Scream: Do You Think You Can Unmask The Devil?

Prologue: "Memories of a burdened life."

~THREE MONTHS INTO THE FUTURE~

Five ladies sit in a circular position, organized with chairs to which they all have sat in. Damper than the pool on a frosted winter morning, the room causes chills to trickle down the women's spines, making them feel discomfort.

Some shove their hands in between their thighs, hoping to rid of the cold. Others, breathe into their hands to avoid frostbite, but one young lady just deals with it, showing no reaction.

"Good morning ladies, apologies for the power outage this morning. The electricians are working to make sure we get power back on soon; though, we are still required to have this meeting. So, let's see what's on our schedule for today..." There's a middle age to elderly lady, not too old but not young either, who sits in one of the seats, adding to the count of five women.

She starts flipping through her folders that are rested on her lap and she traces her fingers alongside the calenders until she finds the correct date for the day. "Ah, I got it."

As she's finding the prompt of discussion for the ladies, one of them let's out a very hoarse cough repeatedly.

*Coughs*

"Are you feeling ok, Ms. Margret?" Rita Anne asks as she places her hand onto her shoulder. "I'll be ok, sweetie. I'm just a little tired." Margret lifts her torso back from it's slumped position. She grabs her bottle of water and proceeds to go for a drink. It relaxes her throat, but she stills continues to cough after.

"Maybe, you just need some rest Margaret... You are excused. I'll come by your room later for a private discussion." Ms. Michaels, the lady who appears in charge, informed.

Minutes later, Margaret is escorted out by one of the staff and Michaels move onto to telling the ladies their prompt.

"Well, it seems we'll be discussing our views on death and how that has effected some of your lives... I know this is a very sensitive subject for you all, so please take all the time you need to formulate your response." The lady said in the most monotoned voice.

Unexpectedly, one hand among the four remaining girls flew up into the air.

"Oh, um... Cynthia, is it? Thanks for volunteering to respond first. Now, ladies if you would turn your attention to Cynthia as she starts off our conversation that would be lovely. Cynthia, whenever you're ready." Ms. Michaels gestures towards this young woman who has raised her hand.

Trickling her fingers in her lap, the young woman let's out a nervous sigh.

"I guess, I've always found it kinda fucked up... That in a blink of an eye, a life can be stripped from you in a matter of seconds, and you probably won't even have time to process the grief that comes along with it. I'm referring to those traumatic thoughts that emulates from witnessing death."

Cynthia's shoulders rise a little as she changes her posture by sitting up in her seat.

"Care to elaborate, Cynthia?" The lady in charge hesitantly asks. She seemed baffled by Cynthia's response but didn't want to show it.

"Of course, let's see... oh, just three months ago, I lost several of my friends due to a series of murders that has still yet to be solved. Even til this day, I blame myself for causing their families so much agonizing pain. Watching as their children's bodies stack up in graves... Meanwhile, I end up in a place like this. Do you know, I've never once visited their graves after their burials? I know, very bitchy and self-absorbed if you ask me, but I guess serial killers love people like that... Or maybe I didn't visit because the pain of seeing them again would be too much... Wait no, that's not right. No. I didn't visit because I personally didn't want to feel responsible for them being in their coffins at such young ages. I wanted to be the only victim, but somehow during the killingspree, I forgot they were too. Victims of not only the killer but me as well. But most of you already know my story. I mean why else would I be placed here? Death isn't the asshole, the person who casts it upon someone before it's their time is. Death is just a process we'll all reach someday, and that's something we have to accept. And..." Cynthia continues to unfold her explanation to the question. The lady from earlier raises a hand to bring Cynthia to a halt.

Cynthia stops speaking in response.

"That is quite enough, Cynthia. I believe you got a little off prompt." The lady growls. "Anyways, let's move onto our next response. Let's see, Irene, let's continue with you."

~Two Hours later~
~Meeting Dismissal~

After hours of sitting in their seats, the young ladies are finally dismissed from the room to carry on with their days.

As Cynthia is about to walk out of the room, she is stopped by the director. "Hi, Cynthia. May I have a word?" She asked, standing in her way. "What's up?" Cynthia greets in response.

"Yes. Well, I, um, maybe you should keep stories like you told earlier a little more quieter around these other ladies. Some of them are still mentally fragile and hearing someone talk about death so... carelessly could effect their mental health. Do you understand?" She tries to reason with Cynthia. "Yeah, I think so. You basically want me to shut the fuck up? Got it. Are we done here?" Cynthia shoves past her. "That's not what I... said." Michaels mumbled and sighed.

Minutes later, Cynthia steps into her room and shuts her door. Tears start falling from her face as she reaches for something under her prison-like bed.

It is revealed to be a journal of some sort as she flips to the next clean sheet.

Dear Journal,

"Why the hell couldn't I have been that basic cliche bitch with a perfect life who's only problems consist of choosing the right guy and back-stabbing her friends sometimes? Why did I have to be an unordinary or special girl? For years, you, God, have kicked my ass, taken everything from me, and you still want more? How much loss will I need to be bombarded with before I can finally live my wretched, lonely, lost, and pathetic life? Let me guess... no answer? Well here's what I have to say about that: fuck you! Because if it weren't for your judgement, maybe I would have turn out different... maybe just maybe I'd made my way out of this hell."

After writing her entry, Cynthia closed her journal and threw it against her wall, causing a bit of a stir for those who lived in the rooms next to her.

~Cynthia's Point Of View~

Yes, you heard that correctly. Throughout all these painful, heartbreaking, worrisome, and troubling situations, I still ended up in the same place I was desperate to escape. Maybe it was God punishing me or maybe it was the devil trying to curse me...

Well, if you didn't hear before, basically my life has gone to complete shit. But the worst part is, not only did I survive, but now I have to live with the fact that numerous others did not due to my crappy life problems.

And so, this isn't just my story. But it's the story of how my life was the passage-point of the demons others tried to keep buried.

And when I walked into those peoples' lives, all they did was suffer. It was practically their character trait. It's what made them special, like me. Except like I stated before, most of them were blessed enough to die.

Whilst I still suffer for what seems like the rest of my damn life...

Sound interesting enough to follow along? Because trust me when I say this, you're in for one hell of a ride...

A/N: This story contains coarse language or humor, violence, sex, drug use or references... So proceed with caution.