Hell Flower

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"Blake," I whispered. My legs shook as I approached his still body.

The bottom of his mouth was torn back, like he'd caught his lip ring in a woodchipper. It now hung from his chin like the last tear away strip on a sad bulletin board ad. A bloody gash ripped his right eye open. Gore and goo leaked out, crusting over his cheek and through his already-red hair.

My gaze traveled down his body. Three deep scratches sliced open the soft spot beneath his chin, trailing all the way down his neck and to the collar of his shirt. The fabric was shredded, like the great white shark on his shirt had torn through, exposing another set of bloody gashes. The cuts ran across the tattoo of an enormous eagle he had on his chest. Its gold and red tipped wings were spread to his shoulders, but now, the white and blue feathers were streaked in blood. Instead of crying out in victory, its golden beak now screamed of agony.

"Blake," I begged, kneeling down next to him. The blood that soaked the plastic floor was cold on my knees. It was too much to process. My mind refused to think through what was happening, and in shock, I moved on autopilot. I placed two fingers over his neck, but I didn't know why I was doing it. I didn't even know where the pulse point was.

His skin was cold.

I snapped my hand back. My stomach turned as fire tore up my throat, and as quickly as I could I braced myself at my knees. I gagged, and then I expelled a mouthful of vomit onto the floor. Pale, yellow acid splashed into blood with a gurgling plop. My nose burned, and my diaphragm ached as I dry-heaved.

"Oh my God," I gasped. "Oh my God."

I leapt to my feet, my hands running over my arms uncontrollably. What the fuck. What happened? Had some animal gotten into their tour bus? But how? Had we both blacked out or something? Had I run out and left the door open? It didn't make sense. It didn't make sense!

My gaze traveled to the ring of tiny puncture wounds on the side of his neck that I'd missed before. A bite mark.

A human bite mark.

I traced my fingers over my mouth and chin. My lips were covered in blood. My entire body was covered in blood.

What have I done?

I backed towards the door, still unable to look away from the dead body lying on the floor in front of me. When I reached the stairs, my foot missed, and I stumbled, catching myself on the handle. Shaking, I pushed myself up and swung the door to the bus open, taking in a huge gasp of fresh air as I leapt out.

"What the fuck!" I pulled at my tangled hair, pacing along the side of the bus. "What the fuck!"

What was I going to do? Nothing made any sense.

This was a dream. This had to be a dream. Some sort of strange, twisted nightmare that seemed real. That was the only explanation.

"Wake up, wake up, wake up!"

"You're not dreaming."

I shrieked and leapt a foot in the air before spinning to face the source of the voice.

"Relax." Make Them Scream's drummer, Liz, sat with her back against the side of Gen F's tour bus. Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her black leather jacket, and the wind tugged at her spiky, blonde hair, making it fly around her face.

She turned to look at me, then pushed herself to her feet and paced forward. Liz was already a couple inches taller than I was, but in her knee-high, four-inch heeled boots, she towered over me.

I'd first met her and the rest of Make Them Scream on a tour a few years ago, but I hadn't really spoken to any of them since. Over the past year, they'd somehow gotten uber popular and were now headlining their own shows. I wasn't even sure why they'd invited us on this tour in the first place.