S.T. Abby

I jog upstairs, head into my secret room, and touch the apple on my desk. It’s a wax apple, brilliantly red, and there are seven nails sticking out of it. Still many more to go.

There’s a certain high you get from fooling the world into thinking you’re the lamb instead of the rabid wolf.

I feel more human with each passing day. Less like a soulless monster with a thirst for blood.
Not that I want to stop killing; I just want to feel more like the carefree, happy girl I was before they stole it all. Before they ruined me.