Part I
She was the only one not crying. She sat in the back, no expression painted on her face, her spine ramrod straight, her eyes looking, but not seeing. Her mind was not in the room. It floated away from all the people sobbing, with their heads buried in their handkerchiefs, sitting in the dilapidated white clapboard church. She didn’t care about these people - not in a cruel way, just in her own quiet and reclusive persona. She sat silently and stared blankly at the coffin. She knew the woman inside. In life, she had been quiet, but friendly. Reclusive and mysterious, but loved, almost revered. She also knew exactly how the death had come about. The others sitting in the room wondered why this girl was here. They knew her, and thought that the woman and she had been on bad terms. They thought they were smart - of course they knew more than the little 11 year old sitting there. But when they glanced over at her, something deep inside them stirred that made them look away. They, like their ancestors before them, ignored her and her presence. She made them feel uncomfortable and unsafe, so they looked away and pushed her out of their minds. She would live there, thriving, eating, in the back of their minds until their day came.

Part II
“Dead,” they said. It beat in Amanda’s mind over and over again, a steady rhythm. Dead. Dead. Dead. “Dead,” they said. She could feel it, knew it was there, but she couldn’t understand what it meant. “He’s dead,” they said. Her brother. “Dead,” they said.
Two years later, Amanda turned 8. Two years since they had said “Dead, dead, dead.” But still, in the depths of her brain, there was a whisper. She ran to the woods. When her brother died, the counselor had said,”Find something that makes you happy. Make sure it’s something that allows you to let go of your pain and your anger.” So she had started throwing knives. She ran to the woods. She drove her knife into the tree. Thud. Thud. Thud. Three times, it sank into the heart of the tree. She raised the knife a fourth time. Snap. She turned around to see something moving. Whoosh. The knife fell through the air before she could stop it. Thump. It landed in flesh. The blood spilled immediately from a small white body. She took three steps and bent over to see an innocent little rabbit. In the back of her mind, the voice screamed,”DEATH, DEATH, DEATH!” She walked back to the house.
That night, she dreamed. She was running away from something, but she didn’t know what. She ran faster and faster until she tripped. She fell and rolled over, sprawled on her back. She looked up at the sky, and the branches of the trees made endless webs. She felt something pressing in on her, a shadow, threatening to smother her. She woke up.
A year later, she walked across the street to the pond. She sat there, watching the water glittering as the sun reflected off of it. She saw patterns in the water, and it looked to her like a kaleidoscope. She threw a rock into the pond. Splash. And then the beautifully constructed patterns were thrown into chaos, rippling every which way. She loved the chaos, destroying the order and illusion of the kaleidoscope. As she sat and smiled, loving the way she had control of it, a flash of white appeared suddenly in the corner of her right eye. Snap. She whipped her head to look. Another rabbit. And suddenly, she needed its soul. She needed its life. So the knife again found its place in the rabbit’s sinewy muscle, and again the red blood spurted from the pure white fur.
She walked away from the pond, and the chaos she had created. And there, beside her, was an old woman, her white hair flowing in the breeze. “Who are you?” asked the woman, her voice clear and beautiful, despite her age. “Amanda.” “And your middle name?” “Mors.” “Very interesting.” Amanda stared through the woman until she answered the unasked question. “I don’t give my real name to anyone. People call me Vita.” The old woman’s words were assertive, but her tone quiet and kindly. They walked together, and talked about everything from life to death, and chaos to order. Amanda and Vita kept walking together every day for almost two years.
It was a year after their first walk, and Amanda had become addicted to chaos and killing. She killed more and more rabbits every week. But never had she killed a squirrel, a fox, or a deer. Only rabbits. Something about the beauty of red on white was strengthening the voice in her head. Now, it was steady and grew louder every time she killed. She loved the adrenaline rush, the power, she got from killing. Vita knew.
They walked together. Amanda had asked Vita to start calling her by her middle name, Mors. Vita agreed, but raised her eyebrows at this request. Mors knew about quantity vs. quality, and she knew that, no matter how many rabbits she killed, she would never get enough satisfaction. She needed more control over bigger animals. She had to go to the pond again.

Part III
The sun is bright today. Brighter than it has been in a long, long time. I need to kill today. I need to kill something different, different. The pond is beautiful. Yes, yes, the pond is beautiful. Patterns of ripples, all scheduled to happen. Splash. The patterns have to be stopped. Chaos must ensue. Death, death, death. Today, the beat is different. Not louder, but heavier, stronger. Today, I have to kill. Blood, blood, blood. Death, death, death.
White. There it is. Another white flag, a sign of surrender. Whatever creature it is must die. Oh. Death, death, death! Pounding in my head. The knife will strike twice more, but there are three beats left in the rhythm. One. She is now dead. Two. There is still white within. It must be extinguished, the order must be destroyed. Three. Everything is black.