
I know they're looking for my girls.
I've had to cover up the old couples graves by scattering old rusted drums over them. Make it seem less conspicuous.
I was able to find big plastic sheets to lay over the tops of the open ones for now. I'm hoping the pilots won't get curious and send a search party here.
I think I've covered it all up as best I can.
I suppose it's time for me to tell them. Break the news.
I wonder how they'll react.
As different as we are, the one thing we all have in common is that we did actually love Luke. He had that way with women, you know? This power over us. Like a fucking Harry Potter love potion. But, just like good old Hermione says, it doesn't actually produce love.
No!
It produces infatuation... obsession.
I pick myself up from the sodden ground, keeping my eyes trained on the helicopter above as I make my way to the building. The whore house, I should say.
I circle the girls as I choose my words.
“I have something to tell you all,” my head is held high.
I can't wait to see their faces. Break their hearts.
We can suffer through this together!
I suddenly feel like I am not alone. Yes, Luke, my darling, I hate you. But there's no denying that there is a little twinge in my heart! A subtle pang of pain remembering the days spent with you.
How happy I was.
Knowing that will never be possible again does sting, just a little bit.
It's not like I'm going to cry or anything.
Oh no!
I will however be able feed off of their emotions. Feel their heartache.
It's how I'm supposed to feel, you see.
They aren't completely useless after all. They teach me how to act if someone asks me about Luke's death.
I can mimic them. I've always been good at that.
Perhaps they could even teach me a thing or two about empathy. So really, having these sluts here is a marvellous thing.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I have gathered you all here today,” I try and sound professional, like a preacher, but I can't help stifling a laugh.
“It is with a heavy heart,” I continue, my hand on my chest.
“That I must announce the passing of our beloved Luke Archer.”
Bibiana hangs her head low and starts sobbing silently.
Some are staring at me angrily, others are blinking back the tears, shaking their heads.
“Have you all come to realise what you have in common, yet? Besides being dancers, I mean. You must see there's a reason you're all in this room together, surely?” I ask, looking each and every one of them in the eyes.
It's Chloe who tries to speak.
I saunter over to her and rip off the duct tape.
“Start to scream and I'll start slicing off your fingers,” I warn her.
“We're all here because we were all with Luke?” she asks, her voice hoarse.
“Ding, ding, ding!” I pat her on the head as a reward.
“First guess, too! You are a smart little one aren't you?”
One of the other girls starts to thrash wildly, shaking her head at me with big wide eyes.
“Oh yes. Forgot about you. Sorry sweetheart. Collateral damage,” I wink.
“Tell us, Verity, what does your name actually mean?” I already know the answer, but remove the tape from around her mouth and let her speak.
“It means, Truth,” she whispers, staring at the ground.
“Exactly!” I say excitedly, jumping up and down.
This just keeps on getting better and better.
“And what was it you just said, Chloe?”
“That we've all been with Luke,” she's crying now.
“All except you,” I wiggle the knife in Verity's direction.
“I'm sorry you have to die because of all of these whores,” I try to sound genuine but I fear I have failed.
“I didn't do anything. Please let me go. I won't tell anyone. I promise!” she begs me.
Bibiana looks at her in disbelief.
Oh the joys!
“Honey, I have no more trust in you than I do for these whores. Now, Bibiana. Tell me, how does it feel knowing all these girls, your so called 'friends,' were opening their legs for Luke behind your back while you were with him?” I want to see her angry, betrayed.
I need to see her emotions unfold, but she's not looking at me. She's just sobbing, mucous dripping down onto her shirt.
“Bibiana!” I scream, making all of the girls jump.
“Angry!” she cries, her voice echoing throughout the basement.
“That's it!” I can feel the adrenalin coursing through my body as I approach her.
“Who are you most angry at?” I want to make her choose, but she shakes her head in response.
I grip a handful of her hair and pull her close to me. Our noses are just about touching.
“If you don't choose right now, I'll hack off every inch of hair on your pathetic little head,” I warn her.
She's trembling as she looks up at me, eyes full of hate.
Then she swivels and looks right at one of the girls.
“Her,” she whispers.
The girls eyes are colossal. She knows Bibiana has just chosen her to be the first victim.
We're all about to watch her die.
It feels like my body is vibrating I have so much excitement inside of me.
“Good. Now, I am going to untie you Bibiana. I want you to do exactly as I say. If you don't, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”
She nods slowly, her chest heaving up and down.
This is the most fun I have had in days. I don't know how much longer I can contain myself.
“I want you to feel what it feels like. It's incredible!” I'm laughing hysterically as I remove the bindings on her wrists and ankles. Drool falls down my chin.
“Stand up,” I tell her, my smile so big it hurts.
She can barely hold herself up.
It takes a while for her to find her footing.
“Now walk with me over to her. Think about how angry you are at her. She slept with your boyfriend. She lied to you, Bibiana,” I'm whispering right into her ear.
She has to hold onto my arm for support as we walk. She became weak so quickly
.
I am buzzing as we stand in front of the girl.
“Now take this knife and take your anger out on her. Slowly at first. Play with her. You'll like it! You'll see,” I am so thrilled to be sharing my desires with someone. Allowing someone to understand me.
She's going to see how thrilling it is.
I won't be alone anymore.
I drop the knife into the palm of her hand, holding tightly onto her chin just in case. One wrong move and I'll snap her neck.
I know how. Google is a wonderful thing.
The girl in the seat in front of us is writhing away, trying her best to fight.
She knows she has no chance.
We all do.
There's a tremor in Bibiana's arm as she brings the knife closer to the girls face. I wonder if she's as excited as me.
“Draw the blade around her face,” I tell her.
She does as I say, just tickling the girls skin.
“Press harder,” my voice is austere.
The girl flinches as the tip of the blade breaks through the surface of skin on her cheek.
Bibiana's knees are shaking, as if she's about to collapse.
“Go down to her chin,” I say, watching as the blade cuts right down the girls jawline.
She is clenching her teeth together, screaming in agony.
“Deeper!”
As I shout my instructions, Bibiana whirls around.
I realise I'd stupidly loosened my grip on her neck in all of my excitement.
She swings at me, knife in hand but I am easily able to block her.
She's limping towards me as I walk backwards, refusing to take my eyes off of her.
I hear a crash behind me and quickly whip my head around to look but it's too late. Verity managed to crash to the floor, still bound, but I trip over her and land hard on my back.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“You stupid girl!” I snarl, trying to scramble to my feet but there's a searing ache in my shoulder from where I had connected with the concrete.
Bibiana is standing right over me.
“No. You're the stupid one, Ms. Brady,” she says before plunging the knife right into the side of my neck.
CHAPTER 23
I come around to the wails of an ambulance and a paramedic rushing up to me.
I am on the floor of a basement, choking on my own blood.
It hurts.
My pulse is out of control.
My neck is throbbing.
The pain is unreal. I must be dreaming.
I don't understand. Where am I?
My vision is blurred but I blink until I can make out a bunch of figures around me.
More paramedics are checking vitals on other people. Other girls. The girls.
They've found them!
I can hardly believe it.
I try to smile, to look around for my sister – but I can't move.
I am paralysed.
The only thing I can feel is fear creeping up my spine.
The area is being cordoned off.
Criminalists and the homicide squad are on the scene.
Have people died? Nothing makes any sense.
My visions hazy, but I can see people dusting for fingerprints.
IV needles are being put into some of the girls arms.
The paramedic is applying pressure to my neck as I'm carried outside on a stretcher. I don't know what is going on.
Crime scene investigators are peering down into what appears to be open graves.
One of the girls is pointing at me, telling a police officer something but I can't make out any words. I want to call out to them. Help me.
My ears are ringing. The ambulance is blaring. Sirens are screaming all around me.
I try to swallow but it's impossible.
Someone is pointing a camera lens in my face. I'm blinded by the flash as I get hoisted up into the ambulance.
I look up at the paramedic, terror in my eyes. The way he is looking at me alarms me even more.
I can tell he doesn't think I'm going to make it.
How did I get here?
Who did this to me?
Was I abducted?
Why don't I remember anything?
I feel my body going cold.
I am so tired.
I try to fight it but eventually I let my eyes close.
There's a tumbling sensation.
I'm falling, weakening, letting go.
The sirens fade away as I give in to sleep.
*
Four Months Later
Karen, one of the carers is spooning some sort of vile mush into my mouth.
It's supposed to be mashed potatoes, I think.
I am wasting away. My muscles have deteriorated.
Another carer, Kenyon, is massaging my feet. I wish I could kick her, but I have no feeling left from my shoulders down.
The massaging helps to stimulate my nerves, apparently.
They do all sorts of pointless stuff to my body really.
None of it works. Not the massages or heat packs or silly 'exercises.'
My nerves and muscles have deserted me, just like everything and everyone else in life.
They aren't happy to be dealing with me.
No one ever is.
I'm the girl who abducted all of those girls.
I murdered an elderly couple who were out on a little stroll. I've learned their names now. Amanda and Casey. I think hearing their names was supposed to make me feel something for them.
It didn't.
I'm the girl who drove Luke mad, made him shoot up the school.
I killed his parents out of spite.
I pretended to be my twin sister for months.
Yes, it was all me.
Why?
That's the most common question I get asked.
'Why not?' I'd responded with a little twinkle in my eye.
What's the point in trying to explain it to them?
They would never understand anyway. The need for revenge. The anger and the pain. The resentment and God-damned torture I was put through that led to this!
For years my sister stood idly by, watching as our foster father touched me.
She never helped.
Why me?
Maybe they could never tell us apart and they didn't know they were always only going after me.
Either way, I hated her there and then for never helping me.
I'd cry and I'd cry as our foster dad would whisper into my ear, telling me how he'd come find me and kill me if I ever told anyone about 'our little secret'.
I was petrified.
I kept my mouth shut for years.
Robyn would slink away into the shadows, pretending not to hear what was going on.
How could she do that to me?
That is where this side of me came from, I think, but more on that later.
There's so much to tell you.
I've gotten what I deserve, they say.
I have a fucking suppository up my ass for God's sake.
They say the likelihood of me ever walking again is slim but not impossible – but for now, I am a quadriplegic patient getting spoon fed shit and watching my organs fail me.
It is humiliating.
I'd rather be fucking dead.
Border Line Personality Disorder. That was my diagnoses as a child.
Oh how wrong they were.
Sometimes I wonder if they'd realised the misdiagnoses sooner, would any of this have happened?
You see, so really it is all their fault. The doctors and the nurses who told me I was something I wasn't.
Labelled me.
Medicated me.
It wasn't bipolar disorder at all!
After that fucking bitch stabbed me in the neck, I was in intensive care for a while. I was teetering on the edge of life and death for weeks – but, I've always been a fighter.
I never gave up.
At first, no one knew who I actually was.
Fingerprints answered their questions, as I wasn't to be trusted of course and Robyn was in a coma.
When I was finally rested up enough and able to speak again, the questioning began.
Doctor after doctor picked at my brain. My beautifully chaotic mangled brain.
Diagnostic tests were done.
I was slid into a tiny little tube that reminded me of a morgue.
It's as scary as they say it is, being there.
I've never been one to suffer from claustrophobia but holy shit, that could break the bravest of people.
Magnetic resonance imaging was done and it felt like I was trapped in that little tube for hours while nosy doctors analysed images of what really was going on in my head.
The invasion was distressing, to say the least.
Combined with my childhood trauma, history of eating disorders, the blackouts and the sleeping problems... it all led the doctors to the same, complex conclusion.
Multiple personality disorder; or Dissociative Identity Disorder as others like to call it.
I was 'predisposed' to the condition, they say.
Fucking hooray.
One of my favorite true crime podcasts, My Favorite Murder, have a quote – well, they have loads of brilliant quotes actually. Quotes like:
'Toxic masculinity ruins the party again.'
True. So very, very true.
'Stay sexy, don't get murdered.'
Ha!
'Here's the thing, fuck everyone.'
I do love that one.
But right now, I think my favorite must be:
'Talk about your trauma.'
Oops.
Guess I should have done that.
The doctors say there is no cure for what I have.
I go to psychotherapy, though. I have to talk about my childhood all the time now, something I used to avoid at all costs.
We have to find my 'triggers.'
What is it that sets me off?
They're picking me apart, diving into the darkest corners of my life.
I am in my own personal hell.
It took some time to even start piecing together what happened but through time, little bits were revealed.
Hypnotists, clairvoyants and psychics were all called in to help like a fucking cavalry.
I had a breakdown and somehow I created this other life, where I was my sister. Two other lives, really.
