Flash Fiction: Oceanrest Murder Confession

I did kill them, I’ll admit that.  I murdered them all, one at a time, using the curved, sharp edge of a seven inch blade.

But I didn’t write those words.

The blood wrote the words long ago, and I read them.  It was a sanguinary scripture.  Destiny scrawled out.

People used to read entrails and see the future in the guts–this was like that.  When I was a boy I looked up at the chalkboard and saw the blood dripping down the walls like runny jam.  The words were already there.  I saw the future in them, in their glistening shapes behind my teacher’s head.  I memorized them over days and weeks and never forgot what they said.  I knew the scripture forwards and backwards long before I ever contributed my hand to its diction.

You don’t seem to understand me.  To understand it.  You say that my fingerprints were found smudged in the gore, you say I chose to do it myself, taking their life from their throats and using my hand as a brush to paint my religion…I didn’t.  I am beginning a long standing prophecy.  You have to understand.  My actions, my subsequent arrest…this isn’t an ending.

This is a beginning.

I didn’t write the words.  The blood wrote the words for me, long ago.  I only read them.

The blood is still out there, writing.

Other people have read.

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I'm a writer of horror, dark sci-fi, and dark fantasy.