Alphabet Soup for the Tormented Soul

by Tobias Wade

  “Olivia?”

  “I’m...I...yes, I... Who are you?” Not too eloquent, but that’s what I said.

  “You can think of me as Mora.” I could hear her, even though her mouth wasn’t moving when she spoke.

  “How... ?” I gestured around us at the endless, swirling black.

  “Everything is happening at once. All at once, right now. The leading edge is the same as the very end of the line,” she answered. The more she spoke, the more she seemed to be slowly unraveling.

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “That’s ok.”

  “But, I mean, what’s going on?” I was getting dizzy trying to focus on her as she shifted in and out of form. Her answers were making me very impatient.

  “The universe is afraid of its own end. Consciousness in form is the universe's way of awakening to its own immortality. In the silence of the void, there is a voice. The voice listening to itself. The voice realizing it is the void, and the void is alive. There is circle after circle of understanding. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “That’s ok.”

  I waited for her to say something else, but she was silently evaporating into a horizontal mist. Looking down I saw that I was starting to do the same.

  “Why are you telling me these things?” I asked, distracted again by the swirling particles.

  “Because we need you. So I need you to wake up.”

  As soon as she said, “wake up,” I felt myself being pulled like a yo-yo on a string, snapping backwards in the darkness. I watched my own particles blowing away from me like dust, leaving a trail of mist in what appeared to be a long, dark tunnel. Then the darkness shifted to the familiar darkness that lives behind my eyes. I felt my body, my real solid body, and then I felt the pain. I noticed I was suffocating. Warm, humid, air was breathing for me through a mechanical respirator. I must have started to flail around in my panic because I was given a shot and fell asleep.

  When I woke up again, I was in a blindingly-white hospital room, surrounded by doctors. They told me I had lost consciousness after impact with the truck. I was rushed to surgery for internal injuries, but apparently had 'died' on the operating table. They “shocked me back” and put me on life support. The accident broke my sternum, three ribs, my right knee, and resulted in severe closed head trauma. Because of my internal injuries, they had to remove a nice-sized chunk of my bowel. I mimed, “I want to write”, by using a finger to scribble over the opposite palm. The doctor pulled a pad and pen out of his pocket and handed it to me. His eyes were a dusty shade of blue, the color of cornflowers.

  “When can I go back to work”? I wrote.

  “That’s tricky”, he said. “We’ve left you with what we’d call ‘short gut syndrome’, which can result in intermittent incontinence. And head injuries such as yours often result in severe migraines. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves though. You’re going to get stronger every day, I promise. Let’s get you off this respirator and just take it one step a time. Sound good?”

  No. It did not sound good. With no family of my own, my job was my life. Still, I nodded. What else was there to do?

  I was on the respirator for two more warm, wet, and suffocating days, then I was moved to the room that would be my home for the next seven weeks.

  A few days after moving to the new room, I was lying on my bed, feeling loopy from the morphine drip, and thinking about drinking orange juice. The cup was just out of reach on my bedside table. I remember feeling a wave of injustice and anger come over me. Not about the accident, or my injuries, or being stuck in a hospital unable to work, possibly forever. No. I was angry about not being able to reach the damn orange juice. I was fucking furious at the orange juice. I was glaring at it, with everything I had, and then- BOOM! It exploded. Orange juice flying absolutely everywhere.

  Honestly, it was exhilarating. I spent the next seven weeks popping gauze pads, glycerin swabs, any little thing that wouldn’t make too much of a mess.

  The first person I looked up after I got out of the hospital was the driver of the silver Toyota. He was picked up for felony reckless driving, but let go on a technicality. So I did some digging. I was a paralegal before my injuries forced me to take long-term disability so I knew my way around court documents. It also didn’t hurt that I was good friends with a few of the clerks at the court. It turns out I wasn’t the first person he’d seriously hurt, bu this connections just kept finding him loopholes to skip through.

  I decided I should find him in person. Maybe this guy just looked bad on paper. Maybe he’d apologize. I was hoping for any redeeming quality.

  Nope.

  When I told him who I was he laughed and said, “Were you this ugly before I hit you?” Then, he dropped to the floor, holding his head and screaming. He got what he deserved, a Subarachnoid Hemorrhage from an aneurysm exploding in his brain. Nasty things, those. So very sad.

  Three days later, I let myself into my apartment only to find a man sitting at my dining room table. He was wearing an expensive looking suit and smoking a cigarette. He had obviously been there awhile because smoke was swirling around him in a thick haze. I suppose I should have been shocked or terrified. The truth is I was expecting him.

  “Can I help you?”

  He looked up from a mess of open folders and said, “Olivia, come here, I need you to take a look at this.”

  I blinked, hard, and then I walked over to the table.

  “Can I ask your name?”

  “Mr. W. Olivia, please take a look at these pictures.” I looked over his shoulder at four open folders with pictures splayed out in piles. I can’t, no, I won’t, tell you what I saw the people in those pictures doing. Imagine for a moment the worst abuse to the most innocent of victims, and you might have a pretty good idea.

  “Olivia, What I have here is a four-way split video call. You’ll see that our agents have these four suspects in custody. Can you positively match the person on each screen to the pictures on the table in front of you?”

  I looked from the pictures to the screens one at a time. Carefully. There were three men and one woman. Each of the agents was wearing the same blue shirt and white pants Mora had worn.

  “Yes.”

  I haven’t mentioned my childhood, and I won’t go into detail about it. What I will say is that the woman on the screen bore a striking resemblance to my mother’s best friend, Marie. Same red hair, freckles, green eyes. Marie hurt me, just like the woman on the screen had hurt the child in the pictures spread across her file. The child who bore a striking resemblance to me: blonde hair, brown eyes, freckles.

  “Ok, Olivia. Please understand that these people have not been convicted of any crime. In fact, they aren’t even being tried. These pictures were obtained illegally so they are not admissible in court. And they are innocent until proven guilty. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  I looked back at the monitor and watched as each of them fell like marionettes being cut from their strings. One after the other, until all four were writhing on the floor clutching their heads, screaming.

  Mr. W looked up at me, his eyes squinting in a genuine smile. “Welcome to Moirai, Olivia. We are so happy to have you.”

  That was seven years ago. I’m 33 now, and I’m getting better with my power every day. More precise. I’ve been practicing. Mr. W tells me that they will be needing me more than ever in the days to come. I’d ask you to wish me luck, but I don’t need it. I have been getting stronger every day.

  And I’m strong enough now.

  P is for Prey

  Kaitlynn Cooney

  Pretty prey, pretty pretty little prey...

  Welcome to How to Pick Your Prey: The Step By Step Instruction manual, where you have the honor of learning from the master on how to, well, you read the title! But before we get into the nitty-gritty, let me introduce myself.

  My name is Kate and I guess you could s
ay that I have a peculiar hobby. You guessed it, baby! I absolutely adore killing people! Oh how I crave the blood that seeps out of their veins, the air that escapes their lungs and that oh so charming way they beg for their lives (as if that has ever worked before!). Especially with Darren, he sure loved to beg for help! He was technically my first “kill” but I guess I can’t really take too much credit for him, considering he already had a knife sticking out of his chest by the time we met.

  I was a sixth grader just minding my own business when I stumbled upon Darren’s embarrassing pleas for help. He was so loud and just so pitiful. His selfish squawking ruined an otherwise peaceful walk through the woods. As soon as he saw my little frame slide into view, I swear he shit himself from excitement.

  “Please, please help me. I’ve been stabbed. My name is Darren...” he gurgled, struggling to get up.

  He was making quite a mess. Blood everywhere, intestines poking out. Whoever stabbed him really did a number on him.

  “Please go get help. Call your parents, the police, anyone. Please.”

  But I didn’t call anyone. No sir. I just smiled and cocked my head to the side. His blood was darker than I thought it would be. It looked like oil—I wondered if it felt like it too...

  “I.. need.. help...” the man said slowly. He must think I’m dumb.

  My sneakers crunched over the fallen leaves, slick with blood. I was closer now; I could hear his lungs struggling for air. The stabber must have punctured one of them. Smart man. But he obviously didn’t do a good enough job.

  I knelt before Darren and smiled. “Let me help,” I whispered.

  Relief flooded his face right before the blood did. The knife was lighter than I had imagined, so easy to remove from the chest. And his neck, well his neck was thinner than paper—so easy to slice a neat line across. But I didn’t stay to feel the blood, no matter how much I wanted to. It would have gotten all over my jeans. And that would have made quite the mess.

  It’s a shame Darren never got to see what I did to him. But you can see! Oh yes, you get to see ;)

  1. So you’ve decided to kill someone, that’s great! Trust me, it’s an awesome feeling. First things first, every hunter needs their territory, right? So find your territory, Simba!

  Bars work the best. The dim lighting and abundance of social lubricant usually make people trust strangers quicker than they normally would, if, let’s say, you were at a park or somewhere normal humans go. The bar you pick should be seedy but not too seedy. Something right in the middle. A place that doesn’t have cameras, obviously.

  2. Never, ever, ever, ever, EVER pick the same bar twice. It doesn’t matter if you like the $2 draft special they have or if the chicken wings are simply to die for, you NEVER go to the same bar twice to pick your prey. You may be recognized. You do not want to be recognized.

  3. Even though you don’t want to be recognized, you do want to look good! Put on a tight skirt, do your hair and paint your lips red. Look pretty! Oh, and don’t forget to put the girls on display, they will be needed later.

  4. Ok, so you’re at the bar, you look hot as hell, now what? Well now it’s time to pick your prey! Set yourself up by a table by the back of the bar, somewhere where you can sit and wait. Grab yourself a drink (just one!) and try to appear natural.

  While you’re waiting, don’t read a book like a dumbass. Boys don’t like smart girls. They like to have the upper hand; they don’t like to be intimidated. So play on your phone like a good little girl. Personally, I enjoy reading Reddit while I wait.

  5. Pretty prey, pretty pretty little prey. Who should you choose? Not the man surrounded by a group of friends, that’s for sure. You don’t want anyone to wonder where he’s gone off to....or who he’s gone off with.

  How about one of the three men at the bar? Yes, yes they look all alone now don’t they? One of them will be perfect for you.

  Pretty prey, pretty pretty little prey. Who should you choose? Not the fat, ugly one, that’s obvious. He would be easy, there is no doubt about that. He would simply adore the attention you give him, fawning over your every word and greedily eyeing your breasts with hunger. When you suggest taking him back to your place, he will eagerly follow like a little lap puppy. But he will be a bad lay. And he would be far too heavy to drag down the stairs later.

  Pretty prey, pretty pretty little prey. Who should you choose? Not the handsome one, darling. It’s obvious you want the handsome one. And why wouldn’t you? He could make any girl’s panties drop to the floor with a simple wink, a caress of the arm. He would be a great fuck too; you wouldn’t even have to fake the grin spread across your face, the wetness between your thighs, the hungry moan escaping your lips. But you can’t have him, no matter how much you want him. His pretty little face would be splashed across the news the next day. Humans always mourn the attractive ones, always notice when they are missing. So you can’t have the handsome one. No, you can’t.

  Pretty prey, pretty pretty little prey. Who should you choose? Ah, the one just right! Not too handsome, but not entirely unattractive either—right in the middle. He will appreciate your attention but he won’t embarrass himself fawning over you. He will have a typical office job (they always do), a typical life, a typical house, a typical dick.

  And best of all, he won’t be missed.

  6. Stalk your pretty little prey. Watch what he drinks, when he drinks, how he moves his hands. Watch him for 20 minutes—no longer, no less.

  7. Looks like you finished your drink! It’s time to get a new one, yes? Head to the bar and squeeze in next to him, touching his shoulder lightly. He will notice you (they always do).

  8. Grab the bartender’s attention but ignore your prey. Ask for a beer, a cheap one. Then lean back slightly, giving your prey the perfect chance to check you out. If he’s not already checking you out by now, adjust your bra strap. That usually gets the guys going.

  9. Grab your beer and fumble for your wallet, making a big show about how you can’t seem to find the $2 you need for your beer. Look sheepish, embarrassed, like a damsel in distress. Your prey will notice, of course he will notice! And he will wave the bartender down and tell him that he’s got you covered like the little hero he is. Because, of course, he wants to talk to you. They always want to talk to you.

  10. You oblige for one hour.

  11. Don’t shit where you eat! Meaning: don’t kill your prey at the bar. That would be downright silly (and messy). Also, don’t actually shit where you eat. That’s just disgusting. Where did that term even come from? People are sick.

  Tell your prey that you should be leaving soon, that you have SUCH a busy day tomorrow but he’s really made your night enjoyable. Your prey will look disappointed; he thought he would be getting lucky tonight. That’s when you smile and ask him if he would like to head back to your place for a little nightcap. His face will light up, his dick will grow hard. You’ll leave hand in hand.

  12. Take him to your apartment. Though it’s not really your apartment, of course. It’s really your landlord’s apartment. But it’s ok, she won’t find out. Her body is buried in the backyard under those petunias she always loved so much.

  Pretty prey, pretty pretty little prey. It’s almost time!

  13. Lock the door behind you both and offer him a drink. He will say yes. Leave him in the living room while you fix two drinks. One will have a hefty dose of roofies (among other things). Don’t drink that one.

  14. Make sure he has finished all of his drink, down to the last drop.

  15. Seduce.

  16. Undress.

  17. Fuck.

  18. He will finish before the roofies kick in, if you’ve timed it right. He will try to get up now, try to leave. But you don’t let him. You will push him back on the bed. He will feel dizzy, he will feel guarded. He will be confused.

  Pretty prey, pretty pretty little prey.

  19. Enlighten the poor dumb bastard. Tell him that you are going to ki
ll him. Watch as his laughter fades to fear when he realizes you are serious. Watch as he dimly struggles against the haze taking over. It’s pointless to struggle, it’s pointless to beg.

  “Why are you doing this to me...” he whispers.

  Don’t answer. You don’t owe him anything.

  20. Straddle your pretty prey and reach for the knife under your pillow. You prefer a long blade, something sharp. But you don’t want it to end it too quickly. No, you like to take your time. You love the feeling of digging that blade into his flesh, hearing him moan in an entirely different way than you heard him moan before. Pleasure and pain, pleasure and pain. You love watching him struggle to move, to breathe. Skin is so easy to tear apart, especially the belly. Slice him like a fish, unravel his intestines, keep him alive long enough to wish he wasn’t.

  Pretty prey, pretty pretty prey. Time to die.

  21. Oh my, what a mess! Your prey is a bloody puddle on your sheets. How rude. How messy. It’s time to clean.

  Wipe him down and wrap him in plastic, careful to tie up the loose ends. You don’t want any blood to get out! Strip the bed, and gather your clothes. Throw the clothes and the sheets into a trash bag (good thing you have a spare change of clothes!) Wash your floors and dust anything that he touched. Take a shower, a nice long one. You earned it!

  22. Time to dispose of the body! This is the fun part. Take your prey down to the basement. Hydrochloric acid works well on pesky bodies. You can find anything on Amazon.

  23. After an exhilarating night, don’t you think you deserve a little fresh air? Grab the trash bag full of the bloody clothes and sheets and head out. Oh, and don’t forget his phone. You’ll need that too.

  24. Take the bag and the phone to your coworker’s house. Yes, the coworker who is just so annoying. They never seem to shut up, do they? That’s why they make such a great safety net—someone to blame. Bury the bag of bloody clothes deep in their backyard. Still on their property, of course, but far enough away so they won’t notice. Paul is never one to notice the obvious.