Crucible: The Accomplice

Do you ever get that feeling that you just wish you were free? That you weren’t locked up in this hell called life? I mean, think about. What is the point to life?

You grow up, casually learning more about this society that you really should know, you get mixed up with everything bad, you go through the process of becoming an adult, of dealing with your own problems. You go through all of this, without even a decision on your part, everything else is decided by everyone else.

And then you die.

At this point, I know I’m not the only one who struggles to keep themselves up and not fall into the routine every other slave in this life does. I know I’m not the only one that wants more out of a short life.

The name I go by is a slightly ironic one, anyone that truly knows me, knows why. I call myself Dahlia. Dahlia Marcus. The only reason I have a last name is because, in today’s society, you need a last name.

The name I tell you can’t be found in any records, any database, no one knows the past of Dahlia Marcus. And unless I wanted, no one would.

No one knew me, knew my name, or knew my story. Not unless I chose to tell them. And I don't often choose to tell anyone.

I was often avoided. On the streets, in resturants, anywhere. Maybe people just recognized me.

But how could you recognize a killer? Is it the look in their eyes? How they present themselves? Or do they just look naturally off? Is there actually a way to answer that question?

There wasn't. Any stereotypical profile set for a killer could be gone against. And that's what I did. I kept my ears open for clues about how close they were coming to me, and I turned my trail around completely.

Sometimes I wouldn't kill for months, and they believed I'd stopped. Every trick they tried to use to draw me in, I expected first. Only once had they ever specifically called me out as a suspect, and that was the only time I'd made a mistake.

And I've made sure not to make a mistake ever again.

Being a little over the top OCD helped out my case, keeping me right on top of what needed to happen for me to stay clean.

Being alone was just part of the package.

Constantly I traveled. Place to place, never stopping for too long. I had been to every state except the ones outside the US borders.

But don't get me wrong, I was almost broke. I only lived because I would rob those who died by my hand. I used the bit of money I made to take buses and eat. I had very little clothes with me, ever. I just carried them in an inconspicuous black bag that I carried everywhere I went.

Everything I needed for general life was in my bag. Clothes, the few personal items I needed, my knife. The bag never left my side, I made sure of it.

But enough about my bag.

Occasionally I would be forced to hitch hike if I chose not to spill some blood over a period of time. After my first time being forced to, I generally went to work finding someone immediatly.

I was constantly on the move, and it always got tiring. I hated never being able to stay in one place for a few weeks.

I always wished that I could stay around people I knew, people I could be normal with.

How could I even have known that, pretty soon, I'd get my wish. And it wouldn't come easily.