David Ridgewell

David Ridgewell was once an upstanding man of the community; he kept the local trainyard running alongside his best mates, and had a rather large family. Life was always hard for him, but he went through it with determination and sweat on his brow.

He was known for having anger issues earlier in his life, and for never having them resolved; however, he was always exceptionally kind with his family. Even after the divorce.

But, one day, he was found missing. His family was cut into pieces, draped all over his living room, scrawled nonsense on the walls in their blood. He was assumed the killer, but no evidence pointed it toward him, nor was he ever found.. that was Until the 9th of September, 1991.

His body was found mutilated in the Riverdale Steel Factory, a floor below the still missing body of Roy Miller. He was declared as not being the killer, and that the killer was still on the loose. They didn't know how right they were when Cody Fraser, Michael Holloway, and Lucius Wright went missing, and Jacob Green, Eugene Reynolds, and Wyatt Allens were found dead in the living room of the Fraser Residence.

He has since been buried outside of his house, frequently visited by his extended family and by Laura and Rhiannon.

"Another day in Hell. I could use a drink, calm the nerves. I need it to live these days. I don't get drunk anymore. They say I'm addicted but they don't see what I see, hear what I hear. Maybe one day they'll  understand. These dreams, about doctors and hospitals, of kids and prison bars. Those dreams never make any lick of sense. I stopped thinking about it long ago. It's all the same. Cold.." I pop open the cap, taking a seat as it rolls across the floor into the shadows. I don't keep my lights on very often. Most of my house is dark. It reflects me, my brain, the depthless black that has taken the place of my once-fertile mind. Take a swig, one, two, three, ten, twenty, a hundred. I lose count. I am distracted by the tingling in my throat, the painful return of some demented normalcy to my distant self. But then it wavers, threatening to leave me again unless I bribe it with another long sip from my elixir. Most things have left me. Both brothers dead, same with Dad. She left me too, took my little ones - don't wanna talk about that. It stopped hurting.

Now I long for some respite, a sleep. Take another drink. Think about them rotting in those prison cells. Another drink. Think about what those doctors thought in their final moments. Another drink. Think about what goes through her head. Glass shatters. Nothing left but cordite and a bottle.