Unpredictable
"Are you interested?" he said when he saw me looking at the pelicans colouring the asphalt road pink. I didn’t answer. His appearance may have seemed friendly, but his eyes were creepy—the type of person you’d rather see leave than arrive.
"Are you interested?" asked the profiler, who had been studying me as I watched the scene unfold. The house looked deserted, and the neighbours were partying; the fact that the stereo system hadn’t blown up the speakers was a miracle in itself. I stood there silently as the group stormed into the house. Patience is a virtue. The profiler didn’t ask any more questions when I didn’t answer.
"We’ll lose the game if we don’t stay here!" shouted the drunk guy who was being carried out of the house by the police by his arms and legs. The vans were ready to take the troublemakers away separately. I watched in amazement. How come they had never come to save me?
"Have you lost your way?" asked an old man who passed me. Disorientation is not uncommon in malnourished and abused women. He looked at me with slight disapproval, as if I had voluntarily brought all the misery in the world upon my shoulders. He nodded slightly and continued on his way. It was hardly a conversation.
The kitchen door was open, as Mother Holle had predicted. I crept inside, and the smell was not as bad as I expected. I went down the basement stairs, where I would hide for the time being. The stench was unbearable—tears welled up in my eyes—but I was used to it. And there he lay, the old tyrant, with his fingers cut off. I had read about it, and I must admit that it inspired me to cut off his middle and index fingers with the knife from the bottle. I thought he was dead; the larvae were crawling over him. Unfortunately, they also cleaned his wounds. I turned the knife around to test whether the sound I heard was the result of my careful cutting.
"An unpredictable nature is what you have," said the old, dirty sadist whose throat I would have preferred to slit, but I left that honour to someone else. I laughed in his face. One more blow or less makes no difference, and there is no pleasure when no one prays or begs. I sat two metres away from the door and waited for him to breathe his last, but that would definitely take a while. A rotten apple ignites the rest of the basket of apples.
"Tick-tock... do you hear that?" I said. "There are footsteps. What do you think, old pervert, has become of the one you’ve molested for years? What would her mental state be like? Brace yourself, because your body is definitely not your temple."
I heard footsteps in the kitchen and waited until she went to sleep. I put down food, drinks, and money that Mother Holle had generously showered me with.
10.4.25
All 7 prompts are provided by @freewritehouse
I used a bit info out of all stories and this one written by @almaguer