Sins of Sisterhood

14. Backstabbing Sister

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~ 14 ~

Rule #14: Betrayal should be reciprocated.

" "Grab a cop gun" kinda crazy
She's poison but tasty
Yeah, people say, "Run, don't walk away"
'Cause she's sweet but a psycho
A little bit psycho "

Ava Max--'Sweet but a Psycho'

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Each step down from the rooftop feels like another nail in my coffin of rage.

The concrete scrapes against my feet, and I swear every fucking pebble is deliberately positioning itself to stab my toes. My mind races through all sets of revenge, each more satisfying than the last.

Who does this creep think he is? Making me his personal puppet, dressing up in that blood-red nonsense just because he decided to play sniper?

The fabric catches on my hip as I walk, and I resist the urge to tear it off right here in the stairwell.

That's probably exactly what he wants - another show for his cameras.

The night air from the open window whistles through my apartment when I finally get inside, sending chills across my skin. My laundry's probably done by now, sitting damp and forgotten in the washer. I should get it, but my legs feel like lead, weighted down by exhaustion and that bone-deep weariness that comes from being someone's plaything.

I slam the window shut hard enough to rattle the frame, catching my reflection in the glass.

Jesus Christ, I look like Raven. Very unstable and psychotic. 

Dark circles under my eyes, hair a mess, still wearing clothes picked out by a stalker.

My hands are still shaking as I double-check the door lock, then triple-check it.

The rational part of my brain knows it's useless - what good is a deadbolt against someone who can hack into my entire building's security system? But there's something comforting about the mechanical click, like playing pretend at being safe.

The Jack Daniels under my sink calls to me like an old friend.

"I'm sorry, Renee," I whisper to the empty room, fingers already wrapped around the neck of the bottle. "I tried, kiddo. Really did. But your aunt's got a psycho on her tail who thinks he's directing some sick reality show."

The first sip burns away the metallic taste of fear that's been sitting on my tongue since I saw that red dot dancing over my heart. I lift the bottle toward the ceiling, toward wherever this sick bastard might be watching from. "And you! You're gonna regret making me break this promise. Mark my fucking words."

"Four shots," I mutter to myself, but I'm already knowing it's a lie. "Four shots won't hurt."

The whiskey goes down easier with each swallow. Four shots become eight, become twelve, become who-the-fuck-is-counting-anymore.

The bottle gets lighter as my head gets heavier. My phone feels like it weighs a ton as I pull it out, thumbs hovering over the keyboard with messages I'll never send:

Hey J. I fucked up. The bottle won.

Delete.

Jade, I'm sorry but