P.O.V LYDIA
I wake up by the wind coming from my window. I wince as I stand up, lead myself to the bathroom, and once again the clock points the hour. 3:17 am. About a month ago, I started having dreams, nightmares, each of them from a same topic. Murders. Innocent people. The last few days have been a riot on Beacon Hills. Five bodies found in less than three weeks. I stare past the window, letting myself breathe the night wind, and close the window with a thud. I return to the bathroom, feeling dizzy, almost loosing my balance. I try to control the anxiety I feel. Breathe in, breathe out. Again. And again. It doesn't work.
-Lydia, is everything okay?- my mom asks, getting in my bathroom, barefoot, her makeup ruined.
-No, mom- I try to sound confident, but it comes out as a suffering prayer.
I can't tell her about the nightmares, the screams that come inside my head hours before a body is found. Like now.
-Go to sleep, Lydia. It's school night-.
I nod and splash my face with water, trying to feel better, trying to forget.
-Good night, mom-. I say, as I stare past her to my open shelves.
I quick my pace. I left the shelves closed. I remember it. I couldn't forgot it.
-What's wrong, honey?- The disturbing voice of my mom comes again since my door
-Mom. Would it bother you to even knock when you come in. Come on-. I say, my tone coming out harsher than I meant to.
She just nods and leaves.
I stare at the ceiling, following a thick line of red paint, that goes directly down the window. Should I get down? I open the window, closing my eyes as I touch the wet paint.
Then it comes to me.
It Isn't paint. It's blood.
-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!- I scream as I lean myself in the floor and embrace myself.
-No. No. No. No. No-. I whisper to myself.
I go numb as I stay there. My knees pressed to my chest, trembling, crying.
The images come to my eyes as in flashes. I see a girl. A boy. Happy, smiling even. The next thing I see is a gun, three loud shots, the girl on the floor, bleeding to dead. The boy with the gun in his hands, blood splattered all over his face.
The boy isn't any boy. It's Jackson. And the girl it's me.
I find myself getting up, rush down the stairs and into the kitchen. I open the drawers until I find the knife. I get upstairs and in my bathroom mirror, I trace a thin line in my wrist. Blood comes out of the wound as well as an sudden sorrow.
I go numb.
With my index finger I trace the wound, to later write in the mirror
SHE CANT BE DEAD.
The next thing I know is I'm falling into a dark abysm.
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Into The Dark. A Stydia Fanfic
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