The Girl With Tattoos • Original Version

The Girl With Tattoos (32)

Three hours later of rubbing blood from the walls and floor with bleach, scented soap, and water, my arm ached from all the pressure I had to exert to get all the red from out of the badge colored walls and wooden floor. 

"How the fuck are we going to get the stains out of the white couches?" Jason asked hypercritically as he rubbed his face. I turned around and grimaced at my once beautiful couches which were now a dark shade of crimson. "That's never coming out. It's literally soaked into the fabric," he said, running his fingers along the stains.

"I'll just buy new ones. In black this time," he nodded and sat up, brushing off his hands on his shirt. "What are you going to do with Mr. Dead Guy?"

"I don't really know. Maybe I'll just park his car someone around the woods and make it seem like he was driving to your place and got shot and ran into a tree or some shit. Maybe even make the car explode to make sure his body is a little unrecognizable. I'm not sure yet," he yawned softly as he sat down on a clean spot on the couch, closing his eyes with both arms behind his head. He seemed very calm and relaxed in this moment, no sign of stress anywhere on his face as he leaned back comfortably.

"Sounds good enough to me. I trust you to make a decent scene," knowing how many murders Jason has witnessed, seen and even done himself, I knew I could rely on him to not let Milo point fingers at us. His one major job is to keep him off my ass. 

Jason laughed silently. I watched his chest shake in a sweet chuckle as he rested his eyes. I needed to rest too but I felt obligated to keep this room safe at all times, like we were in the middle of the woods playing The Hunger Games or some shit like that.

"I'm going to check up on Dustin," I stated out of pure boredom and Jason responded with a low noise that sounded like a growl. When I started my way to the kitchen, I heard the couch squeak from all the movement as he readjusted his position into some deformed fetal one. 

Smiling as I turned the corner into the next room, it soon faded away as I saw a still bloodied and unconscious Dustin laying coldly on the island. Everything around him was clean and shiny but then there was the human being in the middle of the fucking room, shot in the chest and covered in minor cuts and bruises. Beside him sat a trash bag containing the dude, who was very obviously dead with 5 gun shot wounds, one to the head, chest and 3 to abdomen. He was also covered head to toe with scrapes but his were slightly more severe and than there was his most obvious injury, which was when Dustin broke a vase and used the largest shard to slowly saw off his right arm as he interrogated him for answers to simple questions. He was so close to completely ripping it off but apparently Jason stopped him before he could.

That's what I call brutal.

I pulled up a dining room chair and sat down to let my ankle breath. I grabbed his freakishly cold hand and leaned backwards, rubbing my neck against the rough wood underneath me.

But right when I closed my eyes, images of my dad beating endlessly on Chase flashed before my eyes and screams of fear echoed through out my ears. I slowly opened them up and gulped, staring at the chandelier hanging sadly off the ceiling. 

Dammit! How did blood get all the way up there?

I was about to let go of Dustin's hand to get a ladder and paint but his grip fastened around it, making me jump high enough to probably clean the ceiling without the damn ladder.

"What the fuck Dustin!" I screamed and sat back down, feeling my heart beat with my free hand. He chuckled lamely and tried to sit up but grunted and fell back down. "Yea, it's probably best if you just lay there like a child."

"But I don't want to. This counter is not comfortable I hope you know," he complained, playing with my fingers freely as he grimaced as he tried to get into a different position. "This is hopeless. It's like if I even move my damn toe my chest lights on fire."