Name: Annabell O’hara
Alias: Kali (Taken from the Hindu Goddess of Destruction)
Dublin, Ireland 1729
Child-like laughter drifted musically through the sudden silence that followed behind the utter chaos. The chaos; in mention, lay motionless, staring in mute horror with eyes now perpetually fixed on the ceiling above. A little girl, no older than perhaps five; maybe six, stood over the body. A partially consumed heart resting in one of her tiny hands as if it were an apple. A forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. The body at her feet was the remains of her so-called father, a man who had touched her for the last time.
Blood stained the front of the young girl's once pristine white dressing gown, turning it crimson in a tidal wave of carnage. The coppery taste of her father's blood sang sweetly against her tongue, making her only want more. Raising the glistening organ towards her mouth, the young girl tore another piece of the heart off with her front teeth. More blood oozed onto her chin, painting the lower portion of her face even more in gore.
A wordless scream tore the girl from her current meal and she turned with a strange aura of tranquility, towards the source of such a high-pitched scream. She swallowed the chunk of heart, reguarding the woman standing in the doorway with eyes gleaming in sheer insanity.
"Mommy..." Annabell moved towards her mother then, offering the heart, perhaps as a gift for the cruel intentions of the man who had helped create her. She was, in essence; despite the blood, a beautiful child. Long dark hair falling over her shoulders and eyes such a deep and rich chocolate brown that had once been so full with innocence.
"Oh God..." The woman whispered in horrified grief. She backed out of the doorway, trembling in fear at what she had just witnessed. The wall bumped into the woman's back, making her scream in unexpected fear.
The realization that her mother now loathed the sight of her, cut Annabell to the bone. At first, sadness swarmed her, tears threatening to break free. But they were quickly consumed by a burning rage. Her mother had allowed her father to touch her. And sanity that may had been left died in those last moments as Annabell moved closer towards the woman who had given birth to her. With her mother watching, the little girl consumed the rest of the heart, making a great deal of showing that she enjoyed it with each step she took, closer and closer towards her next victim.
Dublin, Ireland 1741
Annabell watched in utter fascination as the sharp blade of the kitchen knife sliced through the layers of skin like a hot knife through butter. Strangely, the pain sent tingles of pleasure down her spine, and it only increased as she slowly dragged the blade down along the inside of her right forearm, all the way from the crook of her elbow nearly to her wrist. The wound itself was deep enough to expose muscle and bone.
Since the death of her parents, Annabell moved from orphanage to orphanage, roaming on the outskirts of the social norm due to her lack of speaking. It wasn't that she couldn't talk. She just chose not to. Dropping the knife into the sink, Annabell watched her blood pool, forming a lake of crimson. With her mind in a state of masochistic euphoria, she shoved the needle through one side of the wound and through the other, crudely pulling on the thread. A year ago, she had done the same thing to her left arm. Now, she was content to sport matching mounds of scar tissue.
More to come...
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Joined : 2007-01-03
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