As She Wills It

As She Wills It

A Story by PianoFiend
"

An insane woman by the name of No One.

"

She pulled the vermilion knife out of his chest.

     “This is how God wills it.” he spoke softly, “He doesn't want homosexuals walking His earth.”

     He let out a final breath, then fell off the earth, landing hard on the cement beneath him.

     She smiled as she wondered what do with the him. “Throw him in the dumpster? No, I'd get caught too easily. If I buried him in the church cemetery, I would surely be safe from apprehension, but I would never desecrate such holy ground with such an evil corpse.” She eventually just decided to bury him in her backyard.

     She stuffed the body in a bag entitled, “Laundry.” She threw the bag in the back of her silver SUV, got in the driver's seat and drove home.

     She waited until nightfall to bury the body, not because she felt that what she was doing was wrong, but because the authorities felt that she was worthy of apprehension.

     She got a shovel out of her shed and dug at the soft earth. When she opened the laundry sack to place the body in the ground, she barely noticed  that his milky eyes looked vengeful, and he was smiling.

     When she finished her handiwork, she headed off to bed. She said her prayers every night, and once she was done she crawled beneath   the covers of her bed and reflected on her day

      “I did something great today,” she thought, “I carried out God's wish.” She then went on to mentally quote a bible verse, “If a man lies with a man as one lies with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.” She always had to tell herself something like this so she could sleep.

     She was always a Christian. As a young child, she went to Christian school, and when she grew up, she went to church every Sunday. She had plenty of time to become fully insane and hate-filled, you see. Her murderous characteristics mainly came from the fact that she was always being told what was wrong, but never what right. She thought she was doing the right thing, but never had closure. That night, when she killed the homosexual, she tossed and turned, morals screaming at her, even though she had justified the murder.

     She woke up weeks later, The days behind her a hellish blur of blood and Christian justification.

     Warm water washed over her hands and the blood poured into the sink, turning the white porcelain bright red. She looked in the mirror and sopped up the tears that blurred her vision. The salty tears mixed with the blood in the sink. “Thou shalt not commit adultery,” She told herself, “her blood is on her own head. This is God's will.” She calmed her breathing. She had succeeded in deluding herself, then said, “I am God's hand.”           

     She disposed of the body,then looked at the clock. It was six o-clock,Sunday morning.

     She sighed happily; She loved Sundays. But, at the same time, she hated them. They were days to reflect the on the week before and to start a new week.

     She hopped in the shower, making sure to clean off any blood. When she got out, she slid into her nicest Sunday clothes, a pleasant, but professional burgundy dress with a black knit cardigan. She then looked in the mirror to examine her image. She sighed again, though not so enthusiastically this time.

     “Why are you asking me to do this?” She whispered, scared, as she tilted her head to the ceiling in a redundant way of trying to see God. Then she whispered, even quieter, after looking back at the mirror, “Why am I doing this?”

     After touching her hair up a little bit, she left the house, checking the clock, which read 7:42. It left her just enough time to get to church a few minutes early.

     She pushed her laundry bag out of the drivers seat of her car, mentally noting that she needed to wash it.

     She drove up to the church and noticed that no one was there. “How peculiar,” she said aloud. It was almost eight when church started, and she was the only one there. She waited around for twenty minutes, wondering if anyone else would show up. Eventually, she decided to get out of her car and walk inside to see if anyone was there. She opened the heavy Gothic doors and noticed silence, rather than the normal Sunday morning chatter or the echoing voice of the preacher or the mumbled prayers from the congregation. She walked in and it looked like the place hadn't seen people for years, even though she was there last week.

     She was startled violently by a deep voice that said nothing besides a resounding, “nine.” She froze in her steps. Then after a few seconds,she escaped from the horrific church her mind created and ran into the street, her mental fog still clouding her vision. An average woman walked on the sidewalk and she was horrified and appalled at what she saw. The woman's eyes were dead, her skin was pale and her body was mutilated. She was covered in blood and she had a red A sewn on to her shirt.

     She had terrifying sights on her left and her right; there was no escape. And, she thought quickly, “There never would be an escape.”

     She ran and ran, completely forgetting the fact that she had a car and could have simply driven home. Eventually, she collapsed, tears welling in her eyes. She stated blankly as she saw countless corpses happily strolling along the sidewalk with various letters sewn on to their clothes, “I don't know what's worse: the fact that there are so many sinners in this world, or the fact that I have to kill them all.” She spoke aloud, causing passerbys to look at her with slight panic and confusion. “So much sin.” She then muttered helplessly, “So many sinners. So much sin. So much sin. So much sin.” It didn't take long for her to start convulsing. The passerbys looked at each other with fear and confusion in their eyes, unsure of what to do. Only one person had enough blatant intelligence to call for an ambulance.

     It took some time for the ambulance to arrive, and by the time it came, she had stopped convulsing, but someone told the medics what was going on.

     “I don't know what happened,” A woman in a beige sweater and jeans gently told the medic, “She was running and then she just.....collapsed.” She paused a second before continuing, “Then she started muttering something like, 'so much sin' nonstop Look, that's all I know.'” The medic moved to inspect the collapsed woman.

     When the medic leaned over her, her eyes widened, horror-struck. Her imagination must've run away with her because she screamed and started clawing at the medic,muttering loudly, “Get away. Get away from me. I don't want to sin. Get away.....get away........”

     Her eyes opened once more. She flinched when the light entered her eyes, especially because she particularly loathed the white color(or rather, lack of color) on the four walls surrounding her. She loathed them almost as much as she hated the horrid fabric of her straight jacket and the large M sewn on it..........

© 2011 PianoFiend


Author's Note

PianoFiend
I know the ending is a bit abrupt. I kind of rushed it in excitement of finishing.

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Reviews

I love a story that ends in a good straight jacket, or a lobotomy. It reminds me of home.

Beuatifully sinful. I'm guessing wrath. Although it could be envy. I'm open to interpretation.

Needs a good edit, and yes, you rushed the ending. But the core story is there in a twisted and demented way. Encouraging, you have a wonderful mind.

Posted 10 Years Ago


“"Why are you asking me to do this?' She whispered, scared, as she tilted her head to the ceiling in a redundant way of trying to see God. Then she whispered, even quieter, after looking back at the mirror, 'Why am I doing this?'

amazing. love that line xP

Posted 10 Years Ago



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Added on September 23, 2010
Last Updated on March 3, 2011
Tags: insanity, murder, religion, christianity, justification, sin, insane, murderer
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PianoFiend
PianoFiend

Lincoln, CA



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My name is Misty, I am 15, and I go to Lincoln High School. Who I am can be found in my writing, though not directly. My favorite writers are: Fyoder Dostoevsky, Lewis Carrol, and J.K. Rowling. M.. more..

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