What Remains

Chapter 7

Familiar Faces
The rot is as hungry as me

It has been 3 days since the incident. Each day, it felt like those letters were being carved into my skin over and over again. Just decreasingly painful, and more ticklish.
Kenny has been kinder to me throughout those days— gentler physically, emotionally, and verbally. Is he using me? That I wonder often. It was the perfect setup for him; someone like me left behind, whom he just wounded so gravely she needed to depend on someone to make sure she didn't just die. Maybe it's amusing, either the control or the fact that he has someone around him. Nonetheless it terrifies me how I listen to him... how I let him tie me to this bedpost like it's something I grew up doing. I especially don't intend on leaving— it's not my intention right now... or do I just know my chances are one to none? Something between those. I figure that if I got a well enough chance I'd take it without hesitation, but how far could I really get? I'm hindered, and what are the chances that Kenny would take me somewhere that would enable me to make distance between the two of us? I'm sure that it's not even a consideration in his mind to take me anywhere with more than him, I, and a possible victim. Ugh. He's so scary; one second he'll be kind, civil, then the second even a single mention of leaving or what's waiting for me outside of the mansion slips off my tongue, he's cold again, giving me that old sharp glare of his.
Most of all, I know I best watch my words and play my cards carefully. The best option I have is to play into Kenny's hand, into his plan, but that's just... not exactly what I want. Then again, he isn't wrong when he makes the point that they left me behind. After having days of thought I figured that whatever they might say when they're under my blade could easily be a lie, or a bluff... Whatever. Either way I must play it safe; my life is in the hands of someone I'd rather not give it to.

"It's Danny's turn." Kenny holds my left hand tightly with both of his. He's sat in front of me on the bed, legs hanging off in a comfortable manner.
Late daylight seeps through the curtains, filling the room with a hazy aura. The recent events of yesterday cast a shadow upon my mind. It's not even the fact that I did kill her— I mean, it's bad. I feel bad. But.. I'm scared because I don't think it feels necessarily wrong to my body. The way my knife drove into her chest—... I didn't need to keep going. The first two would have done it, but something kept me going.
I'm so scared.
"Danny..." I whisper. Am I scared to kill him, or to enable that.. thing that thinks I like killing?
I can't keep doing this.
I don't have a choice. Self preservation, and I need to play it safe. I can't put myself in danger.
Fuck self preservation. Where is my humanity? I'm not a robot, I HAVE MORALS.
"Remember how he stood there while May begged him to help you?" Kenny says in a dull tone, snapping me out of my trance.
"I do..." I trail off as I half-mindedly pull myself out of a flashback. May's eyes...
Kenny gives a curt nod, "How did that make you feel?" He presses. I want to punch him.
"Uh... Hurt? A little pissed, but I can understand—"
"No you couldn't, don't lie to yourself." Kenny cuts me off before I can continue.
I can't understand him, his views. 'Lying to myself'? What is that supposed to mean?
He stares at me with those trying eyes of his. They meander over my forehead, slowly trickling down until they reach my lips. Then they flick up again;
"I have something to show you." Kenny abruptly breaks the silence, pulling me up from the bed with him. After untying me, he takes me down to the cellar-type room again. As we step down the old curved wooden stairs a sense of melancholy washes over me. Whether it's myself or the room, I don't know.
I can't tell him how I felt while.. killing May. I don't want to know what kind of leverage it'd give him.
I take a deep breath, settling my nerves.
"Here." Kenny says as he stops us in front of a wall. He plainly gestures to the pictures I ignored. Finally examining them, I see that they are various pictures of dozens upon dozens of adolescents and adults inside of their homes. The pictures are worn polaroids with old blood splattered on them. As if that isn't enough, once I scan them more carefully my eyes widen; my eyes land on a picture of a person. A boy.
Under the photo, red pen marks,
"Charlie Mitchell
20/08/1987—                "
I grit my teeth in pure discomfort. That blank space after the first date just makes it worse.
"You're not like my brother." Kenny remarks quietly. He just.. knows. He always knows what I'm thinking. "He hurt me, I told you." He adds. It's ironic because I tried to hurt him the first day I came here. I don't know where that knife went after that.
My mouth falls slightly open, letting out a small rush of air, "Did you.." I let my question remain unfinished, for I already know he'll understand.
Kenny steps to my side blankly. A canvas. It's like I'm seeing the version of him he keeps hidden— the version I see when he's about to kill. "I did," Kenny pauses. I see his stubbled jaw hang for a second. "I did." He says.
I nod, dropping my gaze from him.
But... he didn't pen that.
It's none of my business.
I study the cracks in the wall to focus on anything other than him. "Do you regret it?" I ask. I kind of wish I didn't speak, because through the corner of my eye I see his head turn to me. I don't see his eyes, but I can guess how he's looking at me. That dark look. Intrusive.
"I don't." The simplicity of those words don't matter, for the darkness and the coldness they hold is enough to send shivers down my spine. If he thinks that way about his brother, then how thin of ice am I on?
I decide to meet his stare. I just hope my expression actually looks as guilty as I want it to. "I don't think it's your fault," I sigh, stifling my tongue from clicking.
I don't feel bad, but if I pretend to...
Fuck, that game is getting tiring.
Kenny pauses, then averts his gaze back to the wall. He studies it for a moment, then places a gloved finger onto the surface. There's another picture; an older man, strung up from a tree. He was hung. Those livid scratch marks around his throat stare daggers into me. "I did this," Kenny starts, almost hesitant, "I did all of this." His eyes scan the entirety of the collage. I do too, even though I regret it. I can't imagine how messed up everything had to be— how sad his past had to have been for it to lead up to this. I want to ask, but I know I shouldn't. So I won't.
But the thing is, I figure everyone who is on here has a reason to be here. These don't seem random. The anger, and the passion in these murders is just.. it's fucking insane, is what it is. They did something to him. My first thought is that they're family to him. All of these people—... they didn't help him. Some probably hurt him too. So, if anyone, anyone, crosses him.. they die. You don't get a second chance.
Am I the first one to be in this position with him? Would it mean anything either way?
I don't get the chance to control my words before they fall from my tongue. "I don't know why... my body didn't stop me from hurting her." I say. Kenny's attention snaps to me immediately. "Just.. driving that thing into her— it.. I couldn't stop. I should've been able to stop." My tongue trembles— it's like I'm choking without the sensation. I want to puke my guts out.
"You're not a murderer." Kenny states confidently.
My brows knit together tensely as I look back up at him. He looks so genuine. "No, I am," I reply. I am. "I'm not mad about it. I've accepted it. I just need to learn how to grieve when I know it's the consequences of my own actions." I simply voice my mind. I feel compelled to be honest— I want to stop, shove soap down my throat, but I can't find it within myself.
Kenny nods curtly, "I don't feel bad about what I did. You do. You're human. More than me, at least." Despite him meaning well, it only makes me feel worse.
My lips draw into a tight line before I speak. "These weren't just... normal people, were they?" I speak like I know the answer. Honestly, I think I do.
Kenny stays silent for a moment, clearly contemplating his version of the truth. "No." He answers. My eyes avert to the ground. I was right.
"But they couldn't have all hurt you, right?" I hate it, but a sliver of hope rested in my tone.
Kenny's breath holds in his lungs. He's puffed up a little. "...No. Not all of them."
"Why would you kill them then?" I sound like a kid at this point. I wish the conversation was that innocent.
Kenny seems to recognise my small tone and lowers his too,"My sisters are alive." His finger drags to a more distant picture. Two girls sit blankly and neatly on a bench. One is labeled Jamie, the other Sydney. The one labeled Sydney has dirty blonde hair and bright green eyes, and the one labeled Jamie has brown hair and brown eyes.
A low smile takes my lips, "You have sisters?" I ask. Finally, something more pure.
He pauses. He doesn't respond after a long time, so I nod and avert my gaze. I can understand the hesitance within talking about family. I personally don't like talking about mine either. Makes me gag, really. It's so stupid. We didn't ask to be here, or to be born, yet we're still hurt like...
Kenny takes a breath, and my attention immediately snaps to him. "I'm trying to say," He makes sure my eyes are on his, "I would be doing worse. I want you to kill them. You have the ability to feel guilt— to grieve. I can't give them that mercy." He says, and it's so unfittingly genuine I can't help but give a small nod. He reciprocates, then turns, moving out of my sight. I feel a large hand grasp my shoulder from behind. "Don't let the past get in your way." With that, the hand recedes, and I am left alone in this large room. Quiet. Cold.
What the hell is he trying to prove?
He is trying to prove that this is mercy; that me killing my friends instead of him doing the job is mercy. It's true, just look at the pictures. Bludgeoned, hung...
I am their only safe way out.
The trembling grows strong as I sink to the ground. I hug my knees to my face.
Why doesn't it feel completely wrong?
I'm a murderer.
Death permeates the room. I'm not a bad person, he said I wasn't.
"You enjoy this. You know it." My father's voice taunts.
"I don't. I don't enjoy it. You're wrong." My voice loosens as I say 'wrong'. Unhinged. Fucking crazy.
"Quinn." A feminine voice sounds behind me, replacing my father's familiar tone.
No. No fucking way.
"May?" I croak, looking up.
Nothing.
"You killed me. You fucking enjoyed it too. I can't believe I actually cared about you." May hissed.
"I'm so sorry, May. Oh my god..." I weep.
It's all in my head. She's not real. It's not real. In. My. Head.
My spine tingles like something, someone, blows cold air at me.
"I'm glad I left you here while I still could, you filthy piece of shit." May says bitterly, her voice sounds as if she is right beside my ear.
"You're not real. You're not fucking real." I curse, clenching my eyes shut. Silence follows my last words.
A pang of terror and regret washes over me as I open my eyes.
It isn't real. She isn't real. May is dead.
I sob as my body curls into itself. Why me?
I slowly settle myself, still standing in the centre of the room. An eerie silence takes over as my breathing slows.
We'll be going soon. I should.. I need to get ready.
My feet bring me back up the stairs in fluid motions. It's like I'm running on a motor. A sputtering one, really. It's like I'm going slow, fast, slow, fast— it's a cycle. Just keep walking. Just keep going. Don't look back.
Kenny is nowhere to be seen. He's watching, I know it. I can feel his eyes trailing after me. He's somewhere, out there.
"Where.." I whisper before I think. He's out there.
"HELP ME!" I jolt. May's there she's in front of me she's bleeding everywhere and it won't stop it just keeps gushing and oozing and—
"I'm going to fucking kill you." Her voice deepens into a growl. Her hands are moving up further and further ready to murder me SHE'S NOT REAL SHE'S NOT REAL!
"DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!" I yelp. My hands fly in front of me—
Nothing happens. I don't feel anything. No hands. No wind. I feel light, dizzy. I can't move. My arms are stuck ahead of me, and my eyes are clenched shut so roughly it hurts. I can't speak. I can't breathe. If I open my eyes, May will be there, standing in front of me waiting to pounce and murder me. She'll be in my dreams, too. I close my eyes for even a second in my bed and I hear her voice pleading. I can't.. I can't fucking move.
Slowly, delicately, a coarse hand is placed on my upper arm. My head snaps up, eyes wide like I'm insane. "Get AWAY—..." I cut myself off. It's just Kenny; he's staring down at me with eyes that are soft and confused. I don't need to say it for him to know I wasn't talking to him. His other hand clasps onto the outside of my opposite arm as his head dips down slightly. He's real, right? What I'm feeling on my skin, that's real, isn't it? I move my hands, feeling his underarms. He doesn't fade away. He's not leaving. Kenny's real— he's really here, in front of me.
"...You're real." I whisper under my breath. My grip on him tightens, and I can feel myself starting to quiver.
Kenny leans down a little more as my eyes draw low. He doesn't know what to say. I wouldn't either. My lip trembles as I open my mouth, "You're real." I reiterate. I dive into his arms. I can feel his warmth, and I can hear his heartbeat. It's quick, like a rabbit's. Then, after a few seconds it slows. Calm. Tears well up in my eyes, overflowing onto his shirt. I feel his arms loosely wrap around my shoulders. Other than that, he's frozen. Evaluating me.
"I'm so scared. I.." I murmur quietly.
I feel Kenny's chest rise. "It's okay. I'm here. I promise."