I suppose that I was just too tempting of a target, and she couldn't let me go. Perhaps if she had let me go, and let go of her own inhibitions, everything would have worked out for Samantha.
I understand her desire, because I have been a slave to my own for far too long. It gets under your skin, sinking into somewhere that lives deep within you. It burrows into your bones and eats at your brain with such a fury. It becomes your sickness, and your soul. It becomes everything. That is the kind of desire that nobody wants to admit that they have, but I have it, and so does she.
I suppose that we are the same, as much as the thought would disturb her. It all makes sense to me, but she might need a moment or two to adjust to the idea. Luckily for Samantha, all that she has left is time.
I wanted to make some memories, while I worked.
That's what life is all about, isn't it? One day, when I am an old woman, I want to look back on the good times, and smile, just like everybody else does, but Samantha didn't approve. She looked upon me with such judgement, as if she was the arbiter of what is right and what is wrong.
I suppose that she thinks that is her right, as a police officer. I think that she is a nosy little bitch, if I'm honest, but now, here we are, intertwined in each other's memories. She will be a part of me, for as long as I live, and I, her.
She awoke at six fifteen. The clock was clear about the hour, but wouldn't give clarity on whether the day was just beginning, or whether it was almost at an end. There were no windows, and no furniture. Just four white walls, a locked door, the clock and Samantha.
She bolted for the door across the room, turning the handle and pounding against the hard metal and reinforced glass with frustrated fists.
Nobody answered, but she did not relent until six twenty four. At last, things were beginning to become clear to her. She was trapped, and there was no way out. She crumpled to the floor, her chest heaving as she sobbed.
I decided that I would speak to her at six thirty, to say 'Good Morning', but she began to scream, so loudly that it became an annoyance, and so, at six twenty seven, as I sensed her throat growing sore, I asked her to stop.
It was over in an instant. She turned around the room, twirling, almost like a dancer, her frantic eyes searching for the speaker. She fell to the floor again, in a heap, pointing up at the small speaker and camera above the door. She bit her lip, perhaps scolding herself for missing it, and began crawling back towards the door, on her hands and knees, calling out gentle, soft pleas for help.
I was helping her, just like I helped everyone. That was what I told her, but that didn't seem to help her mood. She began to scream again, sinking back to the floor, collapsing under her discomfort and distress. She tore at her hair, helpless to the heaps of tears that fell from her eyes as her legs kicked at nothing in particular, and I watched, with a frown.
I really struggle when they start to scream, you know. I just can't stand it. They know that I can't stand it, but still, they shriek, so determined to torment me. It's just so loud. So invasive. So annoying. So illuminating.
It always starts to bother me at that point.
The morality of it.
Am I wrong?
Should I be doing this?
It's a hard question to answer.
I can't help them if I do not harm them. They struggle to understand this. I wish, with everything I have, that they could understand this. Sometimes, it is something that even I struggle to understand. I normally struggle, as I said, when they scream.
It was six fifty seven when I spoke again, tired of her screaming, and eager to move things forward. Her eyes jumped to the door as I cleared my throat, and asked, quite politely, if she knew why she was with me.
She shook her head, her bottom lip caught between her teeth again as she scrubbed at her tear stained face with her sleeve.
I knew that she knew, and that she was pretending, but I decided that I would play along. They like to play games, you see. Perhaps they think I will eventually be tricked into letting them go. It's silly, really, but it passes the time to string them along, and so, sometimes I do.
I took a stroll down to the cell at seven twelve, peering at her through the window, tapping on the glass and suppressing a smirk as she dashed towards the door, pounding on the metal and once again, screaming.
I asked her if she recognised me, and again, she shook her head, her eyes, wide and watery as she yanked on the unrelenting door handle, yet another scream escaping her lips.
I wanted her to remember. I wanted to see her try. Sometimes, I think that I need these things, not because I enjoy their distress, but because it is important for them to know why they are here, and why they must be punished. Some people would call me a mad woman, but honestly, I think I might be the sanest person on the planet.
She just kept shaking her head, no matter how I tried to prompt her. I reminded her of the street lights that flickered out as she walked home, the dark night that wrapped itself around her, the rag and the drugs, and the suffocating emptiness of unconsciousness that came before her present circumstances. It just seemed to upset her more. She began to scream again, begging me to help her, telling me that we could escape together, and not seeming to understand that I was in fact, her captor.
She, like many before her, saw a small, unassuming woman, and thought that help was on the way. I suppose that in their minds, I was weak. They could hardly believe that I was capable of this.
I was insulted, to be candid. I could understand the others underestimating me, but Samantha had been investigating me for months, and still couldn't see the forest for the trees. She thought that she had been chasing after some big, burly man with a fetish, or a group of sickos, but all along, it has been little old me.
That was the moment when I decided that Samantha must become one of my memories, and I slipped back into the shadows, watching her plead at the door for a moment, before returning to my workshop.
My memories gleamed from the walls of the workshop. So many people. So many pools of blood. My big smile, front and centre of every photograph. I was always there, but it was like nobody could see me. I'd read theories online and in the newspapers about how I was a captive too, and that some sick monster was posing me in all of their creep shots, but as I said, it was me. It was always me. I had been nothing but clear, but they closed their eyes to the truth. They couldn't accept it. They couldn't understand.
I thought that Samantha would understand. Out of all the people who have looked into me and my so called crimes, she has been the one who got the closest to figuring it all out. I'd watch her, working away at night, scowling as she scrubbed through hours of CCTV, and stared again and again at the pictures to try and understand.
I tried so hard to make her understand. As the night wore on, I returned to the cell, and taught Samantha. She still couldn't understand. She was purposefully misunderstanding, in fact.
It isn't my fault that she's stupid. I suppose that it isn't hers either, but I had been having a bad day, and so, there was no saving Samantha.
I always try to save people. My mistress allows me to try, but if the people are stupid, then what happens cannot be helped. All that I have is their name. The rest is up to me. I like to watch them for a while, to see if there is hope for them. my mistress simply wants them to follow in her wisdom. It isn't hard to do. I have been doing it since I was a child, so if a child can do it, I'm unsure of why so many adults struggle. I do not know why they are chosen, but I don't need to know.
They are only shown to me when they resist my mistress. She has already tried, and they have refused her. It really is quite generous of her to allow me to give them one more chance, and if they won't take me up on that, then frankly, they deserve what happens to them, don't they?
But… do they? I would never dare to question my mistress, of course. She has given me a good life, and has always cared for me. She simply wants others to have the same, and who are they to refuse? But…
But nothing. It's just the screaming, getting to me, as usual.
My mistress is wise, and wonderful. She has shown me my true path, and unlocked doors within me that I could never have imagined. Without her, I would not have all of my memories. Ever since she began to speak to me, when I was just nine years old, she has given me guidance and kindness. The memories were her idea. She knew that some people might need a little more persuading than others, and so with her gentle, guiding hand, I began to create visual aids for the idiots among us, and memories for me.
The bodies of those who could not understand would litter the background, but I was the real star. I would smile as the timer ticked down on the camera, a shining example of all the joy that my mistress could bring.
Serving her has been the greatest joy of my life. It really has. I wouldn't give it up for anything. For ten terrific years, she has given her orders, and I have obeyed… and I will obey. I swear that I will, but… why am I having so much trouble today?
I know that Samantha must die. She has been given her chance, and failed to use it wisely, yet, here I am, surrounded by my memories, staring down at the CCTV, wondering if she really must. Is it really time? I would never refuse an order from my mistress, but… perhaps Samantha can be taught? Perhaps it was my fault. Maybe I just didn't make it clear enough. Maybe I could try again.
The day still has so much to offer. It is only eight forty seven, and she has most of her body parts. I can still save her, and then, at last, she will understand.
Perhaps, her understanding will be the greatest gift that I could give my mistress. Her stare is heavy on my body, and her voice is a silky scythe to my throat. I do not dare to displease her, but… perhaps, just this once, for a moment, I must.
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