Obsessive Love Disorder [PART 3]

5

November 5, 1996
Billy

It's been a full day since Charlotte left. 24 hours, 1,440 minutes, 86,400 seconds since she slapped the shit out of me and walked right out the front door with her little brother in tow. 

It feels like it's been a lifetime and no time at all. I can still feel the sharp pain from her hand across my cheek as if she had just done it; it's like it's been imprinted into my skin forever. I catch myself rubbing that spot a lot, trying to soak up what was potentially the last time she ever touched me. Even though her intentions were full of anger, fear, and spite... I still can't help but sigh at the thought of her soft fingers connecting with my stubbled jaw. Even though she hates me, I will cherish her touch for the rest of my life - which, hopefully, shouldn't be very long now. I plan on killing myself sometime soon. 

In my thoughts, I barely process the subtle knocking coming from the front of the cabin, just down the hall from my bedroom. I lie in bed, just staring at the ceiling, but my ears perk slightly at the sound of scuffling from the front porch. Every hair on my body stands on end, and I slowly sit up. Was that real? Did I just imagine that? Has my guilt caused auditory hallucinations?

Knock... knock...

Jesus Christ, someone is at the front door. 

Immediately, I spring into action: I throw back the covers, jump out of bed, grab my hunting knife from the nightstand, and slide myself against the wall so that I can peer just around my doorframe and toward the front door. Stu's door is still shut, so I imagine he's passed out and can't hear anything. 

Knock... knock...

More shuffling comes from behind the door, and then-

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

I nearly jump out of my own skin, the pounding on the door becoming suddenly abrasive and desperate. The hunting knife won't do. 

Quickly, I tiptoe into the living room, ducking underneath windows as I go, and slowly remove one of the shotguns from the wall above the fireplace. It probably hasn't been touched in years, but I see it's still loaded upon checking, thank God. I remove the safety cautiously and amble over to the front door. My hand calmly grips the handle just as more heavy knocking sounds from the other side. I flinch again but remain steely as I prepare to whip the door open and shoot whatever cop or unlucky passerby stands on the other side. I twist the handle-

"Don't fucking move!" I yell, aiming the shotgun right toward the figure standing in front of me, but I'm suddenly stopped by the feeling of a heavy and limp object falling over my feet. I glance down... and feel the blood in my veins run cold. 

"Billy!" Davey cries, rushing forward to wrap me in a hug. I don't hug back... I'm still staring at my feet. 

Charlotte, eyes closed and covered in blood, is crumpled at my feet on the front porch, her hair a tangled mess and her face barely recognizable. 

"Wha...?"

"Y-You've got to help her," Davey hiccups, wiping his eyes. "He... oh, God... he got so mad..."

Shaking off my stupor, I put the shotgun's safety back on and toss it onto the couch. I bend down to scoop my girl up, carrying her bridal-style into the kitchen, whereupon I place her on top of the counter and examine her features more closely. 

Rage rises in me with every new sight.

Her whole body is covered in bruises and cuts, some deeper and darker than others. Her right arm is bent at an odd angle, her wrist hanging loosely with a massive bruise forming around it. It has to be broken. Her clothes are covered in a combination of blood, sweat, and dirt that mats together to make the fabric stiff and disgusting, but if I look closer, I can see that her injuries extend far underneath her hoodie.