The art of talking to oneself is a crazy art. A person would have to be completely comfortable with talking to themselves and not care what another would think. A person would have to understand they are certifiably insane to remotely enjoy talking to themselves.
Little girls would play with their Barbie, using the female as a girl, and the male as a guy—obviously—and play house. Little boys would take their stupid little racecars—but in fact they weren’t really stupid—and place some kind of racing game. Other people, like this certifiably insane one in particular, played with guns and knives. This crazy young girl, talked to guns like they were plants with cells. This insane person talked to and worshipped knives like they were a goddess in a very sharp and able-to-make-bleed form. The amount of time this particular writer could explain this crazy person’s fascination with blood, would make that particular reader shake their head in shame. So to say this crazy person had a fascination with blood is a complete understatement and it shall remain at that with no further elaboration.
Isla [not pronounced ‘is la’ but the way you would kind of pronounce ‘island’] Tisch stood in this abandoned warehouse. It was so randomly abandoned that all that was there above the surface was mice on cement floor, trying to hunt down scraps so they could satisfy that hunger eating away at their stomachs. It was nothing but a front. Underneath was the real secret. Turning, she walked out of that room and further in the house where she came to one of the many doors that had a home in that place. This door in particular led to the basement that was so far underground that if a person were to actually walk the steps it took to get down there, they’d give up after the first ten when they would realize that there was about a hundred more to go. There was another door through that door that opened into an elevator. The average person who did not know there was a door there would not even think to try it. Hence it was such a clever place to hide an elevator that was the true source to get to the bottom of the basement, the actual residing place and headquarters of a certain Fraternity.
Once there, Isla walked out of the elevator, looking back as the doors closed and it seemed it disappeared into the wall. It was that clever and it always amused her. Walking through the hall, she passed many rooms. A recovery room, several practice rooms and then The room. The room that held the Loom. A certain Loom of Fate. Still though, she passed even that going to a practice room next to it. This practice room in particular was her favorite place. An endless amount of knives with different edges, points, handles, feelings and material. Metal knives, silver knives, bone knives, plastic knives, copper knives, gold knives, platinum knives—any kind of knife a real knife lover could think of. It was there. When she wasn’t on an assignment, she lived here. When she had to practice for an assignment, she did not live there. Otherwise, this was her room. They might as well deem it as Isla Tisch’s room and call it a day. If only they would. The young brunette ran a gentle yet deceiving hand over the hand wooden carved handle of a bone knife. They were her favorite kinds because they were always the sharpest and they always were left with a tint of red after stabbing someone. Wrapping fingers around it, she picked it up and ran the face of it over her hand, letting out a soft sigh. Isla was an interesting girl, wrapped up in this business for a reason even she nearly forgot about. She was clad in a white tank top and black jeans with black boots. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun and with a quick power and force, she threw that knife so effortlessly at the wall with a target on it, the bone tip practically jammed into the bulls eye. The very sound of that knife having whooshed through the air, cutting through and ripping, until fatefully puncturing the target on the wall with a very lovely thump that felt like it reverberated through her system. Waling to the target on the wall, she pulled the knife right off and lifted the target picture slightly off the wall, tilting her own head to see the hole. So tiny, so minimal yet so threateningly powerful.
Malicious Lullabye Community Member 
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