Chapter 25 #2
She pushes herself up, trembling but desperate.
Her body jerks into motion, fueled by instinct more than thought.
She bolts toward the hallway, each step slapping against the runner, the trail of her blood marking every footprint she leaves behind.
The sound is chaos—her gasping breaths, the wet drag of her feet, the squeak of the boards beneath us.
I lunge again. My hand snags the sleeve of her shirt, fingers curling into the soft cotton. She twists hard, the fabric tearing as she wrenches herself free with a strength born of panic.
I don’t hesitate. I move with her. The knife comes down, fast and certain.
The blade bites into her side, slicing through fabric and skin in one motion.
She jerks mid-stride, her cry breaking apart before it becomes a scream. Blood wells and darkens the cotton, a spreading stain that slicks her fingers when she presses them uselessly against the wound. She staggers, her breath coming in broken gasps.
Her scream finally comes, then—high, shrill, and raw. It bounces off the narrow walls in jagged echoes.
She runs anyway, limping, the hand at her side trying to staunch what she can as she claws for the next inch of distance. Every footprint she leaves is a red thumbprint on the runner, a messy breadcrumb trail that tells me exactly where she’s been and where she’s going.
I follow, staying close enough to hear the hitch in her breath, the way her sobs tear into words that never form.
Her palm smears blood along the wall as she scrabbles by; the print gleams, bright and impossible against the pale paint.
She flings herself at the nearest door, fingers scrabbling at the knob like a drowning woman at a lifeline.
I am at the door in two strides and meet the frame with my shoulder just as she secures the lock. The impact is solid; the grain groans.
She braces the other side, her body pressed against the panels.
I slam into the door again before driving my knife through the splintered wood.
She screams and loses leverage. I yank the blade free, then drive my boot into the edge, ripping the lock from the frame.
The panel snaps with a hard, obscene crack, and the door bursts inward, timber exploding into the room in a scatter of splinters.
The door ricochets off the wall; pieces of wood rain across the threshold like broken teeth.
The bathroom is small and bright, its innocence almost laughable. The shower curtain still ripples from the burst of air when I broke the door open, a faint tremor lingering in the room like it already knows what’s coming. I am very much looking forward to redecorating with the spray of her blood.
Fear has her backed into the corner, trapped by the walls and by me.
One hand clings to the sink for balance, the other pressed tightly to her side in a futile attempt to slow the bleeding.
The blood slips through her fingers anyway, trickling down her arm in a steady line, dripping onto the tile and spreading in uneven streaks that pool near her feet.
The tremor running through her body rattles the bottles on the edge of the sink, a nervous percussion that fills the room.
Her eyes flick between me and the doorway, wild with desperation, searching for an escape that doesn’t exist. The panic in her gaze is electric, thrumming through the space, feeding something deep and primal inside me.
It’s almost beautiful, the way terror transforms a room.
Almost enough to make me take my time.
“What do you want?” she gasps, voice breaking, eyes darting wildly for anything she can turn into a weapon.
Her hands scramble over the counter, closing around whatever she can reach—a bottle of mouthwash, a ceramic soap dish, the plunger.
Her fingers shake so violently that the bottle slips, sloshing blue liquid across the sink before she hurls it.
It bursts against my chest, soaking through my jacket, splattering across the mirror behind me.
The soap dish follows, cracking against my shoulder and exploding into pieces that scatter around her feet.
She’s screaming again, a hoarse, panicked sound that tears at the edges.
The plunger comes last, swinging wide, clumsy, and desperate.
I sidestep it easily, a scowl of disgust forming under my mask, and watch it bounce uselessly down the hallway.
Rage warms me in a different place than the plan. Her flinging hands are volatility—improvisation—and for a breath I appreciate the sound of her trying.
But I’ve had enough.
Her breathing breaks apart, uneven and sharp, every inhale a fight.
The sound wavers between a sob and a gasp, filling the small room until it drowns everything else out.
She presses her back against the cold tile, eyes wild, searching for an escape that doesn’t exist. Her bare feet slip on the wet floor as she tries to keep her balance, one hand clamped tight over the wound at her side.
Blood seeps through her fingers and runs down her arm, dripping to the tile in thin, uneven streaks.
The other hand gropes backward, feeling along the wall as if she could somehow make it open, as if sheer panic might force it to give her a way out.
I take a step closer. The space between us closes fast.
Her eyes find mine—wide and frantic as they dart between the knife and the exit. “Please,” she manages, voice small and shaking. “Please, don’t—”
I move before she can finish.
The knife cuts through the air, glinting under the harsh bathroom light before it sinks deep into her abdomen.
Her whole body jerks. A guttural noise tears from her throat—half a gasp, half a sob.
I push forward, driving her back until her hips slam into the edge of the sink, the force making bottles topple and rattle around us.
Her hands are everywhere—grabbing at my jacket, clawing for my arms, pushing against me with every ounce of strength she has left.
Her nails catch my skin through the fabric, frantic and useless.
Then one hand lunges upward, catching the edge of my mask. She yanks it off in a desperate pull.
For a moment, our eyes meet. Her eyes widen—recognition, shock, and disbelief flickering through them in quick succession.
A question forms on her lips, but I cut her off by pulling the knife out, splattering blood across my sweater and surrounding surfaces.
I drive it into her again. The second thrust penetrates between the ribs, and the third buries the blade to the hilt below it.
I can feel the steel scrape against her rib as I twist, slicing through viscera.
Her body convulses with each hit, her strength fading fast. She’s still trying to speak, to scream, but all that comes out is a soft wheeze, a wet, rattling sound that fills the space between us.
I drive my knife into her once more, right between her breasts.
She gasps, coughing up blood as she collapses against me, heavy and limp.
I hold her, a smirk curled on my lips as I watch the life in her fade away.
I pull my knife free slowly, the wet sound it makes when it leaves her flesh is music to my ears.
Her body stills, and I let go, letting gravity take her.
She slides down the wall, smearing blood in uneven streaks as she goes.
She crumples into the tub, hitting the porcelain with a hollow thud.
The hollow impact echoes around the small bathroom.
The shower curtain jerks, the plastic rings snapping one by one until it tears from the rod and falls with her.
The fabric envelops her body, tangling in her limbs, except for the one leg that hangs over the edge of the tub.
Her head lolls sideways, eyes half open and glassy.
Blood seeps fast, pooling beneath her and spreading along the seams of the tub floor.
The color dulls as it mixes with water left from her earlier shower, smearing into the grout.
The mask she tore from me still hangs from her hand, fingers stiffening around it.
I look at it for a long moment, then decide to leave it.
Let them find it. Let the media put a face (albeit a mask) to the carnage I am responsible for.
Her blood is already smeared across the plastic anyway, and I’ve prepared for a moment like this.
I have another for incidents like this, just in case.
I crouch beside her, my chest rising steadily as I watch the life drain from her. It truly is a beautiful sight. Not just the blood, but the whole masterpiece. There is something truly gratifying about knowing that I held her life in my hands and got to decide when it ended and how.
Smirking, I dip my gloved fingers into one of the new wounds, feeling the warmth of the blood before I pull away. Then I stand and press those fingers to the wall, dragging them across the tile in thick red strokes.
YOU CAN’T SAVE RAELYNN. NO ONE CAN. SHE WILL BE MINE.
The letters gleam wet under the bathroom light.
The words stand out stark against the pale wall.
I wipe the blade on the pink towel beside the shower, then slide it into my pocket.
I take one last look, my eyes shifting between her body, the blood, and the message, and step into the hallway.
The noise of the sitcom blooms again in the living room as if nothing had happened, as if the world had already decided to move on.
I head back to the room I had entered, just a few feet from the bathroom, climb out the window I came in, and melt into the night.