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Fallacious Outlook

By Nero Pascal All Rights Reserved ©

Mystery / Thriller

Chapter 1

She felt the biting cold seep through her generic, starch-white, thread-bare shirt as she rubbed her arms vigorously, in an attempt, to create friction. The darkness of the room seemed to slowly crawl towards her. Suffocating her, as the walls slowly closed in on them while the small glass panel on the door watched them all with a taunting glare. It was unfair. She never did any of the so-called crimes they accused her of doing. It was never her. It was them.She told them to stop, she really did; she tried so many times to tell them that hurting people was bad, but, they never did listen.  And now, they were stuck here. All four of them.Even her.

It wasn’t supposed to escalate that far, she was just joking around with them; she never thought that they would actually do it. It was horrible. Scarlet stained everything; it seeped through their skin, nose and eyes. It was hard to forget all that crimson; especially how it slowly dripped against the steel Eli held; or how it teasingly fell upon the floor with such unthinkable grace as Ron licked some of it experimentally. Copper invaded their senses; they thought it was odd; how the liquid contained such strong, tangy smell. That was just the first incident. The second and the third came quickly afterwards.

She was frightened. Who wouldn’t be? Her so-called ‘friends’ were doing bad things. Unthinkable things. Things she had no power to stop. To them, it didn’t matter who or what they touched with their large, sharp, steel wands. To them, the struggle was a thrill and the carmine liquid they offered afterwards was even more magical; the warmth it gave was addictive. It made her sick, but, more importantly scared. Scared because she knew it was wrong. Scared because she couldn’t do anything. Scared because…she was starting to enjoy it.

They were, inevitably, caught; they were caught on the sixth incident. Their acts became more and more  daring as time went on and they began targeting older, more important victims, or as they called them, ‘liquid bags.’

Fog hung heavily that day; ‘the perfect cover’ Fe stated, looking at the grey sky as she languidly carved light cuts on the bronze hide. She squealed as the cerise fluid spilled uncontrollably from the gap onto her longing fingers. Kris gasped as she brushed her hand against the lifeless body which felt glacial in contrast to the gleaming ruby fluid smeared against her hands. She frowned at her fingers. Her mind worked hard as she tried to re-call when she had touched the warm fluid.

Her train of thought was abruptly interrupted when a loud crash was heard accompanied by the sound of marching feet. “Hands in the air where I can see them!” One of the blue men screamed at them, as a biting, silver clasp was attached to her wrist, limiting her movement.

The siren rang in their ears as they drove towards the nearest station, where men in grey suits made calls while glaring at them as they were roughly pushed inside a barred room. The bitter sting of cold air and damp floor caused her to shiver; her throat burned after the many hours she spent screaming “I didn’t do anything wrong.” She glared at her friends across the dark cell as they smirked back unrepentantly. She knew she should’ve stayed away, but, friends stick to each other ‘till the end and that’s what she did, but, now; she’s in a lot more mess than she could ever have imagined.

They were driven to a building that was painted white. She scuffed her shoes against the white, sterile tiles, her whole body buzzing with defiance as she tried to shake out of her restraints. The cool metal gave a soft clink as they strained to keep the pair of wrists together as women dressed in white shoved her towards the dark cell. She screamed at the ivory-dressed women as they looked at her pityingly.

“Violent little one.”  One of the women mumble while writing something on a small clipboard as the rest of the woman’s team pushed her friends into a single confinement with her and locking it from the outside with a resounding click.

“Poor girl has dissociative identity disorder, ego-syntonic. Poor thing knows nothing about it, thinks she has friends…” she heard another one mumbled, a blonde this time, but still, she, too, was dressed in alabaster and held a small clipboard close to her chest.

She frowned, pounding her fists against the door. “It wasn’t me!” Slowly, she slumped against it as she felt her throat burn and the biting cold seep through the chalky-white shirt she was given as her so-called 'friends' smiled tauntingly at her.

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