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I flip the switch and the bathroom comes into full view, chasing all thoughts of Eric away, no matter how brief. He’s gone, and now I have to be alone with myself. It’s almost more frightening than being at his whim.
Gripping the edge of the sink between my hands, I steel myself to look up at the murderer in the mirror.
Eric deserved to die for what he did to me, for what he did to who knows how many other people. I believe that without the slightest doubt. There was no justice for girls like me when a broken system let him slip through the cracks. He would have just kept hurting innocent girls… children. The world is better off with him gone, I have no doubt. But did he deserve to die like that? Tied up and in pain, staring at the faces of the girls he ruined?
He hurt people, but does that mean he deserved to hurt in his final moments?
Nausea swells in me, so I rest my head against the cool glass of the shower and reach around to turn the spray of water on. I suck in a deep breath as the steam fills the bathroom, wishing it could sink inside me and clear away the rottenness deep inside.
I’m gasping to catch my breath by the time I shed my clothes and step under the spray. The boiling water burns my skin, but I don’t move or turn down the heat. I simply let it fall, pelting my skin until it’s tender, watching the tinged pink water swirl around the drain as the not-yet-dried blood rinses away.
When my flesh is raw with the assault of my shower, I take the loofa and scrub soap over every inch of me, relishing the pain because it’s a beautiful contrast to the numbness I suddenly feel inside. I must have triggered something in my brain that’s caused it to shut down because all of my fear and anxiety over what I’ve just done has evaporated.
My motions become automatic by the time I rake shampoo through my hair, and by the time I turn the water off, I feel oddly detached. I’ve learned to dissociate when I need to, but this is different—this feels like I’m about to faint.
When I step out, the mirror is fogged up, so I don’t have to worry about catching a glimpse of myself in it, but I don’t dash back to my room just yet. I drop my towel and look over my body, my still-pink skin shiny under the glare of the bathroom lights. All traces of blood are gone. At least, all that you can see.
No matter how hot I made the water or how hard I scrubbed, I can still feel the warmth of it coating my fingers as they slipped against the hilt, sticky when it dried on my flesh. I hadn’t thought of that when Remy’s hands were on me, painting my body with the blood of our victim as we acted on animalistic passion.
I squeeze the counter under my palms again, trying to get a grip on myself, and lift my gaze to the mirror. I’ve got to look at myself eventually—may as well see what it’s like being in the body of a killer.
The fog has subsided, and now that I see myself, I wonder how I got here. Not even two weeks ago, I was full of light and hope, and other than my anxiety about figuring out what to do with the rest of my life, carefree.
Not anymore.
When I first met Rhea, I had been running from the darkness of my past. She’d helped me heal little by little to where I almost never even thought about the person that I used to be… broken, hollow, with jagged edges like a glass that was put back together wrong. Those edges had been blunted by Rhea’s light, casting me in a vignette.
But now that light I borrowed from her is gone.
Her family’s darkness chased it away, leaving me broken once again.
