Waking Up a Serial Killer

My head felt like it had been smashed with a sledgehammer.

The moment I opened my eyes, the dim light stabbed at my sockets until they ached. I was curled up in the corner of a couch, every inch of my body screaming in pain. My dress had been torn to shreds, the lace across my chest completely undone.

"Where am I?" My voice was as hoarse as sandpaper.

Blood pounded in my temples, each throb bringing piercing pain. I tried to sit up but noticed several purple-blue handprints on my arms, as if someone had gripped me violently. There was a disgusting bitter taste in my mouth—not just alcohol, but something else, metallic, making me want to vomit.

The crystal chandelier cast eerie shadows. This was a VIP room at The Crown bar. Yes, I remembered this place. But how did I end up curled in the corner? We had been sitting on the couch...

"Madison?" I called out shakily. "Madison, where are you?"

No response.

I forced myself upright with all my strength, my legs like jelly. The room was terrifyingly quiet, even the air conditioning's hum seemed particularly grating. The air was thick with a strange sickly sweet metallic smell, mixing expensive perfume with something else...

Then I saw it.

Madison was lying by the marble bar, motionless. Her neck... God, her neck was covered in blood. Bright red blood streamed down her pale skin, forming a dark red stain on the carpet. Her eyes were open, but there was no light in them at all.

"Madison!" I screamed and rushed over, falling to my knees beside her. "Madison, wake up! This isn't real, right? This is just a prank!"

My hand trembled against her ice-cold cheek. She was really dead. Madison was really dead.

"No... impossible..."

I stumbled backward and bumped into something. Looking back, Brittany was collapsed next to the couch, her head a bloody mess. Her golden hair was soaked with blood, plastered to her temple. A heavy cocktail shaker lay scattered nearby, still sticky with...

I couldn't help dry heaving.

"Chelsea!" I screamed hoarsely. "Where's Chelsea?"

I frantically searched the room and finally found her in a high-backed chair in the corner. Chelsea sat in the chair, her face blue-purple, lips black. Something seemed to be stuffed in her mouth—it looked like napkins, but they were soaked with blood.

Her eyes were wide open, filled with terror.

"No... no... no..." I kept shaking my head, tears blurring my vision. "This isn't real. This has to be a nightmare. I'm having a nightmare."

But the smell of blood was real. The touch of the corpses was real. They were all really dead.

I frantically rushed to the door and pushed hard. The door didn't budge. I pushed harder. Still nothing.

"Why? Why won't the door open?"

That's when I noticed the heavy couch had been pushed in front of the door, along with bar stools from the counter. Someone had deliberately used furniture to block the exit.

But when? Who did this?

"Help!" I pounded frantically on the door. "Is anyone there? Help!"

My fists quickly became sore from the pounding, but I couldn't stop. I was trapped in here with three corpses.

"Let me out! Let me out!"

I tried to push away the couch blocking the door, but it was too heavy. I was an art student, not a weightlifter. Despite all my efforts, the couch barely moved an inch.

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"

Panic washed over me like a tide. My breathing became rapid, my heart pounding wildly. The room's walls seemed to press in on me, the ceiling getting lower and lower. I was suffocating.

Just as I was about to break down completely, voices came from outside the door.

"What happened here? Why won't the door open?"

"Push harder! All together now!"

I heard people outside struggling to move the obstacles. Heavy furniture made harsh scraping sounds as it was slowly moved aside.

The door finally opened.

Security guards from the bar rushed in first, followed by the manager.

"Jesus Christ..." The manager saw the scene inside the room and his face instantly went pale. "Call the police immediately! Immediately!"

One security guard immediately pulled out his phone to dial 911, while another stood guard at the door to keep anyone from entering. The manager reported the situation to police with a trembling voice.

"The police will be here soon," the manager told me, but his eyes were filled with fear, as if I were something dangerous.

The ten-plus minutes of waiting felt like a century. I sat in a chair by the room's entrance, watched by security guards, not daring to look at those three corpses again. My hands wouldn't stop shaking, my mind was a complete mess.

Finally, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. A man in a dark suit strode over, his deep brown eyes sharp as a blade.

"I'm Detective Rivera," he flashed his badge, calmly scanning the room before fixing his gaze on me. "Miss, what's your name? Can you tell me what happened here?"

"I'm Daphne..." I said, trembling. "Daphne Morgan. I don't know what happened... I woke up to this."

How could I explain? I didn't even know what had happened myself.

"What's the last thing you remember?" He pulled out a small notepad.

I struggled to recall, blurry fragments flashing through my mind: "They... they were humiliating me, forcing me to drink... then..."

I shook my head hard, my mind going completely blank: "Then I don't remember anything."

Rivera quickly jotted something down in his notepad, then glanced up at me. That look made my stomach drop—no longer the professional composure from when he first arrived, but something I didn't want to understand.

"Alright, Miss Morgan. I need to examine the scene first." He closed his notepad. "Please wait outside and don't leave this area. We'll need to talk more in a bit."

I nodded, but as I watched him head toward the private room, unease suddenly washed over me.

Why couldn't I remember anything? Why was I the only one alive?

But what scared me even more was that when Rivera looked at me again, the sympathy for a victim was gone from his eyes.