Day 9

3:27 PM

The sun baked the packed plaza outside Denver’s state capitol. A sea of supporters waved flags and chanted Dalton Pierce’s name, their cheers echoing off stone pillars. He stood at the podium, sharp suit immaculate, grinning like he owned the city, which, in many ways, he did.

“Friends, neighbors, patriots,” Pierce’s voice boomed through the speakers, smooth as silk but dripping with smug certainty. “I stand before you as your senator, ready to fight for Colorado’s future. Together, we will bring prosperity, security, and pride back to our great state.”

The crowd roared. Cameras swirled. Reporters jostled for the best angle.

Suddenly, she was there.

Standing in front of Dalton Pierce. Staring straight at him.

A little girl in a dress the color of dried blood. Jet black hair. Bone white skin.

Pierce couldn’t look away. Her eyes didn’t glare, they pierced. They flayed.

A hush fell across the plaza. Whispers stirred at the edges, but most went utterly silent.

The microphone in front of Pierce crackled.

Then died.

Cameramen, alerted by the presence of the girl, swung their lenses toward her.

Nothing.

She didn’t show up in the reticles. No outline. No heat signature. They looked around the cameras, blinking in confusion, trying to match what their eyes saw with what their equipment could not.

But she wasn’t in the viewfinder.

She wasn’t in the lens.

She wasn’t on the screen.

And yet… there she was.

“It seems we’re joined by one of our young constituents. What’s on your mind today, young lady? What do you want from your loyal representative?”

“Your life.”

Her voice didn’t travel through the air, it burrowed into their bones. Even the people in the back of the plaza heard it crystal clear, as if she stood right before them.

They didn't just hear her, they felt her when she spoke.

The crowd fell utterly silent.

An icy chill went up Pierce’s spine.

He tried to force a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

She kept staring. Not a flicker in those ancient, unblinking eyes. Even as a light breeze swept the plaza, her hair and dress didn’t move. Not a single ripple.

One of the security guards stepped forward, hand on his holster.

And stopped.

Frozen mid-stride. Muscles locked. Eyes wide.

She didn’t even look in his direction.

Everyone held their breath.

Pierce cleared his throat, smile twitching.

“Seriously now, young lady... what can I do for you?”

“Confess.”

He gave a dry chuckle, but his voice betrayed a crack.

“Confess? What on earth would I need to confess for?”

Her eyes didn’t blink. Her voice, again, didn’t pass through ears, it bypassed them entirely, going straight to the marrow.

“For your transgressions.”

Then it happened.

All at once, the entire crowd, thousands of people, jerked as if struck. A flash behind their eyes.

Visions.

Young men and women packed into trailers. Drugged. Bound. Beaten.

Hands reaching through metal grates. Eyes swollen shut. Mouths sewn closed.

Children torn from mothers. Women forced onto bloodstained mattresses.

Men with broken backs hauling stone in desert heat.

The silence shattered, replaced by gasps.

Screams.

Vomiting.

People falling to their knees.

Some tried to run, but stumbled as the visions assaulted them again, over and over.

Every breath of Dalton Pierce’s carefully managed life now lay exposed like a gutted animal, bleeding out in front of his voters.

Dalton Pierce’s jaw worked soundlessly.

His throat bobbed.

He raised a trembling hand like it might wave away the truth hanging thick in the air.

“It… it wasn’t like that,” he stammered, voice cracking through the silent crowd.

“You don’t understand the system. I, I didn’t want any of it. But we needed leverage. We needed influence on the southern partners. Pressure points. It was diplomacy, just dirtier.”

Murmurs of disgust rippled outward.

He kept talking, as if words could rebuild the fortress collapsing around him.

“Those kids, those people, they were just... just numbers. Supply lines. Temporary assets to stabilize the region.”

His voice rose into a desperate pitch.

“I did what I had to do!”

“Choices made have consequences.”

Her voice rang through the crowd, not through the speakers, but through them. Through bone, blood, and marrow.

A hush fell over most, though some were left weeping softly, undone by the visions they’d just witnessed.

Dalton Pierce staggered back from the podium. “I’m so sorry,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean for anybody to get hurt.”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just said:

“You lie.”

A sick crack echoed from deep inside him. He doubled over, hands clutching his abdomen as if trying to hold something in that was tearing out of him.

His scream tore the silence like a blade.

The crowd recoiled.

Some screamed.

Others stood frozen.

Dalton’s mouth opened unnaturally wide. Then it kept opening.

His fingers dug at his cheeks, trying to stop it, trying to hold his face together as his jaw stretched far beyond anything human.

Bone popped.

Skin split.

Screams turned wet, gurgling.

Then came the ripping sound.

Not fabric.

Flesh.

His body tore from the inside out, split from pelvis to throat like a grotesque zipper.

The sound of it, wet and primal, sent more spectators reeling.

Someone vomited.

Someone fainted.

But no one looked away.

They couldn’t.

When it was done, the mangled remains of Dalton Pierce slumped to the stage in a heap of bone, silk, and liquefied pride.

When it was over, a haunted silence settled over the plaza.

All eyes turned to the little girl.

She hadn’t moved.

And then, just as suddenly as she came, the light folded inward, dimmed and warped, and she was gone.

« Previous Entry | Next Entry »