Trust No Bitch: Part 3

Clara Wright

"That's for Cleo, you backstabbing, psychopathic piece of shit."

Clara brought down the knife, punctuating each stab, stab, stab with the grief, the fury, the rage that she had felt every time she saw Alice Jenkins' face, the ineffable feeling that arose when she considered the possibility of their roles reversing; Alice's corpse devoured by maggots six feet under and Cleo, vibrant as ever, life radiating out from her every pore.

It had been difficult to contain her nausea for so long, but when Clara looked back on all the shit she'd caused Alice Jenkins in the last several months, her rare display of self-restraint had probably been worth it.

The Ghostface mask already taken off and lying at her feet, Clara grinned as she tugged the cloak off her body, bringing the knife down again and again and again. Alice was already dead, Clara could see that, but the stabbing motion acted as a kind of catharsis. After all, the God that her mum's bible spoke of didn't exist and so what else was she to do if not take vengeance into her own hands? The only Gods that existed, in that moment, were inside her. The multitude of them that had always inhabited her body. Wrath, lust, and loss. All of them exerting their power, an other-worldly energy throwing the arms up, with her hands wrapped around the knife, and then bringing them back down. As if the lightning bolts of Zeus were electrifying her veins, them glowing like fairy lights inside her body. Temporarily, there were no restrictions, no consequences. It was wonderful; she couldn't control her laughter, tears of joyful relief streaming down her face, commingling with the blood that had splattered onto it, as she dropped the knife and looked down at the vivid crimson of her dead "friend"'s blood on her hands. It was a perfect match with the hairs on her very head. She could feel Cleo's stinking corpse there behind her, watching on, and knew that its skin would be regaining its colour, that the water would be draining from its body, leaving it to be Cleo again, all irrepressible and irresistible.

It was funny, Clara thought, contemplating the bloody body in front her, bending down to see the blood trickle from Alice's mouth and looking into her unblinking eyes, black like a raven's coat; if only Alice lifted her head before she died, she would've seen who had stabbed her. But she didn't. If there was a life after this one, not only would she spend it questioning who had murdered Cleo, but also who went on to murder her too. And nobody would every suspect someone as small as Clara would be capable of carrying out such a vicious murder. Even if they did, they wouldn't understand how she was capable of it. Those who had never been besotted with another wouldn't, anyway.

And as for her size? Shakespeare had put it best; though she be but little, she is fierce. That much had always been true of Clara. Whilst stature is reasonable and patient, bubbling within the bones and seeping out as you grow, ferocity is a different matter. It simmers within the heart just waiting to escape, bursting out when you can no longer contain it, like water from a geyser, boiling your blood and holding no concern for what or who it consumes in its chaos. It goes without saying, therefore, that a lack of energy expended on stature only allows for a nimiety of ferocity, and as Clara looked down at Alice's body, she knew she had used it well. The doctors had kept her in the medically induced coma for little more than 72 hours and from the moment they decided to bring her out of it, she knew that she wasn't ready to face her friends yet. All that time spent feigning unconsciousness every time Alice, Gemma and Lilly had come to visit her gave her a lot of time to idealise. If she were to get rid of Alice, what would she do with the body? Would she leave the country afterwards? Ask Holly Khan to accompany her? Or was that ridiculous? It felt ridiculous.

It had all, however, been little more than wishful thinking. After all, Clara had spent the last several months trying to get rid of Alice anyway, first pushing her into going to the police, then quite literally attempting to have her removed, and eventually settling on just ruining her life, observing Alice believe that she was being blackmailed by "The Supplier". But the day that she and the others had left Dylan King's phone under Clara's pillow, and Clara had read those texts, realised Cleo's own fucking brother had delivered her to her death, she had made the decision. No one was getting away with anything anymore. And first on the list was Alice Jenkins; to simply ruin her life would not be enough.