Murdering Her Light

by Michael Clement

  Murdering Her Light

  Lost in the Dark - Book One

  Written by Michael Clement

  http://www.michaelclement.me

  https://facebook.com/MichaelClementAuthor

  Cover Design by Michael Clement

  Stock photo purchased at 123rf.com.

  Copyright © www.123rf.com/ profile_doublev

  All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner . Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2018 Goldenfire Media, LLC

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my one true love… Renee.

  Books written by Michael Clement

  Maxwell Torant Series

  Conquering Her Darkness

  Master No More

  Broken By Pride

  The Bloody Road to Heaven

  Other Novels

  Blood Covered K isses

  - 1 -

  The first time that I twisted, I was seven years old. I was missing for four months, before I turned up on my mother’s doorstep. My parents had placed my face on milk cartons all over Wisconsin, without any luck. I know that in their hearts, they had given up on ever seeing me alive again.

  It had happened again when I was eleven, and then a third time when I was seventeen. Each time I disappeared for about four months, and every time, I couldn’t remember where I had been or what had happened to me.

  My parents divorced after the third time. The stress of their daughter disappearing repeatedly ripped their marriage apart and forced my father into a self-induced drinking binge that never ended. To cope, my mother took me to counselor after counselor. They tried everything... nothing worked. Next, Mom took me to priests, rabbis, and even a witch or two. Prayer and meditation didn’t work any better than talking and counseling. And, the witches didn’t know a thing about real magic.

  When I reappeared at four, I was wearing a buckskin leather dress with Indian beads sewn into it. Mom researched, investigated, and downright bribed tribe after tribe... None of them could identify the beadwork, which should have been impossible. Each Indian tribe has a pattern as distinct as a fingerprint. Every tribe that we visited swore that it was real Native American work, they just couldn’t place the tribe who create it.

  I suspected that Mom even slept with several Indian chiefs, in order to sway them to tell her what she wanted to hear.

  Even that didn’t help.

  At eleven, I was found sitting under the apple tree behind our house after being gone for four months. I was as naked as a jaybird and twice as high. It took several months to detox me in a residential facility. Apparently, wherever I had been, I had been on a good trip.

  The strange thing is, no one could identify the substances in my blood, or the tattoos that covered my right arm. They were colorful, showing creatures out of legend, possibly in a mad hatter sort of way. Rabbits with the teeth of sharks and the claws of lions hunted men that looked like they had been mixed together with a toadstool and then spat out in violent purple and pink. Their mushroom caps were on fire, and they had short spears in their hands. Pixies with tentacles growing out of their stomachs cavorted around human skulls while they copulated under a tree that looked alive.

  The tattoo horrified my father. He said the tree’s eyes followed him when he wasn’t looking. It nearly drove him crazy.

  Dad tried to remove my tattoo, several times. But, it wouldn't come off. No matter what technique the professionals used, it always came back. And worse, it spread to my upper chest and back. Lion-like monsters with feathers instead of manes roamed my shoulders while creatures flew above my chest covered in eyeballs and tentacles.

  That’s when dad started drinking heavily. The drugs and the other women came later.

  The neighbors found me when I returned at seventeen wearing silk robes and not much else. Leather manacles covered my wrists, ankles, and neck. My mother took me to a gynecologist who swore that I wasn’t a virgin anymore and, that I had given birth recently. Mom laughed at her. Then, she began screaming that I was only gone for four months.

  That was the first time that mom was incarcerated in the local nut house. She was there for two months, leaving me alone with my aunt and uncle. Dad had been drinking heavily, and the family thought that a young girl shouldn’t stay alone with an alcoholic father.

  They were just idiots. Dad would never hurt me.

  Sometimes, late at night, I felt a deep and forbidden loss, when I was drifting off to sleep. I could feel a little hand grasping my finger… and then nothing. I awoke with my pillowcase drenched in tears.

  Arabic-like symbols ran up and down the inside of my left arm, and when no one was watching the words changed. I couldn’t prove it, but I knew that they did. And, they itched. No matter what type of cream I lathered on them, they scratched at my soul every time they changed.

  I almost joined my mother in the nuthouse... my sanity was hanging on by a shred.

  I ran away from my aunt and uncle's house and lived on the streets until mom came home. My uncle was a little too… hands on.

  And, he was fascinated by my piercings.

  I had two silver loops in either edge of my bottom lip. Both of my nipples were pierced and so was my vagina. I didn’t remember getting any of them.

  When dad found out that my clit was pierced, he lost his mind. The thought of someone fucking me drove him nuts, especially when he remembered the manacles. They weren’t slave manacles designed to never come off.

  No, they were the sort that BDSM practitioners used, all leather and buckles.

  Good Christian girls shouldn’t enjoy getting tied up and spanked, he swore. The missionary position was what they should desire.

  But, I didn’t.

  I never told him that I kept one of them in my room, under my pillow. There was something about the scent of that particular leather that made me feel safe.

  When the neighbors brought me home, mom had discovered fresh whip marks on my ass. I really don’t remember any of it. Dad told me that mom had cried herself to sleep that night, nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels.

  The wounds healed and went away completely, without a scar or a reminder of them ever being there. Again, the doctor’s said that it was impossible. That mom must have been drunk.

  But, she kept pictures in a scrapbook along with her other research on my condition that proved them wrong.

  Mom began to study Arabic and Hindu, but the words on my arm defied even the three college professors that she shacked up with. Pot, cannabis, and cocaine entered my mom’s world, as she sought to make sense of what was happening to her only daughter, while she buried her grief beneath three different men.

  Homeschooling was my only option. Mom just couldn’t handle the whispers, rumors, and downright nastiness of the other parents. The assholes refused to believe that my parents h
ad no idea what was happening to me… or weren’t involved in some twisted way.

  After the first disappearance, my parents had watched me like a hawk, terrified that I would be taken again. It didn’t help. I was at a birthday party when I disappeared when I was eleven, and in my bedroom when I was seventeen.

  After being taken three times, they got tired and distracted by their addictions and grief. I wasn’t ever going to be the little girl who they imagined and dreamed about when I was born. College was out of the question and no one wanted to date me.

  I was the crazy girl, the one who their parents warned them not to fuck, under any circumstances.

  Under my tattoos, I can feel strips of metal. The doctors have looked for them, but they can’t find anything. Except, I set off metal detectors like I’m carrying a neutron bomb.

  Electronic devices hate me. It’s like I have a giant magnet in my body that can’t wait to fuck with everything around me. TVs burn out when I come within a few feet of them. Radios lose their signal and smartphones refuse to operate. Only the simplest of tech nology can stand being around me.

  And the strangest thing… sometimes I can force the devices to snap and break.

  It feels good, like a little orgasm. You know how you shiver uncontrollably sometimes when you're peeing. You can feel that strange tingle beginning and then… wham, it takes over your body and you shiver uncontrollably.

  That’s how magic feels to me. I never told my parents about the feelings or the dreams.

  My magic hates anything high tech. Lights in the ceiling burn out, ballasts pop, computers scream and die.

  And watches run backwards.

  My mom documented everything that I nuked, one after another.

  I think that she even has some of my more spectacular victims saved, just in case it helps her figure all of this out.

  But, she never will. Mom has been locked up in a Sanitarium now for two years. She went nuts, waiting for my next disappearance. The shuddering anxiety got to her. She freaked out in a grocery store, screaming and carrying on like an insane woman who was positive that she was being watched.

  Hell, maybe she was.

  The metal under my skin feels like patterns to me.

  I never told anyone about the scar on my appendix.

  Somehow the doctor’s missed that I had never had it taken out. I guess that they were too absorbed by everything else that they were studying.

  I also didn’t tell them about the wiggles of movement that I feel... under my skin.

  Something’s inside of me.

  I can feel it move. Most of the time it sleeps. Something about this world makes it tired all the time.

  But, when it wakes up, that's when my magic flares.

  The last time that it woke up, my right hand got so hot that it caught on fire.

  It should have scared me, but it didn’t hurt. The flames burned with a blue-white light, sort of like the flames on a gas-burning stove.

  I hid it from my mom.

  She would have loved to see it, but I knew that she’d never come back after feeling fire burning on my fingers.

  A fire that danced like a small naked woman who was trying to seduce her lost lover.

  It felt alive, with its own purpose and goals.

  And, it whispered to me that it wanted to burn and destroy .

  When I watched the flaming girl, I could almost remember my lost months. They were right on the tip of my tongue. If I shut my eyes, I could feel the weight of those times.

  But, then it went back to sleep, tired from its fun.

  I think that I’m starting to lose my mind, like my parents. No one understands what I’ve been through... especially me.

  - 2 -

  I call it twisting, because it screws up my life and twists it into a knot.

  I’m twenty-two now.

  My life is a mess... because, why make a life when you are just going to disappear again? No one understood how scary it is, having large blocks of my memories just missing. My parents are divorced and scream at each other, whenever they see one another.

  Mom refused to have anymore children, after her seven-year-old disappeared.

  I would have liked having a baby brother, or sister.

  I think that Dad had several children with different women all over America. He keeps fucking them silly, until they get too needy, or too attached. Then, he runs away, leaving his spawn scattered all over the country. It's a defense mechanism. If he doesn’t care, they won’t disappear, he told me once when he was high.

  I felt it starting again…

  It was a hot summer day, almost the last day before fall arrived and summer died.

  I was riding my motorcycle, a beat up monstrosity that I loved. It was so old that nothing electronic was on it, just simple levers and throttles. I had rebuilt it myself in our garage. Focusing on a project always distracts my mind and helps me feel sane.

  I shouldn’t have bothered.

  My body began to tingle. It started in my toes and slowly crawled up my body, right under my skin. It felt like fire ants were slowly eating me from inside.

  I almost crashed when it began.

  Somehow, I slowed the bike down and skidded to a halt under a tree on the side of the Texas roadway.

  How could I have forgotten this feeling, I thought, as I stumbled away and knelt in the dirt.

  It feels better than cumming .

  No, I take that back.

  It feels just like cumming , except its spread out, like the mythical multiple orgasms of porn stars. You know the ones that flow from one little climax to another which is slightly larger, just continuing and growing until your mind explodes.

  It feels like that.

  I collapsed to my hands and knees, as my body moaned and seized like an epileptic having a Grand mal seizure. My fingers dug into the hot dirt, as I groaned in pleasure.

  The tingling awoke the creature that lives inside of me.

  Not one -- not a single doctor -- had ever noticed it, probably because as soon as they tried to x-ray me, the machine burnt out.

  The shiver that was dancing along my spine expanded, becoming a throbbing itch that made the world feel scratchy and foreign. Breathing became difficult.

  Even the air hurt, as I sucked it in.

  “Were they really my parents?” I gasped, as the secrets of the universe were explained to me and then wiped from my mind by a jealous god who didn’t want to share.

  What was my real name?

  It wasn’t Susan like my parents insisted.

  It was…

  The word slipped away from my thoughts, as reality insisted that it was Susan.

  I became dizzy and fell face-first into the dirt.

  I wanted to throw up --violently-- but I hadn’t eaten that morning. Instead, dry heaves filled my existence, as I felt something grab a hold of my insides.

  Something sharp and violent.

  It felt like a giant hook slipped into existence, pierced my body, and entangled itself in my flesh.

  I screamed as blood gushed from my mouth.

  Then, whoever hooked me... pulled.

  That fucking bastard yanked at me, wrenching my flesh away from your world… Twisting my mind and devouring my soul.

  And, away, into another reality I went...

  - 3 -

  I had sand jammed into everything.

  Even with my eyes shut, I could feel it itching and scratching everywhere… Under my bra, in my panties, ground into the hair on my head, and even infiltrating my ass.

  Moaning, I opened my eyes.

  I was in the desert... in a gully. I was leaning up against one side of it. The other side was about fifteen feet away and was buried in shadows.

  It was hot, but I could see the sun was starting to reach the horizon. Dark shadows covered the surrounding dunes and rays of sunshine still coated my body. The gully wall behind me led to higher ground, possibly even the road where I had parked my bike. Shattered pieces of
rock littered the ground in front of my feet and around me.

  Standing up, I felt dizzy.

  Where was my motorcycle?

  Looking around, I could see an old green building to my left, in the distance.

  But, no road and no bike. And, not another soul as far as I could see.