C H A P T E R O N E
- T O O F A R G O N E -
| Scarlette's Point of View |
Shit. Shit shit shit shit. Shit!
"You alright in there?" Someone calls, and I'm tempted to not answer, pretend like I'm not bidding my time in the gas station's bathroom. That's obsurd, of course, because the guy saw me come inside, so there's no point in pretending like I'm not.
"Oh yeah, I'm fine." I call, rushing to turn the sink on so it seems as if I'm finishing up, when in reality I'm nowhere close.
"It's gone too far," Luke's voice sounds, cold yet firm as it rings out from across the room. He is slowly backing towards the door, as if I'm a deranged animal and one wrong move could set me off. "This is more than a job to you, Scarlette. You actually like this."
I shake my head furiously, trying to deny his accusation, but we both know it's true.
I loved the feeling it gave me when I killed another person, the rush it gave me, and now, with my hands and face covered in the blood of the innocent person laying at my feet, and Luke staring at me with a look of horror etched across his face, I know no use denying it; I'm too far gone.
"Please, Luke." I beg, reaching out with my crimson-soaked hands, as if to keep him from leaving me. "If you quit, they'll be after you next, and then me for good measure!" I plead with him, knowing that even in leaving the terrible business, he won't leave it alive.
No one does.
He jerks back from my grasp, a look of pure horror and disgust on his face as he makes a frantic grab for the door handle.
"I'll take my chances. You're a psycho, Jersey." He tells me bitterly, before fleeing from the room, a piece of my own brittle heart going with him, following like a confused puppy that doesn't know who it's real owner is.
"God dammit!" I yell in frustration, kicking at the white porcelian sink with my steel-toed boot in my frustration. The damn blood won't come off my hands.
"You've been in there almost ten minutes, you sure you're okay?" The store owner's son asks, returning from the front once more. His voice is light and sweet, unlike mine, which is sore and low from smoking and yelling so much.
"I-I'm fine!" I call frantically, my mind rushing to think of an excuse as I take in the mess I had made of the small bathroom. My torn, ruined jacket lays discarded on the floor, soaked through with sweat, blood, and water. My knife, also, lies in the sink, also covered in a fine layer of dried blood, which is slowly starting to come off, staining the running water a faded pink.
My hair is still mostly intact, hanging in uneven threads from where the victim had pulled chunks of it out in the struggle to get away.
My body is also littered with bruises, both new and old, from the struggle of trying to kill the person while they were still kicking and screaming.
"I, uh, got cramps." I tell him, already rushing to grab some more paper towels and op up the mess. "I should be out in a second."
"Oh, uhm, okay." Then a hear the padding of footsteps retreating again, and I assume that the guy probably returned the front of the store to avoid any more awkward conversation through the bathroom wall with a stranger about their cramps.
Dumping the paper towels in the trash bin in an attempt to hide the blood, I also throw in my ruined jacket and knife, although I know it won't do me much good in the long run.
