The Girl With Tattoos • Original Version

The Girl With Tattoos (31)

:: Gracie's POV ::

I sat up quicker than I ever had, my head pounding endlessly. I looked around my living room, confused and sore. Everything seemed normal enough; my bookshelf overrunning with books, pictures containing nonsense, my furniture still placed in the same spots it always had been.

I reached up to scratch an annoying spot on my nose but before I could feel the satisfaction of scratching it, I froze my hand in front of my eyes and just stared at the deep shade of red staining both of them. It was dried but still wet in some places. What? Who's blood is this? 

Than it hit me like a semi-truck. I looked behind me quickly and covered my mouth, the taste of blood connecting with my tongue.

A man laid on the floor, his back pressed up against the far wall. His legs were outstretched and arms spread out, but his right 'arm' was barely attached to his damn body. The only color the man had on was red, his light grey shirt now stained a dark crimson, little spots of the original color slowly fading away as the substance soaked into the fabric. His hair was messy and also blood-drenched, along with his dirty face, the little cuts littering it still leaking tiny amounts maroon. 

I stared at the obviously dead man until another thought came to me; where the hell is Dustin?

I looked around the room and hoped to not see another body sitting in my house and I breathed out quickly when all I saw was that one.

But where did he go?

I sat up from my seat and immediately regretted it. My ankle shot a jolt of pain up my leg and I felt it in my stomach. Wobbling, I tried to keep my balance but I fell to the ground unintentionally, hissing as I landed on-top of my already fucked up foot. Breathing deeply, I slowly pulled my leg from underneath me, the pain magnifying as I moved it in weird ways to get it from beneath my ass. Rolling up my sweatpants, my ankle was a light pink and very obviously swollen as the sock I had on sunk into my skin like the Titanic. I stared at the throbbing foot and wondered what happened, going through all sorts of possibilities but none of them added up. Why can't I remember? Dammit.

Sighing softly, I counted to 3 in my head and pushed up using the palms of my hands and grabbed onto the couch, pulling my good leg forward to give me some extra support. Making sure to not put too much pressure on the sore foot, I brought it forward and stood up, wobbling for a few seconds than regaining my composure. 

Than I heard it. Or something. And I felt the color drain from my face; someone was in my kitchen.

I prayed it was merely just Dustin getting water or possibly some ice as I was in no condition to fight at the moment. But knowing praying does absolutely nothing in times of life or death, I limped my way toward the room where little footsteps echoed almost silently throughout my home. I tried to become one with the air, making sure not even a single piece of hair fell from my head. I wasn't here, I was nothingness, I was one with the house.

The footsteps got louder, but not heading anywhere. It was they were just going in circles. What if it was a trap? Could I even defend myself if it was?

Keeping my head up, I peered into the kitchen and gulped as I stared at the blood covering the floor. 

Drip drip drip.

Than I held my breath as I saw Jason working tirelessly on Dustin, who was laying on my island, blood slowly dripping from his limp body. I saw him take a random knife and cut into his skin and insert weird looking tweezers into the hole, his face molded into a look of disgust and concentration.