The Collected

Here is a piece of our current work in progress, coming soon.

• Turner Collins

I wasn’t naive as to why I’d ended up where I was. I knew the lifestyle I had chosen could land me here. I was aware that my choices, my mistakes, they all had consequences. I knew all this and somehow I had still believed that the group of people I had chosen to dedicate my life to would protect me from this fate.

I was wrong. So very wrong.

The small 6 x 8 cell that had been my home for the last six months was my price to pay for those mistakes.

-Dach, The Collected

Spoon.

The spoon as bent as the injury that brought her here,
Smoke curling, twisting towards the sky,
Sweet, sweet release, only a push away,
Veins retreating, collapsing, as if before her eyes,
A rubber band pulled tight, a stand off between life and death,
Hypodermic medical device, meets skin,
Euphoria exploding through her wrecked body,
Eyes rolled back, conscience breaking through Heaven’s gates,
An adolescent’s cry, tear streaked cheeks,
Two breaking hearts, one with emotion, one with death,
Muted sounds, blurry vision,
A final plea, a cry for help,
An orphan, a lost soul,
The mother or the child?
The wail of sirens, lights dancing across the walls,
A bent spoon,
A hypodermic medical device,
One broken heart leftover.

-Turner

A horror story: part 3

Here is another addition to the little short I have been writing about an unfeeling killer and his love interest. Enjoy!

-Turner

I won’t bore you with the details of my life, trust me, they aren’t worth knowing. No, I wasn’t abused. I wasn’t molested. I had loving parents, well, so they tell me.
I played little league, had sleep overs with my buddies and played with my dog, Peanut.
I fought like normal with my little sister, Halle, went to Grandmother’s for cookies.
See? Normal.
What wasn’t normal was me. I was the odd one.
For as long as I could remember, I craved blood.
I craved to take life, to be the one in that position of power. To literally hold someone’s fate in my own hands.
I denied myself, of course. I was only a child, what did I know of murder? But as I got older, it got worse. There was no stopping my thoughts. No stopping the need for blood. It got to the point I would inflict pain on myself, simply to try and relieve myself. It didn’t work.
Nothing did.
Not until she moved in next door, I was twelve. She had the face of an angel and everytime she laughed, it caused my lips to twitch into a sort of smile. She was the only girl I ever saw. The only girl who ever silenced the voices in my head. The ones I never told anyone about.
Then a few years later, she was hurt, someone took her from me, damaged her innocent soul.
All that blood lust? It came spilling out. I never could get it back inside me, where it probably should have stayed. Although I can’t say I regret it. I don’t know that emotion.
Now, I relish in the feeling. I bathe in the blood of my guilty victims. I laugh in the face of death, all for her.
Because I love her.