dead silence | [clue killer]

[cluekiller]

TW: violence, torture, murder

My heart races in delicious anticipation.

I lurk in the shadows of an alley, predator stalking prey, a cloth in one hand and gloves warming my fingertips. I clench and unclench my fists to hear the leather crinkle. For too long I have been patient, and tonight presents an opportunity to break my dormancy. My target is easy to spot from far away. He wears a white sheet draped over his upper body, holes cut in the top to create eyes. Dressed as a ghost for the costume party, how original I thought. I would've laughed if it wasn't for the irony.

He does not expect me to pounce from the shadows. I rip the sheet off of his head and replace it with my own, covering his mouth and nose, and I widen my stance to keep my balance anchored as he thrashes. I kick him in the crook of his knee, forcing him to his own. I did my research, and discovered that chloroform betrays popular belief. It does not take only a few seconds for the desired effect. I battle with him for over a minute, slowly dragging him further and further into the darkness as his screams are muffled by my cloth.

I am not worried about fatigue. If he breaks away, I have a syringe in my pocket. Always come with a backup plan.

He becomes dead weight. I drag him through the wet, grimy streets of Six until my arms are numb and my breaths are heavy. It's a long process, but all will be worth it.

When he awakens, he is bound to a chair. I used the sheets of his own stupid costume to attach his wrists to the wooden arms, and reinforced them with rope. Another piece of fabric was wrapped across his mouth, depriving him of language. I wait until the panic sets in before I speak, "You like to write stories, don't you? Let's write one together."

I don't say it out loud, that this is my prologue and his epilogue. The boy who said nothing has no reason to believe silence can be poisonous.

I grab my weapon of choice, gliding a finger across the back of a meat cleaver. "You know how to spin a tale on paper, but you fail to say anything out loud, not when it matters."

I don't warn him when it comes. With both hands and questionable strength, I heave the edge of the blade into his wrist. It cuts through bone with an odd crack, but it doesn't go through. It isn't as clean as I imagined, blood spurting onto my black trench coat. "Whoops. Let's try that again!" I exclaim over terrified screams. I raise the cleaver again and crack, this time it cleaves through the bone and blood reaches the floor beneath his severed hand. I ignore his screams and turn to his other hand, repeating the process. Human bone is sturdier than I thought.

I stare at my handiwork, a story of blood stains and tear streaks. When his screams wither into sobs, I speak up again, "Look at that, now you're utterly useless to society." A writer without his pen. How sad.

I lay my cleaver down and grab other tools this time, a thick knife and pliers. "Don't worry, we're almost done," I coo, in false reassurance. I pull the cloth out of his mouth, but I allow no words to slip away before my pliers are latched around his tongue, pulling it between his teeth. With the knife, I carve the slippery meat until it breaks away. It's an ugly sight, I will admit. Blood dribbles from his mouth, and he is louder than he was before. Tonight he has so much to say, and an audience who might listen. Except I deprived him of what he failed to use correctly. Now it all belongs to me.

I drop the tongue into his lap, and wonder briefly what the Capitol does with its own Avox tongues.

"Was this the happy ending you imagined?" I say, gripping the knife in my right hand. He can't reply.

Without another word, I wrench the knife into his heart.

cass