she crept down the staircase. the kitchen floor was covered in red. she didn't know what happened. she hadn't heard anything. she had been to busy wishing to the stars.
she wasn't scared though. she didn't know why. she was always scared, but not now.
this wasn't her red; she knew that for sure. her red hurt her. she checked herself. she hadn't been mistaken; she didn't hurt.
she walked forward again. she stared.
there was a body on the ground. his eyes were open; in shock? in fear?
she had never seen him scared before.
he was still holding his thick book, filled with prayers. it didn't help him in the end.
she didn't feel sad. was that wrong? she didn't feel happy either. she just stared down. she didn't feel anything at all.
there was a knife besides him. it had blood on it. it was red, the color of her dress.
she picked it up and held it in her hands. she felt safer holding it. it felt right. she tucked it in her dress pocket. it lay next to a bar of chocolate.
her hands stung when she washed off the red on the knife. she looked down. her knuckles were also red. there were cuts on them. it was the same color as the red on the knife and the floor.
she didn't remember how she got them. she didn't know why they were red. she didn't really care.
she washed it all away.
YOU ARE READING
Nemiah
Mystery / ThrillerA Short Story Nemiah. Nemiah. Nemiah. The name echoed in her head. Nemiah, the prey. She, the hunter. TW: Abuse, Death, Blood, Murder
