"You think he'll let you?"
"You think he can stop me?"
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Margeux can't decide whether she's a sociopath, or a psychopath. Continuous events tend to sway her either way. Out of all the people she could kill on her eighteenth birthday, she en...
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I SHUFFLE INTO the kitchen tired, my steps heavy and filled with discontent.
I'm risking a lot by leaving. I'm risking a home, my family with my dads despite our lack of familial bond lately - friendships I barely got back, the opportunity to tell the truth to Odyssey about Jeremiah and so many other things. Other things like a hypnotising brunette girl with blue eyes and murderous intent always glimmering behind her eyes.
Begrudgingly I shake my head and grab a bag of coffee beans, subconsciously slamming it onto the counter which causes a small cloud of coffee dust to rise.
With a huff, I retrieves a worn-out, chipped coffee mug from the cupboard. Placing it onto the countertop, I head over to the sink to fill the kettle with water, all while trying to place together my thoughts. The sound of the running water irritates me, or maybe I'm just already irritated by the complexity of those sad thoughts, and I squeeze my eyes shut as I lean against the counter.
"Fuck." I whisper to myself. Because what if I can't find what I'm looking for? What if who I'm looking for isn't even alive and that's why I haven't been able to find him?
A slight struggle at my door has me pausing and straining my ears. There's a beeping and then a clicking noise and I have to lean off of the table to face it and make sure I'm not just hearing anything random. Something my mind is making up to play tricks on me.
Then I hear the door opening - rather loudly actually, like whoever is there doesn't care if I hear - and I know my mind isn't fucking with me anymore.
So I grab the closest thing to me in the kitchen - a knife - and keep a firm grip on its handle as I wait for the approaching person to put themselves in my line of sight.
What I don't expect - ever so casually - is for Margeux to stroll in, black leather coat on, black gloves on, and a black dress on underneath.
"Shit." I say.
"Mm. Shit indeed." She hums, pulling out a gun from the inside of her coat and cocking it before aiming it in my direction.
"Uh. You're angry." I say, putting the knife on the counter again. It's really no use. She ha a gun. And even if she didn't I wouldn't do anything with the knife anyway. Not to her.
Apparently though, we think a little differently. She would definitely use a knife or gun on me it seems.
"Oh, very." She laughs cruelly before stepping forward.
It doesn't really deter me though. Instead I look to her dress, "Why are you wearing that?"
"Why does it matter?"
"Who are you wearing it for?" I dart my eyes back up to hers.
"The receptionist," She sighs, "And Antonio. Who knew it would be so easy to reach you so long as I played the sweet innocent act?"
