Tirelessly, I search through the entire office and scroll through my contact list on my phone. Over and over again. Obsessively. So sure that if I just search hard enough through the gallery or phonebook on my stupid phone, she'll magically appear.
Sure, there's a handful of names I don't recognize, but they're all employees.
And none of their ID photos match my beautiful mystery woman.
Girlfriend, fiancée, wife, whoever she was, I kept any proof of her far away from my business dealings.
Which can't mean anything good for what went on in my professional life if I was this determined to keep her away from it.
The longer I sit in this office, the more apparent it becomes that I was everything they say and worse.
Every employee's file is complete with blackmail.
Photos of affairs, thievery, gambling debt, anything I could gather to ensure no one could turn on me if they found something out.
Jesus Christ, I was a professional stalker.
Is this how I found my victims?
Digging through the last drawer, I find the undeniable truth.
Just as meticulously organized: files for each victim I'm linked to, complete with proof of how deserving they were.
Police reports that were scrubbed. Phone screenshots. Pictures of their misdeeds that make me fucking sick, sending waves of fury through my bones.
My mind rails against itself, almost wishing Ididremember killing these fucking animals, wishing I could find them and kill them again for what they've done. There's not a single doubt in my mind about whether or not they deserved their violent ends.
According to the evidence, I didn't even really make them suffer.
They were full of a powerful sedative, unable to fight back, unable to feel any pain or worry about their impending death.
I just ended them.
Poetically, but swiftly.
The dead don't suffer, but they also can't cause any more harm, and truthfully, inflicting more pain wouldn't make any sense. It would only give them a chance to wake up and attempt to fight back.
Better to get it done quietly, leaving behind evidence of their sins, not mine.
Fear crawls into my throat as I shove the files back into their place and slam the drawer closed, the click echoing into the concrete room around me.
I may notrememberdoing these things, but the closer I get to them, the more sure I am that I did.
The dark thoughts plaguing my mind, the instinctual drive for violence, the paranoia of being caught, all add up to one dark truth.
I am the person who slaughtered these people.
I am everything they've called me.
Bás Dorcha.
Dark Death.
But why?
What the fuck happened that turned me into him?
Can I fix it?
