"Silence is a lullaby when sung by the right killer."
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I've met hundreds of fucked up people.
Liars. Sadists. Fame-whores with cameras. Wannabe philosophers with knives.
But Elijah?
He's quiet. Too fucking quiet.
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The kid sat on the school rooftop during lunch, same spot every day. Pale fingers holding a worn-out Rubik's cube, eyes half-lidded like he didn't care how the world spun or who died in it.
Nobody noticed him.
Well, except me.
And the dead girl with the paper crane on her lips.
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"Twelve fucking bodies, Carol."
"All of them peaceful. No bruises. No struggle. No poison. Just… calm."
"You think that's mercy?"
"No. That's the kind of silence you only get after the last scream."
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They called him Elijah Wren. Sixteen. Straight A's. Never late. No criminal record. No social media. No goddamn noise.
Everyone said the same shit:
"Oh, he's such a sweet boy."
"He gets bullied sometimes, but he's really polite."
Yeah. Polite.
So was Dahmer.
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I broke into his room that night.
Don't ask me how. You know me.
Walls were white. Bed perfectly made. One shelf, one lamp.
But the closet..
Full of journals.
Neatly labeled.
Each one named after someone dead.
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"She cried when I told her she could sleep forever."
"He smiled before the needle. Said thank you."
"They all asked. I never pushed."
Fuck.
They asked.
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"I thought you were a monster," I whispered.
"But you're just a fucking dreamcatcher. You catch pain and throw away the soul."
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I didn't tell Carol.
Didn't tell the cops.
Didn't fucking tell anyone.
Because Elijah didn't kill for pleasure.
He killed because they wanted him to.
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The next day, he looked at me in the hallway.
Just one second. No fear. No smile.
Only this quiet… peace in his eyes.
Like he knew.
And maybe he did.
⸻
"I've seen monsters in masks."
"But Elijah? He wears silence."
"And goddamn, that's the loudest scream of all."