Friday, May 24, 2019
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Estimated reading time — 3 minutes

My name’s Abigail Stitcher. I’m 15 years old, and I think I’m being followed.

You see, I live in a relatively small town, with a population of 1,476 or so. Birch Run, they call it.

Nothing’s ever really happens there, aside from the occasional fire or robbery committed by some hillbilly American with the brain capacity of a goat. Which is why the town was shook when not only the first murder in 36 years occurred, but the first serial killer in a really, really long time appeared.

Daniela Moorebrooke was the first. A pretty little thing, with silky golden-spun hair and great, big blue eyes, that looked as if the ocean had been captured inside of them, and a cute little button nose that tied her adorable face together. She wanted to be a movie star, and most likely would’ve made it into the industry if she hadn’t been found stuffed into a storm drain early one Saturday morning.

“Devastated” was her family’s word of the week, but everyone could tell they were relieved to have one less mouth to feed.

The second was Jake Howard, football star extraordinaire, your typical high school fuck boy. Stylish, tousled brown hair, green eyes, and freckles scattered over his handsome face, a small yet masculine nose, kissable lips, and straight, white teeth. But not once they found him in the old barn, face smashed in by a bloody mallet that laid beside his broken body, his once perfect teeth strewn around him. His orthodontist would’ve been horrified.

There were quite a few in between, but the one that hit closest to home was the seventh. Her name was Matilda Crawler and she was my best friend. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she outshone me in every way. Her auburn hair was stunning compared to my own mousy brown locks, just the same as her green eyes glistened far more than my brown ones ever had. Her sun-kissed skin was so much more vibrant than my pale, blotchy skin and we both knew it, although she always used to try and reason with me and say it “gave me character,” and whenever I was down she’d always attempt to cheer me up by saying that she knew I was going to impact the world some day. Oh, I already knew I was going to impact the world, just not in the way she anticipated.

She saw me one night, at around ten o’clock, having dinner with victim number six, the day before the missing person flyers with his face pasted on them went up all over town.

That’s why she had to go.

They found her strangled to death on the side of the highway. The policewoman who found her tried to console me by suggesting that she probably got too close to the serial killer and found something out.

“I know,” I responded.

That’s where things started turning sour.

When I was walking home this afternoon I had the distinct feeling that someone was behind me.

My name’s Abigail Stitcher. I’m 15 years old, and I think I’m being followed.

When I got home and went inside I swear I heard a rustle in the bushes as someone sat in them, watching me.

My name’s Abigail Stitcher. I’m 15 years old, and i think there’s someone watching me.

I tried to brush it off, but I’m certain there’s someone outside my house in a navy blue uniform with a gun and a desire to see me behind bars.

My name’s Abigail Stitcher. I’m 15 years old, and I think there’s someone outside my house.

I’m writing this out now so just in case I get caught, people know.

My name’s Abigail Stitcher. I’m 15 years old, and I’m scared.

My name’s Abigail Stitcher. I’m 15 years old, and I’m sorry.

My name’s Abigail Stitcher. I’m 15 years old, and I made a horrible mistake.

My name’s Abigail Stitcher. I’m 15 years old, and behind the sweet, shy girl facade I put on, there’s a monster.

My name’s Abigail Stitcher. I’m 15 years old, and I’ve murdered seven people over the course of 12 months.

My name’s Abigail Stitcher. I’m 15 years old, and I can hear someone knocking on the door.

My name’s Abigail Stitcher. I’m 15 years old, and the knocks are getting louder and angrier, and I don’t think they’re here to put me behind bars.

My name’s Abigail Stitcher. I’m 15 years old, and I think I’m going to die tonight.


Credit: BehindAllTheFacades (Reddit)

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