BLISS

By @ThatFishyNerd
BLISS

The Society is a place of order. It's definitely a place of death. It's a place of forced medication. It's not a place where you'll find peace or love. Those words are non existent there. It's not safe. It's not happy. Enter at your own risk.

Chapter 1

zero point five

It was only ten minutes before the authorities arrived, but by that time Keith was already dead. His body was the only thing in the school courtyard apart for the few broken swings and steel benches. The sun fell on his corpse, the pair of scissors in his throat shining, slick with blood, unmistakably red. Blood pooled around his head, staining his blond hair, slowly starting to dry out on the concrete. So they did what they knew best; they heaved him onto a stretcher and loaded him in a white van for an autopsy. A lady slowly pulled out the pair of scissors with a gloved hand and sealed them in a plastic bag, which she handed over to a colleague. Meanwhile, the tall dark-skinned man with the silver badge and the immaculate collar squared his shoulders before securing his taser on his belt and setting off to have a word with the principal. 

He knocked once before walking into the principal’s office. He set his metal case onto the principal’s table without permission, not that he needed it. He extracted a tin box with blue pills, that he offered to the old man on the desk who was clutching his skull, shaking in what seemed to be fury. More the reason to pity him.

“My condolences, Principal Dechamps, for losing another. Perhaps a blissling would help.”

Principal Deschamps looked up, clenching his teeth as he took the tin from him. “The lowest dosage won’t suffice, government scum.”

The man smiled. “My name is Doctor Yousef Phillips. I’ve heard a lot about your school. And its… brilliant students.” He looked around, scrutinizing the empty walls. “I didn’t know you sheltered psychopaths.” He scoffed. 

“What do you want, doctor?” Deschamps spat, popping a blissling into his mouth, unscrewing the cap of his bottle.

“I want a word with the kid who did this.” Phillips said, slipping on a pair of gloves, then filling a syringe with a pale yellow liquid. He narrowed his eyes at Deschamps, who had already calmed down, his eyes closed, his lips pressed together. “Of course. But he’s not an easy one.”

“Don’t worry,” Phillips reassured him, the slightest smile flickering on his lips, “I’ve dealt with monsters way worse than this one.”

Deschamps told him everything he needed to know before passing out in his seat. Phillips grabbed his case and left the room with a dead principal and prowled the empty corridors with syringe ready to cause some more death.

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