Page 2 of Scarred Sins
To my shock and surprise, the metal doors open with ease.
It’s usually bolted shut. Not a single fly can sneak its way inside. The prison is well secured, and no matter how many times I tried to find an exit, I was always unsuccessful. I was doomed to serve a life in prison, and there was no one to help me.
The squeaky noise of the door as it opens makes me flinch slightly, before I take a deep breath. I step outside, only to fall back flat on my ass, mouth covered with a trembling hand.
Blood.
So much blood everywhere.
The walls are coated in crimson handprints, the liquid dripping everywhere. Pools of ichor surround me; people who it belongs to lie on the tiled floor. Footsteps in the same shade of red are all across the hall, leading toward the entrance.
Bile rises in my throat at the stench, their bodies unmoving, not breathing.
Carefully, I rise to my feet and scream for anyone to hear.
Not a single response comes.
I scan the area, horror and dread filling my veins as I step over the dead bodies, desperately trying not to trip or look at them, fearing I’d end up vomiting all over them. My jumpsuit is dirty from when I fell on my ass, the awful smell making me wince.
Everyone is dead.
Every single fucking person. The security, the inmates, the doctors… all of them are fucking dead.
And the main entrance of the prison is wide open.
ONE
THREE YEARS LATER
“Amy! Table eight!”
“Got it!” I yell over my shoulder, slowly making my way toward the table in question. The restaurant is rather busy today, which is odd for a Tuesday. We have our regular customers, drop-off orders for the corporate bunch that works in the area, and take-out requests. Though, it’s awfully chatty and packed with people for a normal day, something this restaurant hasn’t experienced in the past couple of months.
“Good morning,’’ I offer a polite smile. “I’m Amy, and I’ll be your server today. What can I get started for you?”
An elderly couple is in front of me, holding hands over the table. They’re in their late sixties, with matching gray hair and outfits. The wrinkles around their eyes are a clear indication of their age, if the gray hair wasn’t enough.
Voices start suggesting a lot of terrible, murderous ideas, but I shoot them down, forcing them to stay quiet.
“What would you recommend, dear?”
A painless death. You’ve lived long enough.
“Our roasted chicken in a thick, creamy mushroom sauce is great.’’
The lady smiles at me, showing her pearly white, obviously fake, teeth. “Sure, hon, we’ll get that.’’
I write that on my notepad, nod with a smile, and move toward the kitchen. I pass the note to the chef, Stanley. He’s humming a song, like he always does, with a big, wide grin on his face.
It’s a family-owned restaurant in the small town of Long Grove, Illinois. After my escape, I hitchhiked and found myself in the hands of an elderly couple who were generous enough to take me in for a while.
After I made sure no one would track me down or recognize me, I started looking for jobs.Stanley’s dinerwas one of the rare places that was willing to overlook the lack of experience and offer me a decent salary. Not enough to live in luxury, but good enough not to be completely broke.
I think they just took pity on me.
The chef, Stanley, is the owner. His wife, Carol, is always in the kitchen helping him. Despite the restaurant being crazy busy today, the two share a matching smile on their faces. They’re still as in love as they were the first time they met.
The only reason I know that is because half of the regulars are retired couples who cannot stop talking about Stanley and Carol and their youth. The restaurant is filled with family pictures, alongside the pictures of the staff, some of whom no longer work here.
