Author's NoteEdit

So, this is where my imagination's taking me. Just to make myself clear, this story is rated Teen for violence and language (and maybe hints or references to slight sexual content - nothing explicit though). If you're under 13+, I suggest not reading this. This might get a bit depressing. Other than that, this takes place in the future. Thanks for reading this little note!

- DraculaFan

N. 1 - MikeEdit

He had no name. It had been abandoned long ago, when he murdered his first victim. He threw it away with his first kill of a child. He burned it up, he deleted it. He had no name. His colleagues had many names to call him, but he didn’t accept any of them. Some called him Black for his dark hair and eyes, and choice of clothing. Those younger called him No-name to tease him. Some, who thought of him as a friend called him Mike. Why they called him Mike was a mystery to him, but they did.

Mike was a quiet man. He killed quietly and ruthlessly, but without a trace. He preferred to be left alone to his thoughts, and being in a crowd annoyed him. He didn’t like parties, or talking. He didn’t smoke pot like some of his ‘friends’ did. But he was a weird man. When he killed, he had a reason to kill. No one asked him to do this or that, but he did it anyway. He was sometimes even feared by those higher in rank than him.

Mike once loved a woman. It was a taboo subject for him, but sometimes someone would bring it up. Not on purpose, no. Why? As said before, Mike was not a nice man. He didn’t even look nice. So when a person brought up the subject of love, or family, or wife, or children with Mike, they didn’t leave without a scar. Maybe it was just a beating, but it depended. It depended on how much you said to Mike. How much you made him remember. If he was mad, but not mad enough to fight, he would glare at you non-stop. Once you entered the territory of making him mad to hit, you were at a risk.

The group Mike was part of was nicknamed Hannibals. For those who were familiar with crime, it was clear why the gang was named Hannibals. For those who aren’t, let me explain. There used to be a boy born in a family of an old man and a young woman. There was a known fact that most of his relatives had mental problems - religious mania, hallucinations, insanity. This young boy’s father died of a heart attack, and this boy was given away to an orphanage. Later, this young boy grew up to be an adult. He, just like his relatives, also struggled with religious mania. He had his children do sadistic beatings upon him. But what was the most disturbing fact of all, was that he was a cannibal and a murderer. He told about many of the deaths he brought upon children and men, but he was found guilty of commiting 3. Later, a film was based on this man - named Boogeyman, Fish, or Grey Man.

The gang Mike was part of, specialized in child killings; especially children of the rich. In a way, the Hannibals were good, if looking from the point of view of slaves and the peasants, for those had no rights in government. But on the other hand, do those children of the rich deserve death? They are not responsible for their parents, or the government.

Mike is my enemy. We are so alike, me and him. I also have no name. I erased it, burned it, and threw it away. But I, unlike him, abandoned the Hannibals too. He never will. They are his family, just like they were mine. He is weaker, though, he was an orphan. He is afraid to abandon his new family, he is afraid of being alone. He will go to the end of the world for them, even if he doesn’t show it. He will sell his soul for them. Like a dog, he is loyal. I despise it.

To be continued.

N. 2 - FrancisEdit

As far as I remember, Francis always had slightly greasy, shoulder-length strawberry blond hair. I remember how we met her – when I was still part of the Hannibals. At the time I and Mike had quite a blowing relationship. Best friends almost. He would sometimes share experiences, or how to aim so as to kill immediately. We knew what to talk about. I respected him.

We were returning from a mission, a success as usual, when I saw her.

It was a short kid, in a dirty, way-too-small dress, and she was being beaten up. At the time, I supposed she was probably their servant’s child, and having a strong antipathy towards the rich, I immediately wanted to help her out.

One brat was holding her by the hair, a leer on his face. Another was having fun by kicking her between the legs. The third one was not doing anything. The fact that he stood there, watching, not doing anything, made me want to kill him as well.

I nudged Mike, my eyes probably looking half-crazy.

“How about we send that bunch of brats to hell as well, eh, Mike?” I hoarsely asked. We were standing quite a distance away from the boys. Mike turned around and looked to where I motioned with my thumb. He raised an eyebrow at me. He turned around and began to walk away, as if nothing happened. Sometimes his actions bothered me, because I did not understand how he could kill and yet not care. He killed with a cold heart. Right at that moment, I could not understand how he could want to miss killing those three.

I caught up to him and told him to wait. I could not kill the brats without his permission (he was a higher rank than me), so I just decided to get the girl. I gave him my pistol, and then went over to the bullying scene.

It wasn’t much of a show either. Just an teenager, grabbing a stick and hitting bullies over the head. That was what I did. And at the moment, it did not seem like it was not enough. I quickly threw the notion away, telling myself I’d get them later.

The girl introduced herself as Francis, later, when we had returned to our base. She had a small, quiet, respectful voice. Her eyes held a stubborn streak in them. Boss liked her. Boss decided to get her to be our ‘sibling.’

I taught her how to shoot. I taught her how to cook. How to sew her own clothing, how to take care of monthly business, how to refuse men, how to drink without getting drunk. I felt like an older sister to her. She probably didn’t even care. She was that kind of person, I soon realized. Uncaring, and cold, like a fish. She would smile, but there would be coolness to that smile, coolness in her eyes. It was so fake. It annoyed me. I never told her about it.

As she grew older, she showed more and more traits of a child who had been used for prostitution. She had this personality, a behavior of someone who learned not to care, so as not to get hurt. She later got herself two matching tattoos. One under each of her sky-blue eyes. Each looked like a teardrop that decided to return to the eye, but never quite made it. They made her look even more emotionless.

She wore a pale green robe. And a cross.

Whenever she was at a killing of a child, she would later come over to it, bend over the body, and recite some sort of poem. I didn’t get it. Jeff later explained that it was a prayer for the dead, so as to let them be at peace in death.

She was so weird, this Francis. I liked her. When I left the Hannibals, she was one of those few who wished me good luck. She hugged me.

“If I ever get the chance, Raven, I’ll definitely join you. Be careful. May God be with you.” She whispered in my ear, then let go and smiled that cold, little smile of hers. Her eyes looked like those of a parent, wishing their child wellness and wealth on their embark towards life.

To be continued.

N. 3 - MemoriesEdit

There are moments in one's life when they forget what happened the other day. I sometimes have this problem, except that it reaches to years of my life. Sometimes I forget what my name is, my age. Once, I even attacked one of my 'brothers' because I didn't recognise him.

Jeff once said that I'm probably suffering from amnesia. Amnesia? Maybe. I don't remember my childhood for one. The name, I don't know if I made it up or if I had always been with it.

It's so confusing.

Sometimes I have dreams from which I wake up. I suppose they are memories that I forgot.

Sometimes I can remember them, but they are so faded and faint, I have to struggle really hard to remember.

I walked down the cobbled street, one that no one visited that much anyone. On the sides, small houses and shops with dusty windows glared at my small form. I felt like I was growing smaller and smaller, till I was an ant, trapped in a jar for a child's amusement. My feet were bare, and I slowly walked, taking strength to pick them up from the ground - so bloodied and wounded they were from walking on ground, bare.

My back also hurt, like I had been either stepped on or hit with something hard. My hair was in my eyes. It was becoming dark, so dark, I felt terrified of my own shadow, whenever I caught a glimpse of it. My heart was beating fast, fast, faster, till I was panting inside my own mind, my eyes bulging out, my shoulders hunching out. I had a feeling of regret and hate. Hate. So much hatred inside me, it was like acid, eating at my sides hungrily.

Fear like fire. I couldn't get it to stop once it started. Every little squeak of a mouse, every footstep of a drunk, and I scattered to the side like a rat.

I came towards a bar, and entered. It was so small, but so full of people. Yells and snorts and laughs and heavy boots rung in my ears as I slipped between tables. At least it was warm and bright in here. If someone was kind enough, maybe they would even throw me a piece of bread or meat. I felt pathetic, yet thankful. I sat down near the backdoor exit, like a mutt, and waited, hugging my naked knees.

To be continued.

N. 4 - Better Scum Than Forgotten HeroEdit

Surprise! I was born rich. Oh, how I remember my house, my family, maid, servants. It's all such a delicious memory. Every time I feel horrible enough, I remember my life as an Earl's daughter. Oh what days those were! I could eat whenever I wanted, I could play, learn, and do whatever I wanted. Nobody could tell me what to do, no one could beat me with a stick. I wasn't humiliated, going around houses begging for money, or food, or old clothes of a dead old man.

No. When I was rich, I was rich. I had a mother and father. We were a small happy family, owning a couple of expensive cats, a parrot, and a lemur. I was a spoiled little brat of seven, always running around in a frilled expensive dress, with curled hair. I was very special to my parents. I was the only child my mom was able to give birth to. I tried not to hurt them too much, but everyone know how spoiled brats are. If we want something, we won't stop until we get it. I wanted a pony. I got a pony. I wanted a lemur. I got a lemur. There was no such thing as 'No,' in my house.

My father, whose name was Elon Hatter. He was an Earl and a very good friend of the monarch that ruled our world. My father, he was an interesting guy. Strange, with morals, and with a very kind heart. He took in slaves only because he felt sorry for them. At our house, there was no such thing as slavery. Prior slaves became faithful servants with full pay, and given rooms. I was friends with all of their children.

It's a shame he was so kind. Maybe if he was a little sterner and colder, he wouldn't be in a coffin at the age of 24. His compassion for the weaker ones led to his death. The stupid fool. He thought he could save everyone by letting them use him. What an idiot. He ruined his life, mother's life, and my life. He was too darn stupid for his own f***ing good.

How he got killed? Easy.

Unknown to me and mother, he helped fugitives on death row that were not actually sinful of a crime. He helped them escape, giving them money and clothes. He had a small little organization where they helped the freaks escape. Once my mother found out, she did not approve.

"You're putting us all in danger!" I heard her shout at him. It was the first time I saw her face so red and angry. Her eyes were furious slits, and her hair somehow tugged out of the neat bun. She slammed her hands on the table.

"How can you!? How can you put your only daughter and wife in danger because of so-somebody so unworthy!?" I left them arguing when I heard the feeble attempts of my father trying to explain himself. What was the use anyway? The damage was done. He couldn't just drop the organization and his workers, he couldn't choose between us and them. That's what got him killed.

On Tuesday, right at midday, he was shot. It was the brigade of policemen, barging into the apartment, taking father hostage and declaring him guilty. He was taken to jail for death row. Nobody cared that he was saving the innocent. Nobody f***ing did.

That was how my father ruined my life and any chances of me being a happy person.

To be continued.

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