Being eighteen gives you a lot of overwhelming feelings. You become desperate of the idea of having someone, you wanted to unravel you mind - the secrets, the depression, the lies, but no one seems to fit the role.
I don't even know what's real anymore because everything is black and gray, gray and black. All at once.
I drag the limp body to a dark corner, shedding the pavement with blood. I did not pick the head, instead I allowed it to roll offf in the street. I always leave the head behind. This is not to
boast, but to mark a warning to those with greedy intentions. I do not kill for fun, its a choice I didn't want to take, rather its something I'm bound to do.
"Is that him? Man, was I late for the show? I should've come earlier."
Colin jumps over the 5 ft. fence. He doesn't give notice for his dispositions, he must've like the idea of surprises.
"Here, do you want me to help you with that?"
"I do not need your help."
I raise my sword to his chest.
"Hey, whoa." He take a step back, but his face is no hint of taken aback. "I'm not the enemy. I'm just lending a hand."
He doesn't amused me with his humor. "Leave me alone."
After dumping the body, I leave the area.
"Can I tag along?" With his long legs, he quickly maneuver towards me. "It's been a while since I walked with a friend."
"I'm not your friend." I say.
"Layla. Your name is Layla right?"
I stop. I stand still. I briefly close my eyes and try to remember the last time someone had utter my name. I wonder what it would be like to say it again, and again, and what it would feel to state it with my own lips.
"How do you know my name?" My gaze is fixed on my shoelace tied into a ribbon.
"Layla Harlow, eighteen, AB Type, close combat expert, born and raised in district eight, ranked as Multiple Murderer, not fond of talking, socializing, laughing or smiling, obviously single, OCD, manic depressive, psychopathic tendencies." Colin turn his head to look at me.
"I know everything about you. But I always wonder about one thing,"
My chin is lifted by one swift movement of his finger. The air is strangely hesitant to touch my face and the fact that a post of streetlight is standing nearby makes it picture that this,
right now, is a niche click of exquisite anonimity.
I cannot know this moment.
"Tell me what color your eyes are."
YOU ARE READING
LYSSOPHOBIA
Short StoryInside the MIND of an eighteen year old girl who's BROKEN by an EMOTIONAL PSYCHOPATH. She lives by the scent of blood, she worships the blade, she have a fear she doesn't want to tell - going insane. How will she survive the cruel world without th...
