full throttle || h.s. ||

fifty-two || he who shall not be named

the song for this chapter is "The Show Must Go On," by Queen :)

also, please watch one of the new Netflix-style trailers I made for Full Throttle, and let me know what you think!

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Harry

His words hit me like a ton of bricks, even though they were the same words that resided in my head. But it was like once they were spoken into existence, it became real.

"We need to get everyone out of here. Now," I spoke to Alex, and he instantly nodded in agreement.

"Fake cop call?" He suggested, offering up a tactic we had used a couple of times in the past in order to clear out the house when things got a little too rowdy.

"Good idea, please make sure Finley and everyone else is safe first, and then make the announcement," I requested.

"Got it," he replied standing up and sneaking out of the bathroom quickly and discreetly.

As soon as he shut the door, I stood up and locked it behind him, still holding the cyanide pill and the note in my hand.

The music outside screeched to a stop, and I heard Alex warn everyone that the cops were coming because a neighbor made a noise complaint, and, judging by the number of people either drinking underage or smoking and selling weed out there, it was safe to say that they all started scrambling pretty quickly.

I know what you're all thinking and wondering...who is he? And for once, I don't blame you for asking questions. See, while I have been rather generous with a lot of information...I still haven't trusted you enough to tell you the full story. And if I'm being completely honest...I didn't think you'd stick around long enough to need to know.

I bet you're expecting me to snap at you...to tell you to fuck off or something like that.

But for once...and don't get used to this...I'm not.

Instead, I am going to ask you to kindly give me a little bit of time to register what just happened. Do you think you could do that?

Thanks, to those of you who said yes.

I reached up my free hang to tug at my hair, feeling manic as I tried to figure out what the fuck to do, and what the fuck had just happened.

Logically, it made no sense. Almost seven years ago, I gave someone a cyanide pill, and the next day, I went to their funeral. I watched the fucking casket be lowered into the ground.

I listened to the eulogies of various people pretending to care about the person dying, I watched people muster fake tears, and I saw the faces of people who merely attended the funeral to feel better about themselves.

So there was no reason that I should be staring down at the same pill that I had used to kill that person almost seven years ago and reading his familiar messy handwriting.

It took about twenty minutes for the chatter outside of the bathroom door to die down completely, leaving me locked in the bathroom alone with a dead body.

I couldn't take it anymore, and walked over to Clarke and closed his lifeless eyes. I couldn't stand him looking like he was staring at me any longer.