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the guilt of a killer
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. ✧ ・゜. +・o ✧
Strangely, Alina almost felt comforted with the blindfold over her eyes and El's hand slipped securely in hers. They were sitting in the living room, surrounded by everyone else, but there was no sound except for the quiet breaths of their friends and the buzz of the static from the TV. The induced darkness spread around her only made it easier for Alina's other senses, which had sprung into motion. She could smell the cereal and coffee from breakfast, hear the distant call of birds from outside, feel El's pulse through their joint hands. It was almost therapeutic—would be considered therapeutic if not for what Alina had to do. To find Billy Hargrove.
So you have to concentrate, she reminded herself. She took a steady breath and squeezed her eyes shut. Concentrate, Alina. Come on. It was harder than it seemed. Everything that had happened lately, even mundane things, were whirling back in her mind, a picture book of memories all tinged with melancholy. Gabe's confession. Gabe's injury. Lucas patching her up. The hospital. The smell of antiseptic. The chemicals. Heather's house. The blood. The sauna test.
And, again and again, almost like a movie, Alina saw herself shoot bolts of energy right at the flayed Tom Holloway as Jonathan plunged the scissors into his neck. She didn't know why this was the scene she kept seeing, only that it made it harder for her to concentrate on Billy's vile face.
Come on, she thought again. Your friends are depending on you. Just do this quickly.
She willed herself to form Billy's image in her mind. From his mullet to his sweat-greased chest, to his cold, dead eyes that now belonged to the Mind Flayer. She even pictured the black streaks crawling up his neck, and, just as she felt the blood beginning to trickle from her nose, her eyes opened. Not in the living room, but in the oppressive darkness of the void that stretched on forever.
She stood there, her feet sloshing in the watery ground. She felt normal, with her rainbow skirt and pink and blue shirt, but her nose—she put a hand up to it just to make sure—was no longer swollen. Her ribs felt almost brand-new, and as she took a tentative step forward, she found there was no shooting pain down her side. Her head no longer ached, and although her knee was bandaged, the white gauze sticking slightly out of Lucas's messy but functional work, it wasn't hurting either. Here, in the void, at least temporarily, Alina's wounds were healed.
