Off With His Head

18. Please don't tell me I fainted again?

I stand up and dust the ash off my knees, catching sight of myself in a mirror that hangs on the wall by the desk.

The entire left side of my face is covered in blood which is still leaking from the long cut on my temple, just above my eyebrow. Half my ponytail has come out, and strands of my hair are plastered to the blood and sweat that cover my cheeks and forehead. My skin is paler than usual underneath the crimson and my lips are dry and chapped. Red rims my eyes from the tears I am doing my best not to shed.

I look awful. I look like a killer.

I can't go back through the crowd of people like this. Nor can I leave the room like this. The party, which I had blocked out during my fight, continues on outside. The music vibrates through the speakers and muffled voices filter through the door, yelling to be heard over whatever song is playing.

I do my best to straighten up, using the toe of my boot to push the ash into the corner. Trails of it still lay on the floor, but I don't have a broom to sweep it up properly. My entire body protests as I use one of the pillowcases to crouch down and mop up my blood from the ground. Pain streaks through me like lightning across an indigo sky and I can't even pin point where the worst of it is coming from.

The blood, already starting to congeal, smears across the floor, noticeably visible if you know where to look for it. I'm hoping it will go unseen until this room can be properly cleaned. The streaks I've left are small and I would need water to get rid of them, but I don't have the time or energy to go find some. I leave the bed the way I found it, minus one pillowcase. When I'm done trying to clean up, it looks almost the same as when we came in.

At the worst, people would think that a couple got hot and heavy in here, maybe had a cigarette and left the ashes on the floor. They would never suspect that a murder took place.

A murder committed by me. I killed someone.

Doing my best to shake off the thought before I break down completely, I wipe away some of the blood from my face with the same pillow case. My attempts are annoyingly futile, it flows out of the cut in a steady stream, probably needing stitches. Instead, I hold the material to my head as I pull back a curtain and peak out the window.

I could cry with relief when I see that there are no burglar bars and that the yard outside is devoid of people. I clumsily climb out, falling straight over and landing on the soft grass. My body screams in agony from the impact, my temple throbbing and pulsing as the rest of my body aches and stings.

Biting back the yell of pain that threatens to escape from my lips, I pick myself up and limp my way towards the road, hoping to find Caleb and Zach in the same place as I left them. I'm not even sure if I will be able to find it, never mind make it there without being noticed. Each step takes more effort as I stagger under my own weight and the pain that throbs from every inch of my body. Blackness threatens to consume me and I wobble on my shaking legs, determined to stay conscious until I know I am safe.

Please just let me make it to the car.

Luckily, I don't have to. Zach's car pulls up in front of me just as I reach the curb and tears of relief spring to my eyes again at the familiar sight of it. Caleb leaps out, leaving the passenger door open as he rushes to my side. He grabs my hand and throws it around his neck, sweeping his arm under my legs and picking me up as though I weigh nothing.

"Jennings, you did so well."

I lean my head against his chest as he walks us towards the car, relishing the musky scent of cologne that I thought I might never smell again. I have to force my eyes to stay open so that I can tell them about my conversation with Colton, but it's increasingly difficult. "Did you hear what he said?"