Name: Kayla Kingfisher
Age: 22
Height: 5’6
Weight: 54kg
Hair: Red (dyed)
Eyes: Green
Distinguishing Features: Numerous arm and back tattoos (see file for photo catalogue), several piercings, scars on left shoulder blade.
Alias: The Kookaburra Killer
Date of Arrival: 01/01/23
Sentence: Life imprisonment within the facility. Minimal interaction with peers advised.
Treatment: Mandatory sessions only due to highly manipulative personality traits.
Summary of Crimes: Kingfisher’s victims endured extended psychological torture prior to death. Her primary method involved confining victims and subjecting them to continuous audio loops of kookaburra calls, inducing severe mental distress and disorientation.
Evidence suggests Kingfisher coerced her victims into suicide – by hanging or self-inflicted wounds – through sustained manipulation and psychological conditioning. While she rarely made direct physical contact, her orchestration of each death was deliberate and methodical, designed to absolve her of visible culpability.
Victims’ bodies were discovered bearing intricate carvings resembling bird feathers, primarily those of a kookaburra – her known signature.
At the time of her capture, Kingfisher was found drenched in the blood of her final victim, laughing uncontrollably. The symbolic or personal significance of the kookaburra motif remains under investigation.
LOSING HER TOYS
Inside Out - Paxton Smith
Kookaburra
The first thing I notice is the colour of the ceiling. White, but not the cheap kind. White with intention. Someone chose this precise shade. Someone who believes sterility is the same thing as safety.
The second thing I notice is that my hands are bandaged. The third – my belly. Not flat. Not swollen either. Just…alive. Strange how unchanged I feel – no sickness, no heaviness, nothing at all. Like whatever’s inside me isn’t growing the way it should. It doesn’t feel like a baby. Just…pressure. Potential. A heartbeat that isn’t mine. My stomach tightens. My heart doesn’t race so much as wake.
Then comes the hum. It’s everywhere – deep in the walls, under the floor. Machinery. Ventilation. Surveillance. The kind of sound that tells you you’re not alone, even when you are.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. They feel heavier than I remember. Someone’s been dosing me. The air smells of antiseptic and restraint.
My hand drifts to the back of my skull. The skin’s tight where the stitches pull. The chip is gone. I can feel its absence like an echo.
Good.
That part worked at least.
The rest is still up for debate.
The door opens. I don’t look right away; I already know who it is. Her perfume gives her away before her voice does – synthetic lily and clean paper.
“Good morning, Kayla.”
The voice snaps the quiet like a rubber band. Lab coat, clipboard, hair tied back so tight it could draw blood. Doctor Sara Callaway. I study her while she sets the clipboard down. Thin mouth. Eyes that try to smile but don’t make it all the way. Now she looks smaller, softer. A woman who’s been running too long and pretending it’s a career change. The coat is new. Not an asylum issue. Civilian. She’s trying to reinvent herself as my saviour. Her shoes squeak. I can already tell she hates that they do.
“Where am I?” I ask. My voice comes out rough, like it’s been left in a drawer too long.
