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 2

The Memory

Isodore woke up around eight and stretched like a feline on her bed as her alarm clock screamed at her. She stood up slowly and clicked off the clock, making her way to the bathroom. She stood at the sink staring into the mirror with blank expression. She felt she looked older than twenty. Her eyes were somewhat more tired than that of others her age, not to mention the dark circles that surrounded them. She smoothed down her hair and examined it. It used to be shinier. Her eyes drifted down into the sink were a large serrated knife lay, caked in dried blood. Eventually she'd clean it.

She undressed leaving her pajamas on the floor, and turned on the shower. She watched goosebumps develop on her arms and legs. Finally the water became warm and she carefully stepped inside letting it soothe her ever tired muscles. She leaned on the wall and let her mind relax before looking at the many scars she'd acquired over the years. Several on both arms, from cutting. A stab would on her right calf. A long scar going from the bottom of her ribs to her hips. She sighed and began to wash her hair. She felt incredibly ugly, the only time she felt her worth was when she killed. Because finally, she was in charge of the outcome.

She shut off the water abruptly and stepped carefully out onto the bathroom mat, wrapping up in a green towel. Her body and hair dripped water all over the place as she stood shivering, eyes shut tight. Feeling the hairs on her arms stand on end. She thought about Stewart. If she could, she'd kill him again. She couldn't rest until every rapist died by her hand, as her secret form of revenge.

Then the flashback started.

Walking down the main corridor at school. Carrying five books in her arms. Late for class again. School uniform, complete with skirt and white stockings. Trying not to drop everything when her math teacher stops her in the hall for not having a pass.

"Come to my classroom and I'll get you one." He said warmly.

How could she say no? And then before she knew it, he knocked her books to the floor and said to keep quiet...quiet...she wanted to scream and run. He locked the door and shut off the lights. He was stronger than her. She was helpless. She tried to struggle. She clawed at him to no avail. He forced her onto his desk, sending papers flying. She lay whimpering. But she was a quick thinker. the pen. Grabbing it swiftly and flinging her body around to face him she thrust it forward, momentarily blacking out until it landed with a sickening squish into his eye. He let loose a howl of pain and rage, giving her enough time to get into the hall straight out the doors, into the outside. She ran, panting, her clothing ripped and disheveled.

She came back bracing herself on the cold porcelain sink, hair still wet and her towel falling off her cold body. She quickly wiped the burning tears from her eyes and face, and stood herself up taking deep breathes. She rarely had that flashback anymore, but it always felt as fresh as the day it happened.

"Never again." She told her reflection.

She walked to her door and picked up the pile of mail that had come through the slot. Coupons, offers, yadda yadda....and another letter. Hastily she opened it, reading another plea for help. She beamed as her eyes scanned every line of text that was crying out for her help. Her name was Riley...and she needed the high school quarterback to be taken care of, as it were. A simple enough task if he's caught off guard. She quickly walked to the kitchen and got some bleach for her knife and went to work scrubbing until she could see herself in it. She was ready to take someone down today. She was ready to become the huntress again.

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