Sometimes Quiet Is Violent.

My entry for WC41. The first song to play was Car Radio by 21 Pilots. This idea just came to me, and practically wrote itself. I know, it is very creepy. I just want to say that I do NOT encourage violence, nor I am I making fun of any type of metal illnesses. Not everyone with these awful and traumatic conditions is like this, that is not the message I want to pass at all.

Anyways, please rate and comment! Thanks so much and enjoy!

Chapter 1

Chapter One- 477 words.

Don't say anything.

So I don't.

Choose the next victim.

So I do.

Listen to me, girl.


If you refuse...

They will kill me.

The white walls of the institution are binding. No matter where you go, you cannot not escape the stark vastness, or the impenetrable smell of cleaner. Today marks three months of living contained in these pristine walls, and the day I escape.

I was brought her after assaulting (pathetic, I know, couldn't even get the job done), a lady in her own home. I wasn't on my game. I was careless, and I was caught. I would have been charged, but I was deemed criminally insane, and recruited to NHTT, Newburg Home for Troubled Teens instead. I was diagnosed with Schizophrenia and Selective Mutism.

They don't know that one causes the other.

They don't know that it wasn't my first attack.

They don't know that I am ordered to kill. Vowed into silence.

At first, I was reluctant. I believed myself to be a monster, for thinking such thoughts. Until I caught my first taste of adrenaline. And I was hooked. The voices grew stronger, I felt more powerful. They taught me how to do it. How to never get caught.

Soon I was doing it of my own accord, they didn't have to tell me too. I have done it many times. Each victim taught me something new, each one helped me, and each one holds a special place in my heart. I love them all for giving their lives to feed my addiction. Abrianna, my best friend from second grade. Mrs. Lynn, the elderly woman who used to babysit me. A nameless I met at the grocery.

I am 16 years old. I have never spoken a word. I have murdered 15 people.

16. 0. 15.

Numbers should match.

Do it now.

I push open the door to my room. My counselor looks up in surprise, her lips poised to question me. She cannot get the words out before I smack her in the face. With a paperweight. She crumbles to the floor, not dead. No, I will not waste it on her. My birthday has only just passed, but today my numbers will match.

I walk out of the facility. No one approaches me. I put on a look of belonging as I walk down the chilly New York sidewalk. No one reads my file. I am not mute. I am selectively mute.

Make them match.

"My name is Jocelin. You are going to die. Thanks to you, I can now rest."

I shoot the pistol, which had been carefully concealed in my sock. The bullet hits its target.

16 years, 16 words, 16 victims.

Now I will never be caught. I am untouchable.

Everyone underestimates me. Always have. The poor girl who cannot talk.

But sometimes, quiet is violent.




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