Chapter Twenty-Seven
I was in the basement; I could tell by the smell. My feet were bare, and there was water reaching to my ankles. I felt along the wall, blinded by the absolute darkness of the room. I found the doorframe first and tried the handle. It was locked. I felt for the wall switch on the other side and found it. I thought about the fact that I was standing in water before switching the light on. To be safe, I flicked my fingernail upwards, painfully connecting with and compelling the switch.
The room filled with dark red light: the same crimson illumination which had dominated my field of vision during that moment with Vic, when my skin had peeled off.
This time, the liquid in the room seemed to be nothing more than water, though I supposed it always had been. After all, my skin was still intact after my previous encounter, so there was no reason to think that it had been real.
The door opened behind me, before shutting. I looked around the room, but found myself as alone as I had been seconds before. Perhaps I had imagined it.
A dark shape was in the corner of the room. I moved a little closer, and saw that it was Vic. He was slumped down in the water. There was a gunshot wound to the side of his head, and blood was running freely down his body. In the crimson light, the blood appeared impossibly red, yet dark as though absorbing all the energy around it, creating a vacuum to the eye.
Around his body, the water was darkened. Blood mingled with the clear liquid and spread quickly.
I stepped back, afraid to touch him, afraid to draw any nearer.
Matthew’s gun would surely have been taken away from him after it was used in Margaret’s public suicide, but maybe he had another.
There had been three of us in the house, now only two. I’d never had access to the gun, making Matthew the only suspect.
I tried the doorknob again, and this time it gave way. I stepped into the hallway, still naked, and opened the door to Matthew’s bedroom.
The lamp at his bedside was switched on and he lay in bed. His face seemed paler than normal, and his lips repulsively dry. As I walked to his bedside, I stepped on the hair that I had cut from his head and dropped to the floor the last time I found myself in this room, by this bed, staring down at the former medical student.
I stepped back and walked to the small kitchenette at the other end of the room. I went through the cabinets again and pulled out a few bottles with hazard symbols printed on the sides. I didn’t look too closely at what I had pulled out, but I carried them to Matthew’s bedside.
I placed my fingers on his chin and pulled downwards, forcing his mouth to open a little. I opened the first bottle, and was struck by a strong smell, similar to that of ammonia. I poured the bottle’s contents down his throat. Without pausing, I opened the second bottle and did the same.
He began gagging on the liquid, his chest shaking as each shallow breath drew the deadly concoction further in, the caustic material invading his stomach and lungs. His body took to shaking, and I could see blood mingling with the liquid that filled his mouth.
As the bloody liquid began to drain from his mouth, amidst further jerking and choking, I opened the third bottle and poured the contents down his throat, chasing the visceral mixture which had sapped beneath.
The remaining struggle was violent, but short-lived. Soon, Matthew’s body was sagged in his bed, his pillow soaked with blood, and his hands in tight fists at his sides.
I walked from the room and closed the door behind me. The lamp was still on by his bedside, but I found my way upstairs in the darkness. I wanted to go back to the basement, to spend whatever time I had left beside Vic, but first I wanted to wash every inch of my body.
Craving the sheer swiftness and flow of a shower’s cleansing waters, I walked into Vic’s bedroom. I stepped into the bathroom and ran the shower as hot as the water would go. I scrubbed myself clean, trying to purge the image of Matthew’s final struggle, and that of the blood mixture which had leaked from his mouth onto the pillow.
Once out of the shower, I wrapped myself up in a towel and left the steamy confines of the bathroom for the comparatively freezing cold bedroom. I wrapped the towel over my arms to keep warm.
“Why are you up?” A tired voice came from the bed.
“Vic?” I asked. I could feel my hands beginning to shake.
He sat up. He seemed to have been sleeping shirtless, with the bedspread pooled at his waist.
“Come here,” he said, pointing to a place just in front of him.
He switched on the lights as I drew nearer. I dropped the towel and wrapped my arms around my body to keep myself warm. The temperature difference between the shower and the bedroom had left my body in a state of shock.
“Put your arms down,” he said.
I did. His eyes fixed on my hardened nipples, before he skimmed his gaze over the rest of my body, taking in the goosebumps covering my skin.
“You look cold,” he said, “but, your skin is still pink, like you scalded it in the shower.”
“I killed Matthew,” I said.
He smiled. “I thought you might have.”
He grabbed my arm and pulled me into bed. “You deserve a reward, but not right now. It’s late, and I want you fully awake, fully engaged, for everything I’m going to do to you.”
I let him hold me as I fell asleep. I had trouble shaking the image of Vic’s lifeless body: a bullet in his brain, and his perfect form slumping into the water. I didn’t question it; I just appreciated even more the feel of the rise and fall of his chest against my back during what felt like an endless expanse of stitched together nights.