❝I hurt people;
especially pretty girls like you ❞
In which an innocent but broken girl foxtrots with insanity.
And the music only stops when a demented man says so.
➳
Criminal psychology student...
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How do you know if what you see is real?
The waning dewdrops of daybreak, the sublime sunlight slipping through your window, the air that plummets itself down caged lungs every single day; must it all even exist in the first place?
How do you know your reality isn't someone else's imagination?
Tahlia didn't. Not anymore, she was sure.
As the velvety cold spread on her bare skin, it felt as if her body was laying on a bed of feathery slivers of ice. For a brief moment Tahlia wondered if she, indeed, was sprawled on the snow, just like that night. What if she never did escape? What if her disheveled mind made all of it up; her waking up in the hospital, Turner's corpse, Dean's arrest...What if none of it ever happened?
What if she opened her eyes and saw him standing over her supine form, the ruthless knife in his hand raised, just in time for him to strike.
But she did open her eyes; instead finding herself surrounded by panels of cold white tiles, water from the shower trickling down her skin steadily, melding with the salty streaks on her face. With a glazed look in her eyes, she began scrubbing her limbs. As the blushed suds of rose-scented soap started turning into snow-like white lather, she only buffed at her skin harder; ceasing only after what seemed like years, letting the water cleanse it all. As if soap can wash away blood from open wounds.
As she watched the murky water on the tiles swirl its way down the drain, she couldn't help but think of how anything and everything that had happened in the course of the last year had all been a perfect mirage. Like a deceptive haven of water in the middle of an desert— too good to be true. With jaded hands and short breaths, she wistfully turned the shower off.
Quickly drying herself and putting on a simple outfit, she was out of the bathroom, going straight towards her bed. Various cardboard boxes lay haphazardly scattered all over the covers, some full to the brim with her stuff, others waiting to inevitably be filled. She quietly walked to her desk, clearing all of it out at once and stowing it into one of the boxes hastily. She then turned to empty the bottom-most drawer, having merely just pulled it open, when she halted.
Her gaze was instantly met with an onyx zip folder, one that she'd almost forgotten all about. Almost.
With unsteady fingers, she lifted the chunky dossier up from the pit of the compartment; taking in a shallow spell of breath, she zipped it open. The first thing she saw was an illustration of a particular willow tree, one she'd last seen in room 159. The sage green branches of the leaves drooping down all the way down to the bottom of the grand trunk, remained as evergreen as the first time she'd laid her eyes on the painting.
"You have some serious talent Mr. Hunt."
It brought bile to her mouth, the very thought of her ever having uttered those words to a monster. It was only when all of a sudden her phone chimed, the screen lighting up with a notification, that Tahlia could finally pull herself out of the pool of self-hatred she was flailing in.
