Storm.

Part Seven

Ariadne and Meg waved goodbye, agreeing that they were now friends again. It was as much a mutual decision as it was a survival strategy. They needed each other to survive Vico's death. Even if their pasts were filled with horrifying pain. Even if they hated each other. That's the thing about needing people. It's a tricky business, and it often ends in heartache.

Ariadne let herself into the house, sighing into the emptiness. Whilst her house lacked human presence, she knew the cavity pervaded far more than her home: in fact, the void stemmed from within her person, inside her heart. Her parents had been away on a business trip for the past two months. Whilst living alone was lonely, she hadn't minded the quiet. It had given her time to reflect. It had also given her time to kill a man, which was clearly a far more pressing issue than mourning the aforementioned deceased. She couldn't let anyone know what she'd done. It was a surefire way to get herself jailed. Could under eighteens even be jailed? She'd have to check. But how would she Google that without looking suspicious if anybody checked her Internet history? She wasn't stupid, she knew she could be traced even if she wiped her search history. How about opening a private window? Could that still be traced? This was a vicious circle.

She shook her head, trying to release herself from a perpetual cycle of 'Can I be traced if I...?' In any case, the bottom line was: she couldn't be discovered. She had a good relationship with Vico's mother (his father passed away when he was three). If she was ever to find out that Vico's death wasn't a suicide...Ariadne knew she'd never be forgiven. She had an explanation, but one that would never hold up in court. She'd be in prison before she could utter a "But Your Honour!"

She wasn't a monster. She knew that. Even though she was calmly sorting through ways to defend herself in her brain, she knew she wasn't a monster. It was self-preservation. And if anyone knew the whole story, they wouldn't blame her either. It wasn't her fault. In fact, it was almost a good thing she'd done, by some perspectives. Surely there'd be at least one or two people in a jury who'd take pity on her and understand her motives for the murder. Oh God, murder. The word tasted dirty on her tongue. Metallic and tangy, like red-hot blood. Disgusting.

She groaned as she quickly prepared herself for bed, removing her clothes and makeup with a grimace on her hauntingly beautiful face. She had school tomorrow.