May's Dead.
I awake to the soft dawn light that seeps in from the thin curtains.
The mirror stares back at me even when I am not looking at it. It whispers things to me. Tells me how terrible and disgusting I am. I deserve it, but if I could, I would bash the reflection until it turned to dust. This isn't really my choice, is it? If I didn't come with, he would have killed me, right? I can't be making this shit up in my head. I'm not crazy, I'm not even paranoid. That's not who I am. This is not who I am. I killed my best friend, and I feel so numb. I'm so scared— what if he thinks I liked doing it? Is it my fault? I didn't have to kill May, I didn't. But didn't he tell me to? God, I can't remember anything. The past is a blur and the present is a dream. My hands move in front of my face and it's like a foggy trail follows. My blinks feel more like mini naps and I can almost hear my heartbeat in my ears. Mist, or fog. Why can't I wake up?
I fixate on the curtain, trying to blink the sleep away from my eyes.
"Valentine." Kenny purrs. He holds a tray of food, but I'm not hungry. "I made you some breakfast. Are you hungry?" Today, he seems more alive. Ironic. It hurts me to see.
I nod as he sits on the stool next to my bed
Kenny places the food on my lap as light as a feather. "Look," He starts, his tone becoming firm like a father's, "I know how you feel, but you can't let it consume you."
My eyes trace to his. My mouth draws in a tight line, trapping my words in my throat.
"You shouldn't feel terrible, what you did was brilliant. You stood up to a liar. She hurt you and you hurt her back; it's only fair." He tells me in his sweetest matter-of-factly tone.
"She hurt me and I killed her." I reply, hard and cold.
Kenny stops, his jaw twitching. "In a way, didn't she kill you?" He shoots back, his hazel eyes narrowing, "You don't know what their intentions were by leaving you behind. For all you know, they could have planned this. What if it were someone other than me who hurt you? What else would have happened then?"
I pause, searching his masked face as if it would contort in an expression.
He's not wrong. She is one of the reasons I'm still here.
She did it out of self preservation! It isn't wrong.
Then what I did should be justifiable. I killed her for the same reason she killed me.
"Do you understand? You deserve so much better," Kenny interrupts my thoughts, grasping my hand firmly, "And I can get that 'better' for you. You just need to let me carry on with my plan." He scans my expression, waiting for my answer.
I nod, allowing the hand he grasped to go limp.
"I'm not giving up on you." Something about the way he says it just.. I don't want to cry— I promise I don't want to give him that satisfaction. But I do. I clench my teeth hard, stifling my sobs. I hate it. I hate him. I hate his hand on mine. The contact is devoid of any warmth, anything human. It isn't friendly.
I need to move. I need to...
"Kenny... I need to move. Please." I whisper to him.
Reluctantly, Kenny lets me go. He gives me an inquisitive look, furrowing his brows just to where I could see through the eye socket.
"I'm going to the bathroom." I utter, glancing once at the door.
I need to leave.
I walk across the room at a normal pace, glancing back once. "I'll be right back." I give a strained grin and shut the door behind me slowly. I swiftly walk down the grand steps, eyeing the nearing front door. It feels like a dark cloud follows me with each step I take. Stalking.
I can make this work. I know Kenny has a car.
I usher myself to the door, only glancing behind me for a second before reaching for the doorknob.
Instead of grasping it, I freeze.
Car keys... Where are his car keys?
I think, my hand just hovering over my chance at an escape.
I remember talking to him. What is it about.. He lied! He lied to get me to go with him and then..
I stop myself before I can continue. "Kenny has them." I whisper to myself, backing away from the door.
I'm fucked. I can't escape.
I let out a soft, desperate groan as I walk back up the stairs.
I'm gonna die here.
I don't want Kenny to kill me.
Then I'll do it myself.
I usher myself to the first bathroom I can find and shut the door behind me, locking it.
I turn to the mirror and pause, staring at myself. Part of me is screaming just to go back to Kenny— to not do anything irrational— but...
Scalpel... Something sharp.
Something painful.
I frantically search through the cupboard, pushing bandages and other medical things around.
There, a scalpel. Perfect.
Where Kenny found the damned thing, I could care less. I grab the scalpel and turn on the sink, running the sharp object under water. I can feel my breath inflate in my lungs as I dry the metal off with my shirt. It's like the exact moment I see the clean glint of the blade, everything, every sense heightens. I can hear the wind passing the window with a sharp hum, see starbursts in my eyes when I blink, taste the coppery bloody before it's even bubbling up in my throat.
"Slowly, draw it out. If anyone finds your body they'll know." My reflection speaks to me. Its voice is a mix between a man and a woman. My father and I. There he is again.
I lower the scalpel to the start of my lower arm, exhaling shakily. Tears well up in my eyes as I scan my arm, mapping out each letter. I take one more inhale.
3, 2, 1...
I dig the scalpel into my arm, letting out a cry of pain.
'I'
My hand grips the edge of the sink, pausing. I regain my breath, looking into the mirror.
"Keep going."
I lower the scalpel to my arm once more, watching as my blood pools out of the cuts I made prior. I inhale deeply and shakily.
'Killed'
I laugh at my pain, responding to the sheer fear that jolts through me. Lightning. Adrenaline?
"Who? Who did you kill?"
Tears pour from my eyes as I carve the last word into my skin.
'Her'
"I killed her. She's dead, and it's my fault." Words fly out of my mouth much like the accelerating wind outside. Blood pools out from my carved arm and into the sink, painting the white surface in shiny crimson.
My gaze then fixates on my reflection.
"Do it, coward."
It is me. My voice. My face. I don't look normal. My reflection looks bloody and mottled in a hospital gown, just like my dad did. I am in his place, a dirty reminder of what I am turning out to be. A real murderer. I lift the scalpel to my neck, eyes still searching my reflected face.
A knock sounds behind me, sending a strong enough jolt through my body to make me drop the scalpel. "Quinn?" Kenny calls out from behind the door, making my breath hitch in my throat.
I open my mouth to reply, but all that comes out is a breathy whimper.
"I'm coming in." Kenny says, trying to open the door. "Unlock the door." His tone hardens as he realises I locked myself in.
"No..." I mutter in reply, backing towards the wall across from the door and sliding to the ground.
"I'm going to count to fucking three." Kenny raises his voice, throwing himself higher than me.
My vision falters as I scanned my carved and bloody arm. The letters are out of focus, fading in and out of a blur, but I'm pale enough to differentiate the bright red letters as clear as day—
'I Killed Her'
He's gonna hurt me. He's gonna kill me.
"One!" Kenny shouts, his tone becomes less controlled, deeper. I imagine his lips curling in a growl.
BANG! BANG!
"You're gonna hurt me." I tell him.
Why can't he just go away?
"Open this door!" He demands.
BANG!
"Fucking— TWO."
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Go away!" I shout.
Before I can muster any more words, Kenny breaks the door, swinging it open with his shoulder.
He swiftly scans the room until his eyes rest upon me. Judging by the way they widen at the sight, I must look like a ghost. Too bad I didn't say 'boo'. Any anger he had fades in an instant, like a complete snap.
Kenny rushes to the cupboard, grabbing fresh bandages. He kneels in front of me as he opens the package with quick fingers. I groan in anguish as he wraps my arm.. what I feel is the complete opposite of before. Every sense is dulled, like I am back in that damned nightmare.
Kenny pauses, processing the moment. "Why did you..." He trails off. The way his eyes frantically flick about my face.
I avoid his stare out of humiliation, then give a short snicker. "You remind me of my mother."
Kenny roughly grabs either side of my cheeks with one large hand, forcing my face to look up at his, "What— Why would you do something like that to yourself?" He pauses for a long few seconds, loosening his grip like he mentally scolded himself, "Don't..." His voice borders on anger and hurt. I don't know how to feel, or what to say. I remain silent to let him evaluate me in his own way. "I wasn't going to hurt you." Kenny's eyes narrow in a confused way. One of his gloved hands finds itself in my blonde hair. His fingers tangle themselves in my wavy strands tenderly.
Why couldn't he let it happen? Why does he have to care?
He shouldn't be capable of that.
He shouldn't be here.
"Should I be sorry?" I whisper, hyper focusing on him.
Kenny's gaze slowly draws back to my face. He smoothes away some strands of hair from the left side of my face. "I don't want an apology, I want you to tell me the reason." He is firm and straightforward with me. His quickened way of speaking could have been mistaken for impatience if not for the circumstances.
Why is he doing this? Why did he help me?
"Tell me, why did you hurt yourself? Is it because of May?" He asks. His tone is high as if minutes ago he wasn't yelling at me.
"I don't... I don't know." I answer, drawing my lips in a tight line.
With a sigh, he pushes the sleeve up his left arm. Cigarette burn marks and laceration scars, much like the ones already in view, rest on his skin. His eyes flicker from me to his arm once he realised I am not paying attention to it. I feel like if I do, he'll kill me right there and then if I have a distasteful reaction. Slowly, he pushes his arm closer to me, queuing my curiosity. His hazel eyes soften as he watches my face. I reluctantly allow my gaze to fall onto the scars; they are gruesome, old, but gruesome. Part of me wonders how they felt. How many does he have? Must be dozens of both marks. I feel, oddly enough, bad for him. Despite the terrible things he's done, I don't believe he deserves this. I don't believe anyone deserves this type of pain. Evil creates evil; it is inherited. Kenny was not born this way.
My lips press together once again to form a drawn line— I can relate to Kenny, in a sense. On my wrist, there are scratch marks embedded from broken beer glasses. I didn't do it myself. Hell, I would never have cut myself like I just did if I were in my right mind. That makes me wonder if I've gotten weaker, or stronger. My mother raised me from thirteen to where I am now; I figure that if I've taken off of her at all in my life, then I must be getting weaker. She was weak to rely on that stupid liquor to ease her pain. She was weak to hurt me because she wanted to ignore the thought that she was hurting herself.
Wait, what was I thinking about?
I sigh, then in the same cadence as my captor, I thrust my arm to him underside-up. It's almost angry, the way I do it. Impulsive looking. Kenny stares at my arm with, as far as I can see through his semi-blacked out eyes, a blank expression. Either he forgot to turn on his emotions, or he simply does not feel any reaction. In a gentle and childish way, he grabs my arm on either side with both of his gloved hands, moving my limb upwards and closer to his view. He pauses. I watch his gaze flicker over my skin with a confused curiosity as the gears turn in his mind to what they are from. I won't tell him now, of course. A vague 'it wasn't me' would suffice. The second I blink, he does what I least expect. His cold, masked lips press to a thin white scar.
Why?—
"Why?" Kenny asks, shaking his head a little as his head draws upwards.
After taking a shallow breath, I hum.
I could tell him. I just showed I trust him. But that's delving really deep into...
Not yet. Not yet. He can't know about her.
"It wasn't me. Can we just... not talk about it right now?" I whisper in a small plea. My eyes wear an expression I can only describe as a solemn beg.
Kenny lets me off with a nod. He stares at me for a moment before taking a breath, "My mom died when I was born." He utters hoarsely, "I got the blame. My father and my brother resented me. Hurt me." Kenny's composure turns tense and strained as he points to the cigarette burns and laceration scars on his chest, shoulders, arms, and neck. "It started when I was 6. Grew worse over time until—..."
A mix of fear and sympathy washes over me at his final words. I watch his hazel eyes, him and the child within them, still hurting after all these years.
I don't know what to say, or if I should say anything, so I keep silent, instead communicating my feelings through a wordless but all the same expressive look. I'm sorry.
I sit up, half-hugging him tightly with my clean arm, and he almost recoils. My hand tugs on the back of his dark grey tank top.
Kenny takes a long moment before hugging me back securely. His masked face pushes into the top of my head, flattening my hair, "I will take good care of you. I promise."
YOU ARE READING
What Remains
Terror(Originally optimized for Google Docs, apologies for any mistakes.) When exploring any abandoned building, make sure you take into account both what is there, and what isn't! There SHOULD be: -You, AND a friend or two! Never go alone when exploring...
