Run For Your Life

Little Girl

Song: Run For Your Life by The Beatles

April 25

Beverly Marsh. The whore, the hole, the slut. The names have been apart of her for as long as she can remember. It used to bother her, but not so much anymore. Instead she takes pride in those three little words. For those three words landed her here.

Daddy's little angel, daddy's little princess, daddy's little tramp. Not anymore.

No more touching. Whack.

No more grabbing. Whack.

No more looking. Whack.

Red is no longer just the color of her bright hair. Instead it paints her skin and the walls along with it. Her eyes glow with curiosity at the image. A sort of tingle arises in her stomach, though she's not sure what that is yet. Her hands feel heavy, and no wonder why. The toilet seat still rests in her grip, though now it's shattered and broke.

The man, who she thought to be dead, squirms underneath her gaze. His face bruises instantly. It doesn't seem to be much of a face at all. It's far too contorted. Somehow this sight makes her lip twitch. She smiles at the whole ordeal, even begins to laugh.

"Beverly. Please."

The man's words are weak. She's never seen him so pathetic. She frowns momentarily, but it's not sincere.

"Awe." Beverly clicks her tongue and gives a hum. The girl tosses the toilet lid to the side before offering a hand. The man is almost hesitant to take it, but eventually he lifts the left arm, seeing as it's in much better shape than the other. The right arm looks far too twisted. The hand doesn't even look like a hand. Perhaps it looks more like a piece of lunch meat. That's how the majority of his body looks.

But right as their fingers are about to graze, Beverly finds his eyes. She tilts her head from side to side. And then she laughs. She laughs harder than she has in a very long time.

Her boot collides with his skull in a matter of seconds. Beverly's eyes never leave his. She'd be lying if she said the crunch wasn't the most satisfying thing she'd ever heard.

She doesn't stop there, though. The girl uses his body like her own personal trampoline. Each burst and squish is just as pleasant. Eventually she grows tired and gives in. She jumps from the body onto the floor, almost slipping as she does so. It's a bore now. And also a chore.

She now shoves the mangled mess in a plain black trash bag. The girl grabs the end, dragging it the entire way to the kitchen. Once she's there she begins laughing again.

Beverly doesn't think twice before reaching her bare hand in the bag and scooping out various chunks. She quickly flips a switch and a growl starts up. The girl grunts at the obnoxious noise before hitting her father's stereo. He'd never let her touch it before, though she doesn't think that's much of an issue now.

Soon the room plays an all too familiar tune. She hums along until the last bit has made its way down the garbage disposal. She then shreds the bag and adds in a few lemons from fridge to make up for the horrid smell.

She sighs after everything is set and done. Her lips purse momentarily before tilting upwards again. Her feet travel gracefully towards the fridge. She eyes the icebox, peeks around, laughs, and then opens the freezer. Her hand grabs for two popsicles. They just so happen to be cherry. Not only are they her father's and her father's favorite flavor, but they also match perfectly with the color of her hands.

Beverly grins once tasting it. She can't remember how long it had been since she had one. Her dad never let her. Again, there's no issue anymore.

Looks as if daddy was never tough at all.

Her eyes watch carefully as the red dye leaks from her sticky fingers to the already red sink. Then Beverly thinks to herself. The only thing she regrets is not doing it sooner.