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The Petal'philles Chapter IV +Diluculo: Milo and Otis +

Waking up in unfamiliar territory had become something I was quite used to. As hopeless as it once seemed, it now serves me more as entertainment. Figuring out what led to my current position in time and space was often fun filled and I took comfort in likening myself to Sherlock Holmes (or at the very least Watson), while going over clues. More often than not I was still left with more questions than answers, but at least it helped to pass my days with far fewer holes in my recollection. I’ve found by keeping busy, I can distract myself to the point of tunnel vision, and nothing, not even the stomach churning shame that dwells within me is able to pervade that. Let’s call it a defense mechanism. It was on one of these days, acting as Gretel following bread crumbs (in this case little red droplets which lead from my apartment to the landlords), that I caught sight of him again, the blood hound.

Most would probably say he was smiling, sitting in his doorway, bracing his back on the frame while his shoes applied pressure to the frame on the opposite side, he looked intrigued, and I would say that he was grinning. I did quite the opposite of what most would expect I imagine, instead of suddenly becoming flustered or exuding unease, I called him out. “Nothing on the fucking tele then, eh Fuckface?” He didn’t react, didn’t even move, slow as, and sweet as molasses he spoke, “Nah, I don’t own a “tele”, but after the events of last night, I am even further convinced that one who lives in the city need not ever own one. As long as, that is, his neighbors have thin walls.” I should have flinched at the sudden realization that he was referring to me and the noise I’d made doing God knows what to the super last night, but I merely smiled, tipped my imaginary hat and answered, “Likewise.” He let out an audible chuckle as I foraged in my pocket for what I assumed would be there, and as I placed the freshly discovered master key into the Supers lock, I heard the blood hound’s door whisper closed. As I crossed the threshold of the crime scene I couldn’t help feeling like that of a school girl with a crush. We now shared a secret him and I, something I had not done in years, shared anything truthful with anyone. We had something between us now, no matter how monstrous or hate ridden, it was a seed, and in it’s infancy, this thing we had was beautiful in a brittle fetal way. All I could think of as I wiped every surface in George’s (My landlord. World this is George, George…world.), surprisingly pristine home was, When I was going to see him again? Would we dance around the elephant (or 210 lbs gray haired dead man), in the room, orrr would we just act as if nothing had transpired at all. Upon exiting George’s place I was praying I’d know the answers to my questions sooner than later. Kneeling down in the buildings hallway, pulling out the bottle of peroxide I’d garnered from rifling through George’s medicine cabinet, I tried to think of ways to contact my mysterious neighbor across the way. As no immediate solution surfaced, I continued to my task of pouring the liquid which was sure to remove all traces of protein (and thus DNA), from the blood. Were the crack police teams from CSI or Law and Order to be assigned, once I was finished here their Luminol would do no good (thanks to a secret concoction of my own mental toil), black lights would be useless as anything other than velvet poster lighting. If anything the area where George‘s fluid had spilled would be virtually spotless compared to the rest of the floor. Were they of the suspicious nature, and decided to swab for DNA based on the fact there had been an obvious clean up, peroxide had my ass covered. They would find nothing of use. “Excuse me Emma….”, you might say, “but wouldn’t it look suspicious that the trail ran straight to my apartment?”. Of course it would dearest, and seeing how everything panned out, that was an intricate part of my guise.

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If you would like to continue on reading Emma’s journey, please look into my folder named Work in Progress , that is where you will find the following chapters numbered. I did this in the hopes of making the story easier to leave and come back to, tied up in neat little packages.

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gore, insane, female sociopath, female psychopath, psychopath, sociopath, blood, numb, death, fear, love, finding oneself, darkness, corpse, life, emma, wigs, wefts, sewing, inspiration, cute, cuddly, fat cat, short story, story, stories, female author, sanity, loss of self, depth, disturbing, scary, violent, violence, sex, drugs, hiking boots, blue belly, meth, crank, couch, coffee, tiles, luminol, grapefruit juice

Originally dark blonde, shy girl with an inferiority complex. But that’s no fun now is it? Black hair, yellowy hazel eyes, a “the louder the better” mentality, and an ego the size of Detroit (as fake as my raven hair I should mention) rounds out my very normal nautre. (-: Judge me by my poetry and my writing, and you’ll know me better than 85% of the rest of the world. (-:

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