Chronicles of Isodore

Who is this Isodore who writes her name on the walls, using the blood of her victims? Let me introduce you to Isodore.

*Isodore is one of my many OC's, as well as one of my personas.*

I'd like to improve this story before I publish, please help me with comments, ratings, and any advice on what you'd like more of! ~The Anarchist

Chapter 1

The Late Reverend

A detective with dark and narrow eyes surveyed the sanctuary of the cathedral. Numerous officers and forensic scientists flitted about like bees in a hive carrying out various tasks. The entire building was surrounded by yellow caution tape and police vehicles. He slowly stepped around the place, looking at the blood spattering that had flown this way and that, as the now deceased Reverend Stewart lay face-down in the aisle. He took a moment to examine the stone face of an angel, also coated in blood. No doubt a crime of passion, the killer seemed to just keep stabbing well past the point of Stewart's death as if he were wouldn't die. He knew it was personal.

A mildly irritating voice broke his concentration from behind, "I-S-O-D-O-R-E. Isodore.". The detective turned to see the name written in blood on the main balcony.

He scoffed at the young cop, "What do you think this is, grade school spelling bee? Just take your damn photographs of the scene."

"Uh, oh yes sir." The stunned man said.

Continuing his work, the detective looked back at the name on display for the world, as it taunted his thoughts. The knife was gone. There were no fingerprints to be found on or around the body. They'd have to go through the entire congregation since there were prints all over the pews. He sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily.

Outside, peering in the light yellows and whites of the stained glass window, was a young girl. Having to stand on her toes in order to see, her dark brown hair fell around her face in wavy layers. She focused her wide eyes on the detective, who was looking more than little bit stressed. She leaned down and adjusted the tie on her trench coat before ducking under the caution-tape fence and disappearing into one of the many alleys of the city.

She ducked around old brick apartment buildings and small businesses keeping to the alleys as her main path, and headed for an uninteresting house in an average neighborhood. It had dull white siding and a gray shingled roof and black shutters, surrounded by a chain link fence. Slinking her way into the back yard, she saw the open window to a bedroom. Inside, she watched a girl do her homework at a white desk. She wore her hair up in a loose bun and running shorts with a pink tee shirt. She turned around as if she heard something only to find a small slip of paper floating in on the wind. In ink, it read:


It was dealt with. He won't hurt you again.


She leaned on the window frame, looking out at her empty back yard. She smiled feeling a sudden freedom he hadn't in years. Leaning out she yelled, "Thank you Isodore!". Today was undoubtedly the happiest of her sixteen year life. Now all that was to be done was act disgustingly upset when the police came to tell her that her father, the man who raped her for two years, was dead.

But for Isodore, her work was never done. Now, running, she went across town as fast as she could, arriving at her own tiny apartment no later than six p.m. to make herself some dinner. She carefully untied her coat and let it slip to the floor, revealing her dark jeans and her pure white tank top completely dyed red in the blood of her victim. She sighed and began peeling off the clothes right in the living room, while she made her way to her bedroom. Covering her walls were posters, paintings, and drawings of the goddess Artemis, her idol. She changed into her pajamas and then laid down and looked at the artwork of her favorite woman. She was the huntress. The protector of women and children. And was the perfect mascot for Isodore who hunted the evil people of the world in order to protect the innocent. Because to save people, the shadows must be your friend, and you have to get blood on your hands.

That night around two a.m. before she went to sleep, she knelt at the base of one particularly large painting surrounded by candles of assorted colors to pray. "Artemis, moon goddess, huntress and protector, hear my humble prayer. Allow me to stay in your service for yet another year. Let me continue to kill the wretched in your stead. And know that all you've done for me, I will never forget." She ended by blowing out the candles one by one, the colored wax drippings drying almost instantaneously. She stood up and quickly put her clothes in a plastic grocery bag and tied it off, not wanting to deal with it until tomorrow.

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