Introduction
Every notorious serial killer is given a nickname. He was called bloodstream.
It was an impossible case. Every day for the past 20 years, a person has gone missing. They never return, and their bodies are never found—just disembodied pictures and vials of blood. He tears up polaroid photos of each victim, leaving assorted pieces at the scene of each new abduction. When police gather enough pieces to reform the original photographs, they’ll see the mutilated state of the prior 2 or 3 victims. Occasionally there’d be short messages or poems scrawled on the back in sharpie, but they made little sense and offered little aid in finding him.
A few years after the serial killings began, a new officer was tasked with catching him. She was an incredible improvement over the last detective, almost catching him once, and he developed an odd fascination with her. She wasn't even a real police officer--just the offspring of one of the cops. As prominent serial killers are given a nickname, he decided to give this intriguing little police officer a nickname. Histamine. In addition to the usual notes scribbled on photographs, he began enclosing letters to Histamine.
Thrice he left letters to her. Handwritten—though seemingly by a hand other than his own.
Two months ago, the killings suddenly stopped. The last victim was related to one of the leading officers in bloodstream’s case--the one he called Histamine. Many took it as the final atrocity of a suicidal serial killer. They assumed he was dead...
-5 years after the killings began-
You almost caught me the other day, you know. I heard the sirens pass by. It scared the shit out of me. It reminded me that I'm still human... just a kid who isn't quite ready to face the consequences. You reminded me what fear feels like. I'll repay you for that, one day.
What are you, anyway? The others never came close. I feel like an abomination that was finally detected by the world's immune system. They knew I was there, but it wasn't until now they deployed histamine. It opened the town's veins and sent soldiers exactly where they were needed. That's what you did. You're my histamine. And just like histamine, you really are a pain in the ass.
Still, I'm glad you joined the case. You taught me something important. If I'm going to do this, I have to cover my tracks better. Dispose of the evidence more thoroughly. It wouldn't do to be caught with everything you need to convict me. That would be a problem.
I imagine you were young when the killings first began. Weren't you? The monstrosity was all they covered in the news for a long time. No matter how young you were, you must’ve known. It was all anyone talked about. It was why children were confined to their homes and police never seemed to be in theirs. Did you ever take time to watch the news? You’d think the broadcasters actually delighted in humanity’s misfortune—they were so animated when they described it. Behind every one of those somber masks was a maniacal smile. You saw it, didn’t you? You did. You must’ve.
Don’t deny it. The fall of others mean nothing to those who rise because of it. Vultures don’t take a moment of silence for every rotting carcass they stumble across. They don’t morn for the former creature’s loss. They sing their loathsome song of death and greedily fill the hollow chasm in their abdomens. Then they haul ass to the next corpse and repeat the process. Such is the life of vultures. So too is the life of mankind.
I saw you on the news last night. You looked into the camera like you could see right through it. Like you were looking straight at me. I noticed how you look at me with such contempt. Last time I checked, judging others was a sin. You should really keep that in check. We wouldn’t want you to end up in hell, would we? That would be too ironic. You keep the peace up here, only to have your own peace disturbed down there.
You should relax with a cup of tea. Chamomile would be ideal.
--Bloodstream
-13 years after-
Damn you, Histamine,
Do you remember the last letter I wrote you? I told you that judging people was a sin. You should listen to me; I know a lot about sinning. I have a very important matter to discuss with you.
Stop looking at me with those eyes of yours. You always give me that look. For 8 years I've suffered your ironclad gaze through that illuminated screen. I'm tired of it. You aren't the only one, either. Everyone gives me that look. You know, every day I ask someone new to make me tea. They never give me tea. They give me a look. I don’t want their animosity; I want a goddamn cup of tea. It’s a simple request.
Does your police department adhere to common stereotypes? I suppose you all prefer coffee. I suggest you stock up on teabags, though. One day… it might help you get the confession you desire so desperately. I know what you want me to say. You want me to admit to it all. For the past 13 years, a life has been taken every day. 4,745 people… dead. In reality, it’s even more than that. Those are just the ones you confirmed. There could be more victims. There are more victims. You know it.
You want me to take the blame for that. You want me to turn myself in. But I assure you, I have no intentions of walking up and handing you a confession like the warm cup of tea you will undoubtedly deny me. I am a free man until you catch me. That day will come, I’m sure, but know it will not come soon. When you do succeed in catching me, know that I am innocent until proven guilty. No matter how guilty you “know” I am… that truth still stands. I outwitted you this long. What makes you think I’ll leave enough evidence to convict me? Someone else, perhaps… but certainly not me. I've learned generously since my last letter.
--The ever infamous BLOODSTREAM
-20 years after; 2 months ago-
The tea doesn’t taste good anymore. It’s bitter. All of it… I can’t stomach it any longer.
I learned something new today. You can move forward for a long time before your past catches up with you. I kept moving this whole time, never looking back, but now my path forward is cluttered with the destruction of my past. I went clear across the sphere. Now the only place without complete and utter devastation is the place I currently stand. It’s true I could turn left, repeat the cycle I have just concluded, but that would entitle abandoning my onward motion. I can’t abandon everything I’ve done. I could do it—I’ve fooled you this long—but I couldn’t live with myself if I did do it.
His name was Miles, wasn’t it? He was the first blood sample I gave to the forensics department. It wasn’t even my first time killing, either. It was just my first time going public. I wish I could say I never enjoyed it. But that isn’t true at all. Young as I was, I loved it. These people… I watched them. I tried to understand them. I tried so hard to understand what was going on without violence. But I couldn’t. I wasn’t good enough for that. So I took them apart. And then—little by little—I figured it out. I know what’s wrong now. Sure, my theories aren’t perfect, but they’re reasonable. I accomplished what I set out to do.
But it came with a price. I want you to know that I never regretted anything I did. Everyone I killed deserved to die. I don’t even consider it murder. It wasn’t mindless killing. I had a purpose. But it was different this time. I had never been mistaken in my suspicions. But I was wrong this time. I was incorrect. My calculations were off. I don’t even know what it was that threw me off the right path.
I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Why do I feel like this? After everything, why do I still feel like this? It’s so illogical. I knew the risk I was taking. I knew my condition would get worse. But I thought I could control it. I could control it before. Why is my inanity getting worse? Why is the pain increasing? My tests worked on the others. Why does it fail when I try it on my own body?
I don’t understand, Histamine. It scares me. I’m terrified.
I want you to know I’ve given up the serial killer thing. I haven’t taken a life in four months. I think I’m going through withdrawals, honestly… but I’m pretty sure karma is real and I’d rather go insane than feel any more of her wrath.
I suppose I’ll shake your hand in hell, since you never stopped looking at me with your judgmental eyes. Irony will get us both.
--J.T.M.
It was an impossible case. Every day for the past 20 years, a person has gone missing. They never return, and their bodies are never found—just disembodied pictures and vials of blood. He tears up polaroid photos of each victim, leaving assorted pieces at the scene of each new abduction. When police gather enough pieces to reform the original photographs, they’ll see the mutilated state of the prior 2 or 3 victims. Occasionally there’d be short messages or poems scrawled on the back in sharpie, but they made little sense and offered little aid in finding him.
A few years after the serial killings began, a new officer was tasked with catching him. She was an incredible improvement over the last detective, almost catching him once, and he developed an odd fascination with her. She wasn't even a real police officer--just the offspring of one of the cops. As prominent serial killers are given a nickname, he decided to give this intriguing little police officer a nickname. Histamine. In addition to the usual notes scribbled on photographs, he began enclosing letters to Histamine.
Thrice he left letters to her. Handwritten—though seemingly by a hand other than his own.
Two months ago, the killings suddenly stopped. The last victim was related to one of the leading officers in bloodstream’s case--the one he called Histamine. Many took it as the final atrocity of a suicidal serial killer. They assumed he was dead...
-5 years after the killings began-
You almost caught me the other day, you know. I heard the sirens pass by. It scared the shit out of me. It reminded me that I'm still human... just a kid who isn't quite ready to face the consequences. You reminded me what fear feels like. I'll repay you for that, one day.
What are you, anyway? The others never came close. I feel like an abomination that was finally detected by the world's immune system. They knew I was there, but it wasn't until now they deployed histamine. It opened the town's veins and sent soldiers exactly where they were needed. That's what you did. You're my histamine. And just like histamine, you really are a pain in the ass.
Still, I'm glad you joined the case. You taught me something important. If I'm going to do this, I have to cover my tracks better. Dispose of the evidence more thoroughly. It wouldn't do to be caught with everything you need to convict me. That would be a problem.
I imagine you were young when the killings first began. Weren't you? The monstrosity was all they covered in the news for a long time. No matter how young you were, you must’ve known. It was all anyone talked about. It was why children were confined to their homes and police never seemed to be in theirs. Did you ever take time to watch the news? You’d think the broadcasters actually delighted in humanity’s misfortune—they were so animated when they described it. Behind every one of those somber masks was a maniacal smile. You saw it, didn’t you? You did. You must’ve.
Don’t deny it. The fall of others mean nothing to those who rise because of it. Vultures don’t take a moment of silence for every rotting carcass they stumble across. They don’t morn for the former creature’s loss. They sing their loathsome song of death and greedily fill the hollow chasm in their abdomens. Then they haul ass to the next corpse and repeat the process. Such is the life of vultures. So too is the life of mankind.
I saw you on the news last night. You looked into the camera like you could see right through it. Like you were looking straight at me. I noticed how you look at me with such contempt. Last time I checked, judging others was a sin. You should really keep that in check. We wouldn’t want you to end up in hell, would we? That would be too ironic. You keep the peace up here, only to have your own peace disturbed down there.
You should relax with a cup of tea. Chamomile would be ideal.
--Bloodstream
-13 years after-
Damn you, Histamine,
Do you remember the last letter I wrote you? I told you that judging people was a sin. You should listen to me; I know a lot about sinning. I have a very important matter to discuss with you.
Stop looking at me with those eyes of yours. You always give me that look. For 8 years I've suffered your ironclad gaze through that illuminated screen. I'm tired of it. You aren't the only one, either. Everyone gives me that look. You know, every day I ask someone new to make me tea. They never give me tea. They give me a look. I don’t want their animosity; I want a goddamn cup of tea. It’s a simple request.
Does your police department adhere to common stereotypes? I suppose you all prefer coffee. I suggest you stock up on teabags, though. One day… it might help you get the confession you desire so desperately. I know what you want me to say. You want me to admit to it all. For the past 13 years, a life has been taken every day. 4,745 people… dead. In reality, it’s even more than that. Those are just the ones you confirmed. There could be more victims. There are more victims. You know it.
You want me to take the blame for that. You want me to turn myself in. But I assure you, I have no intentions of walking up and handing you a confession like the warm cup of tea you will undoubtedly deny me. I am a free man until you catch me. That day will come, I’m sure, but know it will not come soon. When you do succeed in catching me, know that I am innocent until proven guilty. No matter how guilty you “know” I am… that truth still stands. I outwitted you this long. What makes you think I’ll leave enough evidence to convict me? Someone else, perhaps… but certainly not me. I've learned generously since my last letter.
--The ever infamous BLOODSTREAM
-20 years after; 2 months ago-
The tea doesn’t taste good anymore. It’s bitter. All of it… I can’t stomach it any longer.
I learned something new today. You can move forward for a long time before your past catches up with you. I kept moving this whole time, never looking back, but now my path forward is cluttered with the destruction of my past. I went clear across the sphere. Now the only place without complete and utter devastation is the place I currently stand. It’s true I could turn left, repeat the cycle I have just concluded, but that would entitle abandoning my onward motion. I can’t abandon everything I’ve done. I could do it—I’ve fooled you this long—but I couldn’t live with myself if I did do it.
His name was Miles, wasn’t it? He was the first blood sample I gave to the forensics department. It wasn’t even my first time killing, either. It was just my first time going public. I wish I could say I never enjoyed it. But that isn’t true at all. Young as I was, I loved it. These people… I watched them. I tried to understand them. I tried so hard to understand what was going on without violence. But I couldn’t. I wasn’t good enough for that. So I took them apart. And then—little by little—I figured it out. I know what’s wrong now. Sure, my theories aren’t perfect, but they’re reasonable. I accomplished what I set out to do.
But it came with a price. I want you to know that I never regretted anything I did. Everyone I killed deserved to die. I don’t even consider it murder. It wasn’t mindless killing. I had a purpose. But it was different this time. I had never been mistaken in my suspicions. But I was wrong this time. I was incorrect. My calculations were off. I don’t even know what it was that threw me off the right path.
I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Why do I feel like this? After everything, why do I still feel like this? It’s so illogical. I knew the risk I was taking. I knew my condition would get worse. But I thought I could control it. I could control it before. Why is my inanity getting worse? Why is the pain increasing? My tests worked on the others. Why does it fail when I try it on my own body?
I don’t understand, Histamine. It scares me. I’m terrified.
I want you to know I’ve given up the serial killer thing. I haven’t taken a life in four months. I think I’m going through withdrawals, honestly… but I’m pretty sure karma is real and I’d rather go insane than feel any more of her wrath.
I suppose I’ll shake your hand in hell, since you never stopped looking at me with your judgmental eyes. Irony will get us both.
--J.T.M.
- 2 posts here • Page 1 of 1
The Story So Far... Write a Post » as written by 2 authors
The rusted teal truck came to a distracted halt, too busy screaming complaints at its driver to pay attention to its own performance. It was a cumbersome old thing—down to every last bolt. Its lungs didn’t work worth a damn, causing discomfort in nearly all his expeditions. Static and melody alike denied the lifeless radio its presence. The breaks squealed in contempt with every forced embrace between them and the leathery skin of four worn tires. Two front seats loosed buttery foam blood and spent years bathing in secondhand smoke from cigarettes and bonfires kindled with non-wood substances. On the passenger side, the window was stubborn as ever in its permanent upward position, trapping the scent inside.
It was a piece of crap, but he didn’t care. A new ride wasn’t high on his priority list—not when his life and wellbeing were still biding his attention. He stared vacantly at the building in front him. It was there his doom waited patiently. The police station. He had never been this close to it before. To him, it was like a gate to hell. There had never been a good reason to approach it. There would never be a good reason to approach it.
Yet here he was.
“This is a bad idea,” he sighed. “A really bad idea.” It was happening again. The illogicality was creeping in. Four and a half months ago, he ceased killing. Everything had been quiet since then. It was making him crazy. He couldn’t take it.
He couldn’t handle it.
From the beginning, silence was his only friend. It embraced him in a vicious cycle; it reached out with long skeletal fingers and seized his neck, stifling what little blood still circulated through his intellectual powers. He knew it was the silence that made him crazy. That was why he adored manslaughter. The screams… the sweet sound of blood dripping and splattering and seeping into the carpets… the gushing sound of entrails cascading to the floor… everything about it was wonderful. Through their sacrifice, he killed silence.
But it always came back worse than before.
It seemed like the police station was already laughing at him. He wished it really was. It was too quiet in the car. It reminded him of home.
Home? He couldn’t really call it that.
The old single-story nightmare was always quiet—even when he was little it was eerie. The obscure woods surrounding it were always calm. There was something wrong with it. When he was holed up within the house surrounded by groves, he couldn’t help being hushed. After all, it felt like he was being eternally choked. Every day the silence smothered him. That made him irrational. His unreasonableness kept him inaudible. That made the silence even worse. It was a vicious cycle.
Suddenly, it occurred to him that he was never quite happy. While he hated the inaudible horror of his life, he also longed for it when it fled from him. It didn’t make any sense.
Closing his eyes, he let his head roll back on his wounded seat. It was 15 years ago. That was when that woman joined the case. It seemed everything was livelier back then. Perhaps he wasn’t as adept at tuning the world out, but it seemed like the it was never quiet. It was true he still clutched his humanity at that point, silencing his victims with anesthetics so they’d die a screamless death, but the sounds of their internal fluids were especially flamboyant to him then. There were the voices, too. He had been a different kind of crazy when he still heard the voices.
It was a Wednesday. The voices were putting him on edge, turning against him. That was his intuition talking. They were coming for him. It was dark when he first heard the sirens. It was funny, actually. There was only one thing he could think at that point.
He was a dead man.
Longing for silence to return, he sipped his tea. It was raspberry. The color of blood. It was his favorite and most reviled color. He was addicted to blood, but he hated it. Everything was covered in blood. The garden of corpses he kept in the basement—those were stained in blood. Even the bones were tinted red. They had piled so high he couldn’t even open the door anymore. The bodies migrated to the bedrooms, now. So much blood. Everywhere. The walls had blood splattered on them. The floors had aged and sometimes fresh puddles in every room. Even his own body was sticky with blood. It disgusted him. But it also pleased him. He didn’t know how to feel about it anymore. Was he a monster, or wasn’t he? He felt like he was still human, but anyone who happened across his rotting house would disagree.
He was afraid to sleep there at night, you know. The maggots might burrow into his skin as though he were a living corpse. That terrified him. He had a treehouse outside—a mile and a half to the east. It was there he slept. He still slept there—even today.
He was a dead man. The cops were finally going to get him. He wasn’t going to run. They would have enough evidence here to convict him. He would either get death or several life sentences, but they would kill him before he died of old age. The reporters would all say he was finally locked in prison. Yet that wouldn’t be the case at all. He’d be somewhere else, getting illegal punishment. Screw the bill of rights. He was a monster. That’s what they’d think. He knew it.
But they didn’t know anything.
Someday, they would need him. Yes. They would need him. They didn’t know it yet, but it was true. The monster was intelligent. It knew something they didn’t. One day they’d be fucked and he’d be their only protector. He only hoped he lived long enough to see that day come to pass.
Throughout his dark speculation, victimized lungs screamed at him—but his brain wasn’t heavy enough to comprehend it. He was lightheaded. Dazed. Hyperventilating. Panicking. He was a dead man. A living corpse. They were going to kill him. It was real.
The sirens screamed louder and louder as they approached—he heard them over his fervid lungs. He was going to die. They would kill him. Could he handle that? No. He would plead insanity. He was insane, wasn’t he? No—he wasn’t. He was quite sane. He knew exactly what he was doing. If he didn’t, how could he escape incarceration for so long? He was sane. He wasn’t a monster. It was okay.
Everything was going to be okay.
In the end, everything had turned out okay. The sirens passed him by and never came again. The voices stopped, too. But he also became more violent. Something had started to change that day. He wasn’t sure what it was, but something definitely changed.
What… am I doing? He felt like he should either get this over with or run while he can. Running would be the smarter option. But that wasn’t what he was going to do. Shakily reaching for the handle, he threw the door open. It was now or never. He wasn’t going to talk himself out of this. It had to be done. This was the plan from the start. Do it. Get going. One foot in front of the other.
Get your ass over there.
It took a lot more mental coaxing than his dignity would admit, but he ultimately reached the double doors of hell. This was it. Open the door. Good. Now walk in. Act natural. It’s okay to be uneasy—just don’t look suspicious. You’re doing good. Awesome job. Now walk up to the desk and state your business.
Looking every bit the nervous, gentle-hearted scholar, he began by clearing his throat, “H-hello, ma'am?”’
This was a bad idea. They were going to finish what they started 15 years ago—they would handcuff him and lead him away to be waterboarded and god knows what else. He had to get out of there. Now. “Uh… n-nevermind,” he retreated slowly, fidgeting hopelessly as he prepared to make a collected, non-suspicious dash to his car. This had to be planned more. Damn impulsiveness.
It was a piece of crap, but he didn’t care. A new ride wasn’t high on his priority list—not when his life and wellbeing were still biding his attention. He stared vacantly at the building in front him. It was there his doom waited patiently. The police station. He had never been this close to it before. To him, it was like a gate to hell. There had never been a good reason to approach it. There would never be a good reason to approach it.
Yet here he was.
“This is a bad idea,” he sighed. “A really bad idea.” It was happening again. The illogicality was creeping in. Four and a half months ago, he ceased killing. Everything had been quiet since then. It was making him crazy. He couldn’t take it.
He couldn’t handle it.
From the beginning, silence was his only friend. It embraced him in a vicious cycle; it reached out with long skeletal fingers and seized his neck, stifling what little blood still circulated through his intellectual powers. He knew it was the silence that made him crazy. That was why he adored manslaughter. The screams… the sweet sound of blood dripping and splattering and seeping into the carpets… the gushing sound of entrails cascading to the floor… everything about it was wonderful. Through their sacrifice, he killed silence.
But it always came back worse than before.
It seemed like the police station was already laughing at him. He wished it really was. It was too quiet in the car. It reminded him of home.
Home? He couldn’t really call it that.
The old single-story nightmare was always quiet—even when he was little it was eerie. The obscure woods surrounding it were always calm. There was something wrong with it. When he was holed up within the house surrounded by groves, he couldn’t help being hushed. After all, it felt like he was being eternally choked. Every day the silence smothered him. That made him irrational. His unreasonableness kept him inaudible. That made the silence even worse. It was a vicious cycle.
Suddenly, it occurred to him that he was never quite happy. While he hated the inaudible horror of his life, he also longed for it when it fled from him. It didn’t make any sense.
Closing his eyes, he let his head roll back on his wounded seat. It was 15 years ago. That was when that woman joined the case. It seemed everything was livelier back then. Perhaps he wasn’t as adept at tuning the world out, but it seemed like the it was never quiet. It was true he still clutched his humanity at that point, silencing his victims with anesthetics so they’d die a screamless death, but the sounds of their internal fluids were especially flamboyant to him then. There were the voices, too. He had been a different kind of crazy when he still heard the voices.
It was a Wednesday. The voices were putting him on edge, turning against him. That was his intuition talking. They were coming for him. It was dark when he first heard the sirens. It was funny, actually. There was only one thing he could think at that point.
He was a dead man.
Longing for silence to return, he sipped his tea. It was raspberry. The color of blood. It was his favorite and most reviled color. He was addicted to blood, but he hated it. Everything was covered in blood. The garden of corpses he kept in the basement—those were stained in blood. Even the bones were tinted red. They had piled so high he couldn’t even open the door anymore. The bodies migrated to the bedrooms, now. So much blood. Everywhere. The walls had blood splattered on them. The floors had aged and sometimes fresh puddles in every room. Even his own body was sticky with blood. It disgusted him. But it also pleased him. He didn’t know how to feel about it anymore. Was he a monster, or wasn’t he? He felt like he was still human, but anyone who happened across his rotting house would disagree.
He was afraid to sleep there at night, you know. The maggots might burrow into his skin as though he were a living corpse. That terrified him. He had a treehouse outside—a mile and a half to the east. It was there he slept. He still slept there—even today.
He was a dead man. The cops were finally going to get him. He wasn’t going to run. They would have enough evidence here to convict him. He would either get death or several life sentences, but they would kill him before he died of old age. The reporters would all say he was finally locked in prison. Yet that wouldn’t be the case at all. He’d be somewhere else, getting illegal punishment. Screw the bill of rights. He was a monster. That’s what they’d think. He knew it.
But they didn’t know anything.
Someday, they would need him. Yes. They would need him. They didn’t know it yet, but it was true. The monster was intelligent. It knew something they didn’t. One day they’d be fucked and he’d be their only protector. He only hoped he lived long enough to see that day come to pass.
Throughout his dark speculation, victimized lungs screamed at him—but his brain wasn’t heavy enough to comprehend it. He was lightheaded. Dazed. Hyperventilating. Panicking. He was a dead man. A living corpse. They were going to kill him. It was real.
The sirens screamed louder and louder as they approached—he heard them over his fervid lungs. He was going to die. They would kill him. Could he handle that? No. He would plead insanity. He was insane, wasn’t he? No—he wasn’t. He was quite sane. He knew exactly what he was doing. If he didn’t, how could he escape incarceration for so long? He was sane. He wasn’t a monster. It was okay.
Everything was going to be okay.
In the end, everything had turned out okay. The sirens passed him by and never came again. The voices stopped, too. But he also became more violent. Something had started to change that day. He wasn’t sure what it was, but something definitely changed.
What… am I doing? He felt like he should either get this over with or run while he can. Running would be the smarter option. But that wasn’t what he was going to do. Shakily reaching for the handle, he threw the door open. It was now or never. He wasn’t going to talk himself out of this. It had to be done. This was the plan from the start. Do it. Get going. One foot in front of the other.
Get your ass over there.
It took a lot more mental coaxing than his dignity would admit, but he ultimately reached the double doors of hell. This was it. Open the door. Good. Now walk in. Act natural. It’s okay to be uneasy—just don’t look suspicious. You’re doing good. Awesome job. Now walk up to the desk and state your business.
Looking every bit the nervous, gentle-hearted scholar, he began by clearing his throat, “H-hello, ma'am?”’
This was a bad idea. They were going to finish what they started 15 years ago—they would handcuff him and lead him away to be waterboarded and god knows what else. He had to get out of there. Now. “Uh… n-nevermind,” he retreated slowly, fidgeting hopelessly as he prepared to make a collected, non-suspicious dash to his car. This had to be planned more. Damn impulsiveness.
Lifting the bottle to her lips, she closed her eyes as the burn traveled down her throat, taking with it a brief moment of feeling, of a deeper, more unbearable pain. Placing the tequila back down with a thud and a stisfying slosh of liquid, the woman gazed down at her desk, the papers strewn about in an order, a pattern lknown only to her.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, the little voice of her subconscious nagged at her for drinking while trying to look over a case. She ignored the smarter, well-reasoned part of her brain for the time being. Besides, she wasn't exactly on the clock, so technically speaking, she wasn't breaking any rules. She could drink as much as she damn well pleased.
Practically glaring at the files and papers before her, she scanned the collection for what realistically could be the five or so hundredth time. Every spare chance she got in between cases, she went back to the one that haunted her every waking hour. The one that gave her no relief at night. The one that lingered in the minds, brought teeror to people's hearts, and caused them to cast fearful eyes over their shoulders at every creak or sudden movement. She slowly and methodically appraised the timeline, searching for some clue she'd overlooked, some detail hidden.
Nothing. Not a damn thing.
Slamming her fist onto the wooden desk, the investigator dropped back down into her chair, teeth grit as she rearranged the items, putting a few away, and trying to sort through the limited information she had at her disposal, despite the number of victims. At the center of her morbid collage were three handwritten letters, and around those were any scribbled poems or notes found at the crime scenes.
In twenty years not a single usable print was ever found, and if it was a print, it was the victim's.
Another swig of the alcohol went down her throat before she scrutinized the letters. The papers were wrinkled from abuse and multiple attempts to crunch them to bits and be tossed, only to be retrieved last minute and unfurled to inspect and analize again. Tyra re-read each one, slowly despite the rush in her head, the curling of her stomach in disgust.
Shoving them away, Tyra willed away an oncoming headache. With a heavy sigh, she pulled a single photograph towards her, smiling sadly, wistfully at the smiling face.
"Sorry sis. Still nothing. I promise...I'll find this bastard....I'll find who did this to everyone, the one who did this to you." she whispered, placing the picture down lovingly in the only nice corner of her desk.
Not even five months ago she had been alive, going off to become a med student, to save lives. Now her little sister was gone, as well as her fiance. For a while he had been her comfort, her source of support. He tried to help her move on, accept her sister was gone and declare the case a failure, no one could catch Bloodstream. But she wasn't going to move on, how could she? A man who killed people everyday for twenty years? She couldn't give up!
They grew more distant, more terse, and finally he apologized, apologized and said he couldn't watch her go on like this anymore. With that perfect, gentlemanly, 'I'm not upset at all' smile that he used, hiding his frustration and his pity. It made her sad and sick. She had a chance at happiness, but she couldn't give up on this cold son of a bitch who took lives as easily as people popped pills or drank. And now it was gone, driven away by her need, her drive, her 'obsession' ( Carlos' words, not hers), with finding and catching the killer who evaded the law for twenty years.
Because of him! HE was the reason she lost her beloved little sister, he tore a rift in what would have been a beautiful marriage! And not just her, how many others had he destroyed? How many broken hearts did he leave in the wake of each victim? How many had he ruined with fear, despair, unreddemable loss? No, she couldn't let go! She growled at his accusations, his smug judgement of her judging him. He thought she'd end up in hell?
If it meant she would drag the son of a bitch down with her into the deepest pits of the inferno, she'd accept in a heartbeat.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, the little voice of her subconscious nagged at her for drinking while trying to look over a case. She ignored the smarter, well-reasoned part of her brain for the time being. Besides, she wasn't exactly on the clock, so technically speaking, she wasn't breaking any rules. She could drink as much as she damn well pleased.
Practically glaring at the files and papers before her, she scanned the collection for what realistically could be the five or so hundredth time. Every spare chance she got in between cases, she went back to the one that haunted her every waking hour. The one that gave her no relief at night. The one that lingered in the minds, brought teeror to people's hearts, and caused them to cast fearful eyes over their shoulders at every creak or sudden movement. She slowly and methodically appraised the timeline, searching for some clue she'd overlooked, some detail hidden.
Nothing. Not a damn thing.
Slamming her fist onto the wooden desk, the investigator dropped back down into her chair, teeth grit as she rearranged the items, putting a few away, and trying to sort through the limited information she had at her disposal, despite the number of victims. At the center of her morbid collage were three handwritten letters, and around those were any scribbled poems or notes found at the crime scenes.
In twenty years not a single usable print was ever found, and if it was a print, it was the victim's.
Another swig of the alcohol went down her throat before she scrutinized the letters. The papers were wrinkled from abuse and multiple attempts to crunch them to bits and be tossed, only to be retrieved last minute and unfurled to inspect and analize again. Tyra re-read each one, slowly despite the rush in her head, the curling of her stomach in disgust.
Shoving them away, Tyra willed away an oncoming headache. With a heavy sigh, she pulled a single photograph towards her, smiling sadly, wistfully at the smiling face.
"Sorry sis. Still nothing. I promise...I'll find this bastard....I'll find who did this to everyone, the one who did this to you." she whispered, placing the picture down lovingly in the only nice corner of her desk.
Not even five months ago she had been alive, going off to become a med student, to save lives. Now her little sister was gone, as well as her fiance. For a while he had been her comfort, her source of support. He tried to help her move on, accept her sister was gone and declare the case a failure, no one could catch Bloodstream. But she wasn't going to move on, how could she? A man who killed people everyday for twenty years? She couldn't give up!
They grew more distant, more terse, and finally he apologized, apologized and said he couldn't watch her go on like this anymore. With that perfect, gentlemanly, 'I'm not upset at all' smile that he used, hiding his frustration and his pity. It made her sad and sick. She had a chance at happiness, but she couldn't give up on this cold son of a bitch who took lives as easily as people popped pills or drank. And now it was gone, driven away by her need, her drive, her 'obsession' ( Carlos' words, not hers), with finding and catching the killer who evaded the law for twenty years.
Because of him! HE was the reason she lost her beloved little sister, he tore a rift in what would have been a beautiful marriage! And not just her, how many others had he destroyed? How many broken hearts did he leave in the wake of each victim? How many had he ruined with fear, despair, unreddemable loss? No, she couldn't let go! She growled at his accusations, his smug judgement of her judging him. He thought she'd end up in hell?
If it meant she would drag the son of a bitch down with her into the deepest pits of the inferno, she'd accept in a heartbeat.
- 2 posts here • Page 1 of 1
View All »Arcs
Arcs are bundles of posts that you can organize on your own. They're useful for telling a story that might span long periods of time or space.
There are no arcs in this roleplay.
View All » Create New » Quests
There are no quests in this roleplay.
Add Group » View All » 0 Factions to align with
Here's the current leaderboard.
There are no groups in this roleplay!
Game Master Controls
Welcome home, Promethean. Here, you can manage your universe.
Arcs
Arcs are bundles of posts from any location, allowing you to easily capture sub-plots which might be spread out across multiple locations.
Add Quest » Quests
You can create Quests with various rewards, encouraging your players to engage with specific plot lines.
Add Setting » 1 Settings for your players to play in
Settings are the backdrop for the characters in your universe, giving meaning and context to their existence. By creating a number of well-written locations, you can organize your universe into areas and regions.
Navigation
While not required, locations can be organized onto a map. More information soon!
Add Group » 0 Factions to align with
There are no groups in this roleplay!
Collectibles
By creating Collectibles, you can reward your players with unique items that accentuate their character sheets.
Once an Item has been created, it can be spawned in the IC using /spawn Item Name (case-sensitive, as usual) — this can be followed with /take Item Name to retrieve the item into the current character's inventory.
Mobs
Give your Universe life by adding a Mob, which are auto-replenishing NPCs your players can interact with. Useful for some quick hack-and-slash fun!
Mobs can be automated spawns, like rats and bats, or full-on NPCs complete with conversation menus. Use them to enhance your player experience!
Current Mobs
No mobs have been created yet.
Spawns
Locations where Mobs and Items might appear.
Events
You can schedule events for your players to create notifications and schedule times for everyone to plan around.
The Forge
Use your INK to craft new artifacts in Bloodstream. Once created, Items cannot be changed, but they can be bought and sold in the marketplace.
Notable Items
No items have been created yet!
The Market
Buy, sell, and even craft your own items in this universe.
Market DataMarket conditions are Quick Buy (Items Most Recently Listed for Sale) |
Open Stores
View All » Add Character » 2 Characters to follow in this universe
Newest
J.T.M.
"I want a cup of tea."
Trending
J.T.M.
"I want a cup of tea."
Most Followed
J.T.M.
"I want a cup of tea."
View All » Places
Fullscreen Chat » Create Topic » Bloodstream: Out of Character
Discussions
-
- Topics
- Replies
- Views
- Last post
-
-
Bloodstream
by inquisition on Wed Jan 08, 2014 8:19 pm
- 7 Replies
- 567 Views
- Last post by stealthpanther
on Sat Jan 11, 2014 11:20 pm
-
Bloodstream
Most recent OOC posts in Bloodstream
Re: Bloodstream
No worries, I figured I'd make it easier.
I do agree with you on pictures. I tend to use pictures for my characters, and I try to use realistic or believable art when possible. You are of course free to ask me to modify or change a picture I choose.
I have no qualms about a lengthy post. I shall do my best to match the awesome and the length. I admit, I lag here and there, but I am generally pretty decent at writing a fair amount to work with.
*edit:
The two different names are her real name and her undercover name/alias
I do agree with you on pictures. I tend to use pictures for my characters, and I try to use realistic or believable art when possible. You are of course free to ask me to modify or change a picture I choose.
I have no qualms about a lengthy post. I shall do my best to match the awesome and the length. I admit, I lag here and there, but I am generally pretty decent at writing a fair amount to work with.
*edit:
The two different names are her real name and her undercover name/alias
Re: Bloodstream
No, you're free to write a description or use (realistic) art if you wish. I feel weird using well-known celebrities and animated GIFs, but obscure models and celebrities I've never heard of are fair game. I'm really good at finding faces that match my initial vision, and they convey the idea better than a description would. Words are subject to interpretation; images are more concrete. That's why I use them.
I'm debating how I want to start this. Do I dive right in with plot twist(s), or do I delay them? Hm...
At any rate, I should have something up by tomorrow. I'll warn you now: my intro posts are generally pretty long.
Thanks for sparing me the slash. I would have guessed you were a female, but I would have defaulted to a masculine form. I guess men don't appreciate it when their gender is mistaken. XD
I'm debating how I want to start this. Do I dive right in with plot twist(s), or do I delay them? Hm...
At any rate, I should have something up by tomorrow. I'll warn you now: my intro posts are generally pretty long.
Thanks for sparing me the slash. I would have guessed you were a female, but I would have defaulted to a masculine form. I guess men don't appreciate it when their gender is mistaken. XD
Re: Bloodstream
Why thank you very much! I will of course provide a name and a face, as that is usually all I prefer myself.
Does it need to be a face claim? My only issue is I feel a bit...odd using real life photos and celebrities as my character's picture. I am of course not oppossed to using a painting or realistic artwork. Did you have a preference?
And Unless you wished for me to post first, you are most certainly welcome to start us off.
Now to get my photo and name.
Oh, and to make it clear so you don't need to guess or do the /, I'm female ^-^
Does it need to be a face claim? My only issue is I feel a bit...odd using real life photos and celebrities as my character's picture. I am of course not oppossed to using a painting or realistic artwork. Did you have a preference?
And Unless you wished for me to post first, you are most certainly welcome to start us off.
Now to get my photo and name.
Oh, and to make it clear so you don't need to guess or do the /, I'm female ^-^
Re: Bloodstream
I thank you both for your interest. However, as there is only one slot, I'm going to award it to stealthpanther. It seems like (his/her) interpretation of Histamine would be a better rival for Bloodstream, and (his/her) writing style seems to be a better match for mine.
The possessive thing was awkward. Let's forget about it and move on.
I will start typing up an opening post--unless you prefer to begin. I also prefer to reveal everything in-story, so a detailed sheet is not necessary. All I require is a name and a face. Of course, you could be creative with this requirement. Perhaps the face he saw on the news wasn't hers. Maybe the name she gave was false. She could be undercover.
Have fun.
As far as your writing style, I feel like you'll be fine. Your reply is eloquent enough, and my intuition is usually correct.
My character is a complete mystery at this point, so I will edit in his picture and his actual name when the time comes.
The possessive thing was awkward. Let's forget about it and move on.
I will start typing up an opening post--unless you prefer to begin. I also prefer to reveal everything in-story, so a detailed sheet is not necessary. All I require is a name and a face. Of course, you could be creative with this requirement. Perhaps the face he saw on the news wasn't hers. Maybe the name she gave was false. She could be undercover.
Have fun.
As far as your writing style, I feel like you'll be fine. Your reply is eloquent enough, and my intuition is usually correct.
My character is a complete mystery at this point, so I will edit in his picture and his actual name when the time comes.
Re: Bloodstream
I would be most interested in joining you in this RP.
I would make her 30, and I was thinking either sister or fiance would be the one he killed. If you'd like, I can link you to some of my roleplays and share my writing style to see if it is compatible with you and your tastes. I always write in third person, and I do my best to match my partner in length and quality. She would be the type who becomes fixed on something and hates failure. I like to reveal more about my characters thruought the roleplay, but I am perfectly alright with making a detailed character sheet if you'd prefer.
I would make her 30, and I was thinking either sister or fiance would be the one he killed. If you'd like, I can link you to some of my roleplays and share my writing style to see if it is compatible with you and your tastes. I always write in third person, and I do my best to match my partner in length and quality. She would be the type who becomes fixed on something and hates failure. I like to reveal more about my characters thruought the roleplay, but I am perfectly alright with making a detailed character sheet if you'd prefer.
Re: Bloodstream
This sounds really interesting. I think that I would make her be 23, and the character killed would be her sister. She would live in a small apartment and though having gotten her current job through her father, a police officer, she rarely talks to him anymore after an argument about religion. She wants to find the serial killer and his notes are throwing her for a loop- in them while he doesn't sound like the most friendly person, he is far from insane or sadistic. She believes there must be a reason behind the killings, but usually reading the letters make her head hurt. As she is very prideful, it irks her to not be able to figure out his motive. On her worst days she gives up hope ever understanding, but soon she is fresh on the trail again. She holds strong with a firm belief that he will eventually slip up, and the best way to get him to is to play his game- write back with the same teasing, superior air.
Is that good? I can be more through with backstory and stuff if you PM me to say that you are interested.
Is that good? I can be more through with backstory and stuff if you PM me to say that you are interested.
Bloodstream
Here I am, waiting patiently for you to go and check out my plot. C'mon. It'll be fun. You know you want to.
If you came from the intro tab... I'm still waiting patiently. But for a different action. The post button is calling to you. Answer it if you dare.
If you came from the intro tab... I'm still waiting patiently. But for a different action. The post button is calling to you. Answer it if you dare.