xX Taiylor Moon Xx

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
- Dreams are the emotions way of creativity,
But what if the creativity shown in your dream is murder?

Submitted: July 01, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 01, 2013



Taylor Moon.

I don’t like or trust coincidence.
I don’t believe coincidence is an accidental thing.
Every thing we do, every thought we have, every emotion we experience, can be broken down to pure energy.
Our lives are energy, driving, walking, running, seeking colliding with the energy of other people in our small worlds.
Energy attracts energy, intent becomes a force of nature, and there is no such thing as coincidence.
When I feel like believing strongly in my theory, I then realize I have to accept that nothing in my life can truly be random or accidental.
And then I decide I would be better off believing in nothing.
…”If it’s a matter of believing, instead of that of a coincidence-Then why is it I came to be at Taylor Moon, that fateful night?”

Stacey Millen ran out of the front door of Taylor Moon, huffing and hiccupping, fat tears spilling down her cheeks with a dirty stream of black mascara.
I watched unseen behind the wind shield of Jacobs Sedan, Stacey swiped the back of her hand under her running nose, then scraped a stringy strand of hair back out of her eyes. The Valets stood off to the side, staring at her saying nothing. They didn’t ask if they could get her car, because they knew by looking at her, she wouldn’t have a car worth letting them park. They parked cars for beautiful people, rich people, thin people.
”What’re you looking at?” Stacey snapped. They looked, at each other, smirking.
 “Fuck You!” She shouted and ran, crying, across the parking lot falling off of one platform sandal and turning her ankle. Stumbling, she dropped the beaded handbag she’d stolen from that weird Molly chick, and the contents spewed out of it across the pavement.
“Goddammit!” Crawling on her hands and knees, she broke a finger nail as she scraped at a tube of lipstick and pack of condoms.
“Fuck, Fuck!”
Spittle and tears and snot, ran from her face onto the pavement. Stacey folded herself over into a ball and sobbed, a wrenching, ugly noise, she was ugly. Her clothes were ugly. Even her crying was ugly, pain swelled inside her like a blister and burst into a wave of tears.
Why? She asked the questions a million times in her life. Why did she have to be the fat one, the ugly one; the one that nobody liked, much less loved? IT WASN’T FAIR!
She wiped her face on her sleeve of the white lace blouse, gathered her stuff together and struggled to her feet. Stacey opened her car door and flung her purse and the things that had come out of it in the direction of the passenger seat. She drove out of the parking lot and made a right turn down onto South Avenue, paying no attention to the car that pulled out behind her…

… And then I opened my eyes and felt sick at the knowledge of knowing she will die.
This was the same way I had greeted every morning for the past year. It is always a different person every night.
Lives all ending in the same sadistic way, ways I could not begin to describe. I have relived the deaths of 364 children, teenagers and adults- never once seeing the face of their killers, and yet I cannot bring myself to yell out, to save them, to call for help.
Racked with guilt so unimaginable- suicide became my light, the escape, the freedom away from knowing.
Red. A colour I most despise, symbolizing rage, hate, anger…
Yet as it darkens I sur-come to its beauty, as crimson becomes black.
Black. A colour I have come to admire over the years, I feel as though I could hide behind this, and stare unseeing in to the darkness, unable to understand life. To understand dreams.
It is a not as though I lay in bed thinking about slitting my wrists. Not in an abstract way. Specifically.
Yet I have looked at my wrists in the reflection of the moonlight-delicate, fine-boned as a wing of a bird, thin skin lined with blue veins.
Blue, symbolizes freedom, desire, happiness.
Blue veins, I look at those thin blue lines and think of them as lines of demarcation. Cut here.
I imagined the needle-nose point of a boning knife, moonlight catches the blade.
Red blood rises to the surface-“oh how I despise that colour”, Blade skating across the vein, blue becomes red, red becomes crimson, and crimson fades to black.
Black, my favourite colour. The image doesn’t frighten me, it’s the truth that frightens me most of all…

… So back to sad Stacey Millen. Whose life will end in approximately thirteen minutes, twenty five seconds.
Stacey, is not the towns bike, no indeed-she isn’t the try- hard slut whose parents, wouldn’t give two fucks if she was dead in a ditch-For  future reference, she will lay dead in a drain.
Stacey was the type of girl, whose everlasting love got the better of her…
 She and her boyfriend break up; tries to make him jealous, Stacey’s stood up, ex- has new girl-friend. Blah.Blah.Blah.
So I guess, Stacey isn’t a hooker, because sluts don’t get paid. Her every lasting Love of Every-BODY, Broke the bond between parent and child, she became a disgrace. Thirteen minutes.

Stacey flung herself behind the wheel, slammed the door and burst into tears again. Pounding her fists on the wheel than against the windows she screams- until her screams subside into a whimper.
Driving out of the parking lot onto South Avenue, she see’s revenge through her blurred vision and mind. Twelve minutes. Her big plan to make him jealous. Her big seduction. What a fucking joke she was.
Stacey had walked into Taylor Moon that evening knowing that Brad and his mates would be there, thinking he would invite her for a drink, she could flirt with him, let him know how much she has missed him. But everything had gone wrong, Brad hadn’t arrived yet, security wanted to throw her out, looking her up and down like they thought she was some kind of cheap hooker or something. Not believing her when she said she was waiting for somebody, drinking diet coke alone.
Then Brad finally shows up, Brad and his new Girl friend. He looks at Stacey with disgust.
His angry words ringing in her ears, though they are that of a slight whisper. They hit her with such a force it’s as though he reached out and slapped her hard against the face.
‘What’re you doing here? Don’t you get it, we can’t be together anymore, it just didn’t work out!’
All the days they had spent together, and this was the way he treated her!
Ten Minutes. Pulling into the driveway of Brad’s house, Stacey let herself into Brad’s living room.
The soft lamp-light spread across the room giving it an ominous feel. She took his grandmothers antique chest from the shelf and tossed it through the window, ‘She was an old bitch anyway ’she thought, shattering the glass into a thousand pieces, a twisted smile spread across her tear- streaked face. Six minutes.
“Fuck you. Brad, Fuck you!” She chanted the words as she marched to his bedroom, pulled out his clothing and tore them throwing them across the room. Unsatisfied her malicious smile glistening white, a pack of matches lay on his chest drawer. “Smoking has always been, your bad habit Brad darling”, she whispered. Her heart beating ,the sound of it in her ears made it impossible to hear if someone was coming. Five minutes. Stacey felt a little uneasy as she began to torch the scattered clothing…
It happened so fast, she couldn’t react. Someone had rushed in behind her, she heard the crunching glass, and felt the presence of another person, but before she could scream , a hand was over her mouth, she twisted and tried to wriggle out of her captor’s grasp, too strong. Four minutes
Pulling her from Brad’s bedroom to the living room, Stacey expected, from the strength this was a man .Stacey tried to scream, but couldn’t as in a nightmare or horror movie the sound died in her throat. In that split second she knew she was going to die. Three minutes. Desperately closing her hands around a shard of broken glass, she tries slicing at him. Bad move!
Pushing her hard against the wall, she tried to run for the door, her legs felt heavy and like a rope around her ankles she falls forward. Two minutes. She tries to pull herself forward, then there is a terrible pressure in her back One minute, he grasps his hand around her former weapon and begins tearing at her throat, blood red, red turns to crimson, crimson fades to black.
Black my favourite colour, symbolizing depression, death escape. Thirty seconds, twenty seconds, ten seconds, three, two, one. Stacey Millen  is dead…

…He stands and looks at the cold, dead body of his victim. Pathetic, useless piece of shit.
Using both hands he dragged her by the hair across the floor, onto the foot path, he tosses her into the drain.
Dirt disgusting filth inhabited drain, perfect resting place for Stacey Millen.

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