Crush [H.S]

5: Gone Girl

It's utterly nauseating.

The thick consistency of blood as it seeps through my clothes, the way it feels guarded between my fingers, the smell, potent and coppery and enough to make saliva pool between my lips. The image is worse, I realize. Not because I regret what I've committed, but because the blood seeps from her skin like an eruption and it's everywhere. In her hair, in mine, in her mouth, coagulating as it rests in the crevices of her flesh. She's limp in her bed, nothing but a dead weight dead girl. The feeling is invigorating. It's makes relief grate though my skin like sparks, and I'm high, high, high, as the moments before flash through my eyes like that first sip after your fifth year of sobriety.

She'd had a candle flickering at her bedside, illuminating the trenches of dark, wasps of nothingness. I realized she was fast asleep and longed to shake her back to consciousness because I want her eyes open when the knife skates across her throat. I want her to feel the retribution that leaks like venom from the blade.

It's nearly a silent kill. She spurts and jerks and shudders, but then she's still, pulsing and showering her everything with blood. I think her eyes are pried open for a moment, to catch me hovering over her like the monster that's finally emerged from under her bed.

The window opts for a cleaner escape route. I don't know if I've grown accustomed to maneuvering around the woods, or if it's the adrenaline thrumming in my system, but I make it home with delightful ease, as if I hadn't just finished watching Harry's little planet obliterate.

They say you see a white light moments before your time. Some say it's a silent film, pictures of what life was, beginning to end. It's almost as potent as the blood, the way those eyes fluttered with fear before running cold. I wonder what she saw, Harry. Was it you, the moments you spent catering to her every need, request, want? Was it Zayn, fucking her into these stupid, frilly sheets? The thought vanishes as soon as it becomes one...

because

behind her eyelids were images of me. Ruining me. Ruining her chance. She's fucked in the head and now she's fucked everywhere, including her underground burial where pests and rodents will feast on her flesh until there's nothing left of her to remember. That's what's hers. Never you, or Zayn, or the family she took down with her. But her spilt blood, and the torn flesh across her neck, and her stupid fucking bloodied pink sheets, and where evil people end up once they're gone.

I'm dwarfed, and Venus is over. So now all that's left in space are seven.

They decide to have a closed casket funeral.

•••

I'm such a mess why the fück is this literally a sentence and a half ???