Guilty

Chapter 23

I'm screwed. I am so screwed.

I topple into the mistakenly tranquil house behind my father, ignoring his mumbles of what I should and shouldn't hide and what I should and shouldn't say and what I should and shouldn't trash that is potential evidence....

Spotting the shadows of blood splattered on the dark entrance wall, blinking, and

If I thought about it anymore, I'd--

But I could not just kill somebody and not think about it. That's Violet. She's sick. I am not.

Yes, yes I am.

Something is squirming on the surface of my hands and suddenly I can't get Violet's habits out of my head.

Tighten your lips.

Tap your feet to whatever rhythm you can distract yourself with.

Pull your hair out of your face.

Plant. Your eyes. Elsewhere.

One, two, three, four, five, six.

One, two, three, four, five, six.

One, two, three, four, five, six.

(I am not Violet Wren. I am not Violet Wren, stop it.)

One, two, three, four, five, six.

My breaths slow.

I have to move. I need space. I could land on Pluto right now and still burn inside to get further away from humanity.

Breathe.

But I can't, I know that and all I want is to close my eyes and land on my back, swim with the earth. I'd be the only one for miles, and there'd be no such thing as the internet or rape or guns or laws or murder itself, the only thing known to man is the fact that we exist. After that, we could do whatever the hell we were creative enough to pull off.

My shadow swings out of Dad's view and I block out any protests he may have. Though I doubt he does.

I spring up the stairs and zoom by the dark bathroom, missing the steam of the shower that would slowly evaporate the blood.

(...that's not even there anymore.)

Fine. Germs.

One, two, three, four, five, six.

clean clean clean.

blood blood blood.

(It's not there. I AM NOT VIOLET.)

Who am I?

Murderer.

I buckle against my bedroom door and it plows into my wall. The knowledge that Mom or Tyler might've woken up from what probably sounded like a tiny gunshot flashes into my brain, disappears when I collapse onto the carpeted floor of my bedroom. I skid out of sitting position almost as soon as I hit the ground, dropping onto my side. My face thuds against the floor.

(Dying. Right here.)

Murder.

The sharp tick of the antique clock that hangs on the wall outside my bedroom is now all that's audible. I freeze where I lay, wishing I have the power to crush that clock to shreds with my mind. It's as though my father disappeared into thin air, it's as though everything around me has disappeared.

There's nothing. I'm in prison. Prison of my head. Prison of loneliness.

(Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.)