Damsels In Distress by Melissa Willingham (whitelam books .TXT) 📕

everything clean and spotless. The door to his study is ajar. I push it open and venture within. There he sits working, all pompous and pious at his desk, like a master of the universe.

No, wait a minute! He isn't moving. He's just sitting there staring straight ahead. I move in for a closer inspection. Oh, dear! He's not even breathing and his shirt is stained with blood. A butcher knife protrudes from his chest, piercing the heart he never seemed to have. His dead eyes appear to peer back at me accusingly. I cannot bear to look any longer, so I turn and float elsewhere.

This time, I arrive at the home of my roommate's boyfriend, Oliver. This is the man I once loved with every fiber of my being. Lola took him away from me and shattered my existence. That's when I began to despair of life itself and the headaches began to assail me relentlessly.

I sail from one room to another, settling in Oliver's kitchen. He's a chef and spends a great deal of time here. There he is, leaning over one of his latest and greatest creations. Apparently, he is slicing vegetables for stew. No, hold that thought! He isn't standing; he is slumped forward, but his eyes are upturned and seem to greet mine grudgingly.

Dear me! He's not budging from the spot. As I draw nearer, I see the butcher knife sticking out of his back. Just like he stabbed me in the back, when he chose Lola over me. I study the once handsome face of my beloved. His dull eyes seem to watch me in disbelief at his fate. He'll never betray me again with his infidelity.

Unable to view the sight of his demise a moment more, I fly away. While journeying further on, I come upon my own house. I travel into different rooms; spaces which are so familiar to me. At last, I come to a stop outside of Lola's door.

Once I have entered forbidden territory, I find her lying back on her bed resting. She wears a sheer, flimsy nightgown; much like the ones she wore to entice my Oliver. She reclines comfortably on the spot where she had sex with my man. She watches television and is so engrossed that she doesn't notice my approach.

No, I stand corrected! She is face-up on the plush bedding; her form is still and lifeless. She is white as a ghost and no movement is visible. I come closer to investigate. There is a butcher knife plunged into her flat stomach; that bare midriff she took pride in and loved to show off. I guess she'll never expose her finely sculpted abs again. Her dim eyes regard me quizzically, as if asking me why this happened to her.

Someone has gone and killed everyone who means something to me. Am I being stalked by an insane madman? Who would do this to me and my friends? I don't have to ponder this mystery for very long.

Suddenly, I awaken from my dream abruptly and find that I'm no longer in the bathtub. I am hovering by my roommate's bedside with a knife clutched firmly in my hand. She has just been brutally murdered by the crazed lunatic the police are searching for.

I glance at her crimson form, and then I take in the sight of my bloodstained hands. A startling revelation begins to dawn on me. My headache fades and a mental rolodex of memories plays before my eyes.

All those times I thought I was dreaming in the tub, I wasn't. My subconscious instead inspired me to go commit despicable acts against those who somehow wronged me. The individual who is prowling around claiming lives is me. I am the serial killer.

With that realization, I toss the knife aside and fall to my knees. "Lord, please forgive me," I cry out. "I didn't mean to do it. I didn't even know what I was doing."

At that moment, I hear the front door burst open. Shoes clamber loudly down the hallway. I am quickly surrounded by the police and some people in white lab coats. They bind me in their contraptions and lead me out to their automobiles.

"Help me, please," I plead with them weakly, imploring them to understand. "I'm so sorry."

A doctor in a white jacket places a hand on my shoulder. He replies softly, "Meghan, I'm Brock, your therapist. You remember me, don't you?"

I nod affirmatively, so he continues. "I'm taking you someplace where you'll receive all of the help you need. We'll take good care of you."

"How did you know it was me? Who called you?" I ask, confusion making my brain feel fuzzy.

"You did, Meghan. You see, you suffer from multiple personality disorder. It was one of your other personalities who called and told me what you'd done," he answers kindly.

"Oh, I don't even recall dialing your number. Well, thank you," I respond breathlessly. I sense he is someone who understands my actions were driven by immense pain and deep-seated rage. With this knowledge, I relax and collapse against him with relief. Everything is going to be okay now.

***

Imprint

Text: Melissa Monroe
Images: MSN/Bing
Publication Date: 02-09-2012

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
Dedicated to all mystery lovers.