Elizabeth Smith, Part One

So, before I get to the story, I suppose I should give a bit of an update. My friend and I weren’t able to record the next episode of Neighborhood Watch while I was there, so there will be a bit of a delay on that. Next chapter of City Intersection is pretty close to being finished, but I’ve been working on this recently so it’ll be a few days.

Alright. So, this is the beginning of a new, somewhat short story I’ll be writing for a bit. I’d guess it’ll be about 10,000 words when finished, or somewhere around that. So not super short, but not a novel.

It’s gonna be… Well, once you read the following section, you’ll probably have a good idea of what it’ll be like. So it should be interesting, to say the least.

My music suggestion for this post is actually kind of relevant to this story. I’ve listened to this album (or EP, I guess) countless times, and it made me realize I haven’t really written a story with a villain quite like… this before. So I had that in mind to develop at some point, finally fleshed it out a bit, and here it is. This album, then, is probably what inspired this story (to a degree).

Anyway, here’s the first part.


My name is Isaac Porter. Her name was Elizabeth Smith. I stress the word “was”. She is gone. I was her undoing. Part of her undoing, anyway.
Most of the following will be from information we found about her during the investigation. But the following isn’t. It’s from my own life. I was there with her from the beginning.
“Second-graders are allowed one half-hour recess outside, from 11:00 to 11:30.”
It was stuck in my head. I was always afraid of being out too long, or at the wrong time, or something else against the rules. I didn’t know what would happen if I did it wrong, but the rules were a reason in and of themselves. The teachers knew best. They knew better than I could.
I walked toward a small huddling of other second-graders. I knew who was in the middle. Elizabeth. Bethy. She was so popular, but I didn’t see what everyone else did in her. I definitely didn’t think she was worth the popularity. I didn’t like her, why would I? I definitely didn’t like her.
Emotions at such a young age are such chaotic, meaningless things.
She wore a grin, I saw once I slid my way into the circle. She was telling some story, soaking in the attention. She looked from person to person, smiles and laughs surrounding her, but she paused, looking slightly above the wall formed by the heads and bodies of the others. Still looking in the direction, she walked forward, parting the circle with a motion. The other children looked around to see what had grasped her attention.
There was a kid squatting next to a tree, Leon. He wasn’t much at that age, but eventually became easily the worst bully in the history of the school.
He was squatting next to the tree, throwing rocks one by one at a squirrel nearby who was trying to pick up bits of chips that some kid had dropped. One rock made contact and the squirrel squeaked with pain and darted to the side, not willing to let this cache of food slip by.
A second rock hit it in the leg and it tried to leap away, but the leg was a bit slower than the other. Leon grinned and wound up his arm with another stone, oblivious to Elizabeth approaching. She took – and I mean took – his wrist, clenched tight, the tendons in her forearm standing out like iron cables. She tightened her grip, the blood in his fist made it go red, and his fingers unrolled. Still holding his wrist, she took the rock in her other hand and pelted it at his head.
Leon took that opportunity to turn around and face her. The rock – small, but heavy enough to have force – smashed into his eye. He screamed and pulled his hand away from her to cover his eye, spurts of blood mixed with aqueous humor pushing through his fingers. Head down, still screaming, he ran in toward the school. The other children were watching him run, but I was watching Bethy. She had slumped against the tree, a look of confusion on her face. The confusion morphed to realization, which in turn morphed into glee. She sat with her back against the tree and a look of satisfaction and victory.
As far as I can tell, that was indeed the beginning. What poetic perfection that I was there. That previous section was written purely from my own personal memories, but from here on out, except a bit toward the end, it will be based only on information we discovered in the investigation, as I said before. I will embellish the details a bit to make it more readable, though, instead of sounding like an official report. All important details, however, will be factual.
Elizabeth had little trouble during her school years. She was very intelligent, passing her classes easily, and had a natural social magnetism that drew others to her. This was merely an alternate personality of hers that she flipped on and off like a switch, however. By the time she was a senior in high school, her violent sadism had progressed unusually far for her age. But to reach the next important “milestone” in her development, we must go back a few years from that, to when she was fifteen.
Elizabeth had seen what Monty did. She saw him, disgruntled at having to get up and go to school, kick a cat that crossed his path.
She felt the blood rush into her face, she felt her heartrate increase, she felt her muscles tense and start shaking. She had felt all of this before, so many times. Enough times that she knew how to control it until she would act upon the urges at a more opportune time.
Monty had had a crush on her since they both started high school, she knew. Most boys did at one point or another. Maybe a few girls as well. But it didn’t interest her much unless it served a purpose.
In history class, she wrote a note, with curls embellishing her letters and a heart in the corner. She passed it behind her, saying it was for Monty. She continued looking ahead at the teacher, but made note of where the note was in the class in her peripheral vision. When it got to Monty she glanced back. He read it for a moment, then looked up excitedly at her. She gave a small smile and bit her lower lip, then turned back to the teacher. It was the little things, the little things she watched others and learned from, that made her alternate personalities so real to everyone else.
At the end of the class, the bell rang to signal the end of school. She hiked her backpack up onto one shoulder and headed out of the class with one last look back at Monty. He was grinning, staring at her.
She made her way out of the school and walked around to the back of the school, next to a dumpster. She opened her backpack and removed what she had taken from the cafeteria kitchen and slipped it carefully into the hem of her pants, covering it up with her sweater. She put on the tight leather gloves she often wore and waited for Monty.
He came around the corner of the school building, visibly shaking, saw her and rushed over. The corner of his mouth twitched up in an anxious smile. Elizabeth smiled warmly and extended her hands toward him. He stepped forward and awkwardly tried to figure out where to put his hands.
“Don’t worry, just relax,” Elizabeth said and cupped her left hand behind his head and held her right hand near his waist. She leaned in and he mirrored her motion with some hesitation until their lips met. She kissed him for a few moments before bringing her right hand back toward the hem of her pants and retrieved the knife, a large, sharp, chef’s knife. She pulled him in further, forcefully, with her left hand, and thrust the knife into his abdomen.
She kept her hold on the back of his head, forcing him to keep contact with her mouth, muffling his screams. She pulled out the knife and slammed it into him again and twisted the handle. She whipped her left hand around to cover his mouth and threw him down to the ground, coming down to kneel by his side. She held her hand clamped over his mouth and stabbed again and again, then tossed the knife to the ground and reeled up her shoe to stomp into his mutilated abdomen, keeping her eyes locked with his own, watching his terror and pain pour through the only way he could express it. His eyelids fluttered and his eyes rolled up into his head. Too close to fainting, he’d be out soon and wouldn’t be able to experience much more. It was time for her to finish it.
She removed her hand from his mouth, now letting out only a faint whimper, and stood up above him. She lifted her foot and stomped his head into the pavement below. She stomped again and heard a faint crack as his skull give way. She stomped one more time and his head caved in, splattering onto the pavement.
She opened the dumpster and pulled out the least-full garbage bag she could find, untied the top, and, after removing them, put his legs inside and retied it. She repeated this for his head and arms, and finally his torso. She threw all bags back into the dumpster and closed the lid.
She pulled out a hose from the back of the school over to the spot marked by blood and bits of flesh, turned the valve, and washed the area, her shoes, gloves, and the knife. She put the knife and her gloves back into her backpack and walked back around to the front of the school, down the sidewalk, and back to her house, feeling nothing but elation.


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