Doomed

prologue

The sirens and red and blue lights were barely phasing me. I was too shell shocked to do much more than sit in the grass in front of the house, staring at the men and women in uniform bustling around. I was vaguely aware that most of them were avoiding me, skirting around me and shooting concerned glances my way, as if they were afraid I was going to pounce or burst into tears. Maybe they were right, maybe I was going to do one of those things. Who knew? From what they had told me, I was a danger to society and myself.

Even though there were was so much to look at right in front of me, the only thing I could see was the images of my family's bodies, mutilated and ripped apart. The blood splattered on the walls and on my skin, sticky and warm. I'd vomited and ran from the house, terrifying my neighbors enough that they had called the cops.

The first thing they had done was check me for injuries, and the only one I had sustained was a blow to the head. They had tried to push medical treatment on me, but I was unresponsive. One of the cops had pushed the paramedics away, requesting for them to wait until I had come out of shock. I wasn't sure if I would ever come out of shock, but I gave the officer a head nod in thanks then plopped down on the grass. I had been there ever since, shivering and staring at the blood coating my hands.

No one had to tell me for me to know the truth: my family was dead and everyone thought I had something to do with it. The looks on their faces said it all as they looked at me. She's crazy, her reports say she hears and sees thing, she must have had something to do with this. They thought I couldn't hear their whispers, but I did, and it hurt. My father couldn't handle my "incidents" and he had left us because of it. We'd tried starting over, and yet, somehow, I still managed to even ruin that.

My blood covered hands were trembling and my breathing had shallowed. The only thing circling through my head was that it was my fault that they were dead, it had to be. If it weren't for me, they would have been alive and there wouldn't be cops swarming the house, carrying body bags inside. Tears burned a trail down my face and I swatted at them, too guilty to allow myself to cry.

"My fault my fault my fault," I whispered, scratching at the blood on my hands and my arms. It flaked off and I began to scratch harder, digging gouges into my arm, adding to the bloody mess that was already present. "It's my fault."

"Miss Blakely?"

I looked up into the face of the kind officer who had shooed the paramedics away from me. My manic scratching slowed at the frown on his face, but my trembling and mumbling did not. I got louder, sobs falling from my mouth. He said my name again, reaching out and resting a hand on my shoulder.

I snapped and pushed him away, returning to scratching at my arms, shouting and crying. "It's my fault! They're dead because of me! MY FAULT!"

The previous frenzy became chaos as everyone nearby took notice of my break down. The officer tried gripping my arms to stop me from scratching, but it didn't work, I only began to flail, attempting to push him away. When I leaned forward, prepared to bite him, he released me. I fell backwards, sprawling out on my back in the damp grass, staring at the stars and crying.

"Oh god," I whispered. "It's all my fault."