Touch

Fourteenth

She had killed him! Katie chocked down a sob, and the empty void of panic. She would not be firing this gun again. And that wasn't just because she'd recently realized she couldn't aim to save Lucas' life.

The shot had not been exhilarating. It had been horrifying.

She had killed him!

She dropped the gun and took teetering steps back. It was hard to think. What was she doing? Why was she doing it?

Her father, Will Pops. She needed to check if he was in the bathroom.

Her shaking, empty hands suddenly felt cold. What if those things came back? She had to take the gun! She couldn't go into the bathroom barehanded!

But she didn't want to take the gun. She wouldn't.

The kitchen.

But the sink...

No choice.

She took a deep breath, warily crossing into the kitchen, burning the sink with her eyes as she grabbed the biggest knife she could find in the set. Reality had ceded to surreality. Her movements, her actions, her thoughts, her reaction – they were all torpid, lethargic, thickened by the feeling she was caught in a dream. A bad dream. The knife handle was odd against her raw hands.

She was at the bathroom door.

"Dad?"

Quiet.

"Dad?" Louder now.

Answer. Answer.

Nothing.

I've got to make sure.

She moved to twist the door handle, and all at once the pain in her arm flared. A burning. Like she was being roasted inside and out.

She opened the door, because she had come this far, and she was stubborn enough to ignore pain.

She screamed.

Will Pops' face was lost inside the toilet bowl. The stench of unflushed poop littered the air she breathed in. He was splayed in a clumsy, uncomfortable position, white buttocks in plain view. His pants were down at his ankles. A hand hovered over him, touching, prodding, and... stroking?

I give up.

Katie was tired. Tired of losing. Tired of being afraid. Tired of death. She was just so tired of these goddamn hands!

But not without a fight.

She screamed once more, but the sound was low with rage. She charged toward the closest hand's forearm, hacking away at it with her knife, cutting and slicing. She was mad with it, hair flying, animal growls escaping her mouth. Her pain had been drowned by a rush of adrenaline.

This was exhilarating. It was like nothing she'd ever felt before. It was like... it was like...

Like Katie was lightning itself.

It started as a chuckle, steadily increasing in volume and intensity until it was a delirious, high-pitched giggle. Katie yelped with joy when the forearm gave way. She could see the cut – deep, savage. It oozed no blood, just a thin, silver substance that was sticky to the touch. It coated her arm.

Katie laughed again. She laughed at her father's dead, half-naked body. She laughed at her impossible morning. She laughed at her pain. She laughed and cried.

She laughed harder when the hands, a dozen hands--no, hundreds of hands-- burst from every pipe, drain and faucet in the house, melding and twisting each other into one huge arm that barrelled its way into the bathroom toward beautiful, convulsing, aching, hysterical Katie.

She laughed until blood clogged up her throat and she died.