Cold Blood

❥Chapter Forty-Five❥

Written by ChemicalWonderland

Everett POV

I shake on the floor, wracked with sobs. The idea of having to kill Ash is far too overwhelming. I already know that I won't do it, every muscle in my body won't allow me.  It's like my body is a prison, trapping my soul into fleshy confines with only my lonely heartbeat to keep me company. My heartbeat fills the walls, bouncing off of fluffy pink insulation and coming back to me, each blow reminding me that I'm alive, and Ash may not be. I breathe in, and he breathes out.

I can't even begin to blame my father, because I know deep, deep down that Ash is here because of my ties to him. All my father wants is the perfect son, one with qualities that are almost god-like, and he's been driven well over the brink of insanity trying to get me to obey. Maybe all I am is a disobedient child. Instead of following his orders, I was persistent in doing whatever the hell I wanted and became somewhat reckless, which eventually led to my job of killing. He never wanted his son to come home in a blood-soaked shirt, but in a crisp white shirt and tie.

But I still have that same stubbornness in my cold heart that makes me want to break rules. Maybe I'm just an uncontrollable person, like the ones in mental asylums. Then again, their brains were never truly sick, it was their surroundings that drove them crazy. But my surroundings haven't shaped me. I've just always been insane. I have no excuse for my actions.

What if I died? What if I'd never been born? Wait, none is this is about me, it's about Ash. Ash wouldn't be suffering through this if I was six feet deep or didn't exist at all. This is all my fault. I've got to make things right again. I want to release Ash from all this misery, this terrible hell of a life. He doesn't deserve to be treated like this by the cruel world. I've got to correct the mistake. I've got to do the right thing this time. I've got to kill. Its the only thing I know.

Fate might've led me here. Fate might've brought me to the one person I care about most, and then tortured them right before my eyes, but I can do far worse to Fate. I'll stab Fate in the back, show it that I'm a cold ruthless killer, of anyone or anything.

Eyes violently scouring the room like piercing daggers, I look for any weapon I can use to fix the mistake. Surely my father wouldn't be foolish enough to leave a weapon in arm's reach, but then again, he has always been incredibly dull. After what feels like five eternal minutes of searching, I think I spot the faint glimmer of a blade half-concealed by a rusted metal pipe. The pipe crawls like a slithering snake up the wall, it's once shining silver chipped and rusted brown. It's a legs length away.

I stretch as far as I can, my muscles strained. The ropes that bind me are loose, making it easier for me to move. The tip of my foot reaches the handle of the knife, and I push the blade toward me, until I can grab it with an outstretched hand. The feeling of the cold hilt is a welcoming one. It's been so long since I've held a knife in my hands. Especially one with such a past, I realize, as I examine the engravings on it. Its the same knife that killed my mother. Back in the hands of family.

"Well hello there sweetheart," I say, eyeing up the blade with a grin. I can see my hollow, skeletal reflection in the sparkling pale silver.

I take a deep breath, a deadly calm washing over me, very unlike my usual anxious, adrenaline filled killing mode. I imagine myself calling out to my father, saying the words he's waited to hear for hours. Father, I'd say, my voice deadpan and final, I'm ready to kill.

1. . . 2. . . 3

The blade makes contact with skin, crimson blood immediately spilling from the deep gash. The rich scarlet shade is stark against my pale, almost-white skin in comparison. The pain is nothing I'm not already familiar with, but it does come with an added bite with how deep it is. Tears spill from my eyes and patter to the floor, mingling with my paint-like blood.

I'm doing this for you. Ash.

I raise the knife once more, feeling sick and anxious and relieved and scared all at once, an indescribable rush of feelings. I try to recall the last time he touched me, how delicate it was, how harsh, what he might've said, if it was soft, or sarcastic, or joking, or the last time I looked at those emerald eyes, those oceans of green, anything. . .

I'm pulled to harsh reality as a hand grabs my arm. It's my father's, all bony knuckles and rough, calloused fingers. He speaks, but I don't register the words. He sounds like he's talking underwater, his words muffled and wavering. My knife clatters to the ground, loud as a slap to the face.

I'm sorry Ash. I tried to save you, because I couldn't save myself.