Status: In Progress
The Not-Love-Letters of a Serial Killer
Chapter 3
Do you remember Amberlee Blake, my best friend from first grade? She was the only one that came to my seventh birthday party. Not that I really minded. I hated all the simple-minded fools in my class. They were all so stupid--and they all still picked on me. Unfortunately, removing Sarah from the picture didn't change that. As much fun as it would have been to kill all of them, I knew I couldn't, so I continued to day dream about it to keep myself at ease.
Amberlee was new to the school, she had no friends. None from her old school, either. Not only was she a foster child, but she had narcolepsy, too. I guess it freaked some people out that she would faint. I thought it was cool, though. I'd never really met anyone with an affliction. My favorite part about her, though, was that her parents died in a car accident two years previously. She was in the car, too. Luckily, the front took most of the damage. Other than some bruised bones, Amberlee came out of it just fine. Because of this, and how vividly she remembered it, Amberlee had been diagnosed with severe manic depression. That made her the perfect friend for me.
I'd spent a lot of time trying to get her to like me. It wasn't that hard, considering I was the only one that was remotely kind to her. Her befriending me, though, made her social life more difficult, and vise versa. There really wasn't much we could do about it. In her eyes it was better to have one true friend with consequences, that none. If only she'd know...
I would like to emphasize that I came into that friendship genuinely. Amberlee was a really nice person, and she knew (even to a more severe degree than me) what it was like to lose a parent. We related to one another. And she was nice to me, which was a pleasant surprise and a wonderful change for me.
She made my seventh birthday memorable. I remember her walking through the front door with her red hair pulled up in a pony tail and wearing a purple shirt that clashed with a pair of ugly yellow pants, thrusting a box at me. She passed out while you were cutting the cake, and I waited until she woke up to eat it. She got me a friendship bracelet. A matching set; One for me and one for her. I loved it and I never took it off. I'm even still wearing it now.
Eventually, things the other kids said didn't phase me. Amberlee and I were practically inseparable.
A few months after my birthday I was asked to spend the night at her house. I eagerly accepted. Upon arriving at her townhouse I was invited in by her smiling foster parents. There was a big difference between them and my dad. That being: They treated me like a child. Even went so far as to talk with a slight baby voice.
They asked me all these questions, Amberlee smiling at me apologetically from the couch across the room. That's when I realized what was wrong with this picture. I had a friend- someone I cared about- and that made me weak.
When they asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up I only hesitated for a second. "I don't want to grow up." I'd said. They laughed good naturedly, not realizing the morbidity of my statement. They didn't know that the reason I didn't want to grow up was mostly because the probability of it was very unlikely. I didn't really plan on living long enough to be caught, like the rest of my kind.
Anyway, that night Amberlee passed out late at night. Her foster parents were asleep and we were watching Disney movies. I was curious what it would take to wake her up.
So I said her name.
Nothing.
I shook her by the shoulders.
Nothing.
And then I wondered, how would she react to pain?
I dragged her body nervously, and as silently as I could, into the kitchen. At any moment she could wake up and my heart was racing. I could feel the blood pumping in my ears and thought my brain was going to explode out of my skull.
I propped her limp body up against the counter cupboards and shuffled through drawers to find the silverware to retrieve a steak knife.
It was strange- I'd read in syfy books, aliens calling us "meat people", but I didn't realize how true that comparison was.
I sat myself in Amberlee's lap so that I was seeing from her point of view (were she awake). I took the knife and stuck it in her wrist and made a clean cut down. Amberlee did wake up, but I muffled her cry of pain with the back of my head. Then I threw my head back to knock her out. I had to try twice, but it worked and then I made the same movement with the knife in the other wrist.
There was a lot of blood. Quite a bit of it got on my nightshirt while I was crawling away from her, but I was confident with my success. So I took her in my arms, not caring it my clothes would stain, and I screamed as loud as I could. And I began to sob.
Mr. and Mrs. I-don't-remember ran out from their bedroom.
You know, her death wasn't even investigated. She was dead before they got her to the hospital and it was ruled a suicide. I got to go to the hospital, but the anticipation of her official death was killing me. No pun intended. It wasn't as eventful as i"d hoped.
Four days later we went to Amberlee's funeral. Ben came, too, for moral support. I was lucky to be born in such a loving family.
Amberlee was buried with her friendship bracelet still on her wrist.
I want to get something straight: I loved Amberlee. She was my best friend, but I had to kill her. I can't have something holding me back! I still miss her, but she was a good experiment, wouldn't you say?
Love,
Baby Girl
Amberlee was new to the school, she had no friends. None from her old school, either. Not only was she a foster child, but she had narcolepsy, too. I guess it freaked some people out that she would faint. I thought it was cool, though. I'd never really met anyone with an affliction. My favorite part about her, though, was that her parents died in a car accident two years previously. She was in the car, too. Luckily, the front took most of the damage. Other than some bruised bones, Amberlee came out of it just fine. Because of this, and how vividly she remembered it, Amberlee had been diagnosed with severe manic depression. That made her the perfect friend for me.
I'd spent a lot of time trying to get her to like me. It wasn't that hard, considering I was the only one that was remotely kind to her. Her befriending me, though, made her social life more difficult, and vise versa. There really wasn't much we could do about it. In her eyes it was better to have one true friend with consequences, that none. If only she'd know...
I would like to emphasize that I came into that friendship genuinely. Amberlee was a really nice person, and she knew (even to a more severe degree than me) what it was like to lose a parent. We related to one another. And she was nice to me, which was a pleasant surprise and a wonderful change for me.
She made my seventh birthday memorable. I remember her walking through the front door with her red hair pulled up in a pony tail and wearing a purple shirt that clashed with a pair of ugly yellow pants, thrusting a box at me. She passed out while you were cutting the cake, and I waited until she woke up to eat it. She got me a friendship bracelet. A matching set; One for me and one for her. I loved it and I never took it off. I'm even still wearing it now.
Eventually, things the other kids said didn't phase me. Amberlee and I were practically inseparable.
A few months after my birthday I was asked to spend the night at her house. I eagerly accepted. Upon arriving at her townhouse I was invited in by her smiling foster parents. There was a big difference between them and my dad. That being: They treated me like a child. Even went so far as to talk with a slight baby voice.
They asked me all these questions, Amberlee smiling at me apologetically from the couch across the room. That's when I realized what was wrong with this picture. I had a friend- someone I cared about- and that made me weak.
When they asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up I only hesitated for a second. "I don't want to grow up." I'd said. They laughed good naturedly, not realizing the morbidity of my statement. They didn't know that the reason I didn't want to grow up was mostly because the probability of it was very unlikely. I didn't really plan on living long enough to be caught, like the rest of my kind.
Anyway, that night Amberlee passed out late at night. Her foster parents were asleep and we were watching Disney movies. I was curious what it would take to wake her up.
So I said her name.
Nothing.
I shook her by the shoulders.
Nothing.
And then I wondered, how would she react to pain?
I dragged her body nervously, and as silently as I could, into the kitchen. At any moment she could wake up and my heart was racing. I could feel the blood pumping in my ears and thought my brain was going to explode out of my skull.
I propped her limp body up against the counter cupboards and shuffled through drawers to find the silverware to retrieve a steak knife.
It was strange- I'd read in syfy books, aliens calling us "meat people", but I didn't realize how true that comparison was.
I sat myself in Amberlee's lap so that I was seeing from her point of view (were she awake). I took the knife and stuck it in her wrist and made a clean cut down. Amberlee did wake up, but I muffled her cry of pain with the back of my head. Then I threw my head back to knock her out. I had to try twice, but it worked and then I made the same movement with the knife in the other wrist.
There was a lot of blood. Quite a bit of it got on my nightshirt while I was crawling away from her, but I was confident with my success. So I took her in my arms, not caring it my clothes would stain, and I screamed as loud as I could. And I began to sob.
Mr. and Mrs. I-don't-remember ran out from their bedroom.
You know, her death wasn't even investigated. She was dead before they got her to the hospital and it was ruled a suicide. I got to go to the hospital, but the anticipation of her official death was killing me. No pun intended. It wasn't as eventful as i"d hoped.
Four days later we went to Amberlee's funeral. Ben came, too, for moral support. I was lucky to be born in such a loving family.
Amberlee was buried with her friendship bracelet still on her wrist.
I want to get something straight: I loved Amberlee. She was my best friend, but I had to kill her. I can't have something holding me back! I still miss her, but she was a good experiment, wouldn't you say?
Love,
Baby Girl