Walking Tragedy

3. BURY A FRIEND

Warnings for this chapter: smoking, self harm, vomiting

     It's only when you're laying in bed that night that you think of Mariah's parents. Of the call they've surely received by now.

     To find out your only child is dead-has been murdered, you can't think of anything worse.

     You roll over again, finally giving up and turning your lamp on. There's no comfort to be found in your bed, your room. Not now that you know Mariah's killer had been in there. Touching your things, stealing your shit. It frustrates you, your room was your safe haven, the one place your mother never bothered you.

     Out of sight, out of mind, right?

     But now-now all you could imagine was someone invading your space, tainting it with their presence. Your fingers absentmindedly tap out a tune on your thighs, before abruptly stopping, the digits flexing nervously as you get up and begin to pace. You look down at you hands, eyeing them warily.

     You'd been terrified to come near Mariah's body at first, but at some point you'd come closer, grabbing her hand. There had been blood fucking everywhere, that even just her hand, was practically dripping.

     When you'd eventually gotten home, you'd tried scrubbing the blood off your hand, but you could still see traces of it under your nails.

     A part of you wonders if this is your fault. Most things are, but this felt personal. Your mind flashes back to the photo, the hearts on the wall.

     It scares you. But...a part of you is curious.

     What kind of person could do this? What kind of person would kill a teenage girl., and then just text that girl's friend like nothing's wrong?

     You step over to your closet, digging in deep for a box hidden in the back. You find it quickly, opening the box to find a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. You pull on a pair of leggings, tying your hair back in a messy ponytail. Opening the door, you creep past your mother's room and down the stairs, avoiding the creaky steps. Soon you're at the back door, and you slide it open with quiet noise.

     The soft sounds of crickets soothes you as you pull a single cigarette out of the carton. The small flame dances merrily as you bring the cigarette closer, lighting the end.

     Soon you feel an almost wary calm settle over you. You look up at the sky, admiring the few stars you can see.

     A part of you feels numb, and you eye the cigarette between your fingers with interest.

     You aren't thinking when you press the bright flaming end against your wrist.

     It burns, obviously, but the pain barely filters through to you. The cobwebs lingering. You can smell the slightest hint of burnt flesh

     You tilt your wrist curiously and for a moment-a split second, the sight of the burnt, blistered flesh is almost beautiful.

     Then, suddenly everything comes back to you. The bright burning sensation on your wrist, the emotions flooding back. There's a sense of horror coiling in your stomach, but you almost feel...relieved?

     You drop the cigarette, crushing it beneath your heel. You dig a hole in the dirt, covering the cigarette butt. You stamp the dirt down flat, holding your wrist close to your chest as you make your way to the bathroom.

     As you bandage yourself you try to figure out what happened. Where your mind went. Why the fuck this seemed like the best idea you'd ever had.