Pastries and Placentas- Prologue

Published on 17 December 2021 at 14:45

Devyn Larkins- "It has romance, mystery, and human pies."

Pastries and Placentas
Devyn Larkins
Ana Lott
Reily Melgosa

Oleander (Olivia) Rosey Macbeth (Olivia Macbeth)
Barlow Butcher (Reily Baile)
Raine McKairn (Dr McKairn)

Prologue- Devyn Larkins

Tuesday, August 12th, 1941

Barlow: “I like hurting people,” he thought, standing over the lifeless body of Mr Macbeth. Sometimes he forgot just how much he liked hiring people. He looked into Macbeths eyes; they were dark and mean. The eyes he knew well were now still and faded. “She is free,” he whispered as his bottle-green eyes glistened. “He will never be able to separate us now, Rosey.” 

Mr Macbeth was a firm man, and he loved his daughter deeply. Too deeply. He lived by a strict code of— conduct if you will. The shame Mr Macbeth would feel, lifeless on the floor of his study. Mr Macbeth’s killer looked across the room, distracted by reflecting sunlight on a picture frame. It was her, Rosey, looking into the camera, looking at him with her left hazel eye, right blue eye, her auburn toned hair.  With a note from Rosey’s book, he’ll show remorse. With his thin rubber gloves, he grabbed Macbeth’s palms and placed them across his chest, criss-cross. 

The picture frame reflected a shifted movement. But, again, witnesses were against the rules. The man turned his back, and a crouched figure took itself out of view with a quick flinch. A dark auburn shade of colour followed the hidden figure, “Rosey,” he called out knowingly. 

A soft whimper of sound came from the hall. 

He didn’t get scared. He did not fear anyone finding out it was him. But, instead, a thought came into his mind—a beautifully evil idea. “I know you didn’t mean to do that Rosey. You’re a good girl, aren't you?”

He gently moved foot by foot, slowly making his way towards the door. Once again, the auburn hair came into view, then her pale skin, her distinguishing eyes wide with fear. “Is he— is he—.” she stuttered.

“Dead? Yes.” He spoke with forced empathy. She began to hyperventilate. “But, It’ll be alright, Rosey. No one will know you killed him.

Rosey was utterly aware she had a mental health condition. So it should be no surprise that she killed her father without knowing. 

“I— I didn't— kill him. I love him. I could never kill him. Tears swelled in her eyes. Then, blushing, she turned towards the wall and hurled a vegetable-filled dinner all over the cherry wood floor. 

“But it’s true. But I promise Rosey. I will not tell anybody you were here. So no one will find out you did this.”

Rosey wrapped her arms around the killer and sobbed in his shoulder with heavy tears. “There, there,” he whispered in her ear and planted a kiss on her cheek. The smell of vomit was strong, but he didn't mind. Instead, his heart gave a jolt. This intimacy forced an emotion throughout his body. 

He let go, and she pulled harder. It’s best if you go back to your room before one of the nurses finds you roaming around. You’ll be suspected. She let go, looked into his eyes, and nodded. But before she got up. “Best go.” She got up and left. He then proceeded to take away any evidence that might prove it was him. He left just enough to implicate Rosey— Just enough.

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