𝖋𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖗 𝖕𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖗 ⋆ 𝕶𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖓 𝖉𝖆𝖞

𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖞

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          The sun shines through the window with an almost heavenly grace. It's nearly summer and the glass amplifies its heat, so much that the girl almost feels the warmth in her bones as she gazes down at her dead body.

          The armchair the body slumps on seems to sag, even under her minute weight. Thin ankles and wrists show from under the white nightgown he'd dressed her in when he took her from the hospital, however long ago that was. Hours, weeks, days. Years, even. How long she's been in this suburban house, she does not know. But she sees the cars go by, hears children running home from school. Knocks on the door that her brother answers, that the girl remembers trying to shout but the dryness in her throat and the disconnect between her body and mind made her unable to scream. Frozen in place.

          The girl crosses her legs, rests her head on the wall behind her. The room is light now, breaking the cycle of endless night that seems to have taken over. Through the plastic blinds, bright pinstripes paint the room a carnival. Come and see the dead girl, killed by her own habits and her brother, for only a dollar-ninety-nine. Two dollars fifty if you want to poke her. Five to dress her up and take a photo. Ten to put a hand under her skirt. The girl blinks. The body stays still.

          She can hear Jack in the next room over, pottering and mumbling about finding an industrial-sized freezer on a budget. Daisy wants to pull the knife from it's spot in her ribcage and run at him, bury it in his spine over and over until he stops moving. But she's the one that's dead instead, all because she couldn't keep her nose out of a bag of powder for ten fucking minutes.

          It's Cameron's fault. If he hadn't have given her all that shit to begin with, she wouldn't have gone back to rehab, and Jack wouldn't have been able to scoop her up in the dead of night.

          It's Wymack's fault. He put way too much pressure on her from the beginning, knowing that she wasn't able to push that hard yet.

          It's Kevin's fault. He's the one that put a Moriyama-shaped target on her back. How little self control does a man who lives every day a toe away from death have?

          Daisy sighs, tucks her knees into her chest. It's all her fault, really, and playing the blame game now that she's kicked the bucket won't change a thing. She slumps against the wall, closes her eyes, tries to envision a warm white light wrapping arms around her body and carrying her away.

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          If heaven is a dorm room, please let it be 317 Fox Tower.

          Because here, curled into Kevin's side like she was designed to fit there, Daisy feels like she could die and be happy about it. His arm is under her neck, fingers tapping a rhythm she can't here onto her bare shoulder, and she looks up at him, trying to hide the smile that wants to appear on her face.

          "Hey," she says, barely catching his attention away from the laptop on his stomach.