Ihead straight for my house so I can get rid of the evidence that resides in the bag on my passenger seat. Being careful to follow the road laws so I don’t get pulled over. I puff harder on the cigarette between my lips as I stress.
I fucked up. Like really badly fucked up. I let Scarlett get close. I let this happen. I wasn’t careful enough. I just wasn’t good enough.
I throw the butt of the cigarette into the ashtray container and light another one immediately. Stress smoking just hits differently. My adrenaline is still high as I drive toward my house. Entering my neighborhood as I run over my options in my mind.
I hurry into the kitchen once I’ve parked and closed my garage door. Lighting the gas fireplace in the living room with a flip of the button. I toss the entire bag of items into the fire. It burns steadily as I remove my clothes and hair and toss it ontothe pile. I rush up the stairs to the shower and take my knife with me to bleach while I’m there.
I shower, then drop the knife in bleach and scrub it quickly. When I’m done, I dry it off and then hide it in the closet among my things. I don’t know what to do now, so I sit on the edge of the couch as I watch the items continue burning in the fireplace.
I pick up my phone and message Scarlett. I need her to understand. To find out if she is going to turn me in. Will she be my undoing, after all?
Please let me explain.
…
…
The three dots pop up and disappear so many times, and I freak out each time they go away. She won’t answer.
Please, kitten. I can explain.
…
…
…
My anxiety skyrockets and threatens to drown me. Nothing I can do other than go and find her. Seek her out and hope that I can explain to her what I’ve done. That I will stop. If I can. That she doesn’t have to turn me in to the cops.
Shit.
I message her again and again with no response. Thinking about it and then refusing to answer me is driving me wild. Do I go find her? Do I sit in the house and hope the cops don’t show up at my door? Fuck.
There’s not some guide that tells me what to do here. I can’t just choose to do one thing or another and hope it’s the right choice. No. I have to figure out how to deal with this in a way that won’t end with me in prison or otherwise incarcerated in some fucking mental institute. Though it would likely be for the best.
Scarlett is running away and for a good reason. She saw me kill that man tonight. She’s smart. She had to have followed us to the hotel, and then she watched as that man bled all over my body. She saw how much I wanted to kill that man. How much I actually enjoyed it.
It doesn’t matter why I killed him. She just knows that I’m a psychopath, and that is enough to end my entire life. To end everything I’ve ever worked for. I may have come so fucking far in life, but now it’s the end.
I just don’t fucking know what to do.
I pace my living room as I try to figure out what to say. What to do. It doesn’t help, and I know I’m spiraling.
Every bit of my life has led to this point of indecision. I did this. I made this bed and now I have to lie in it.
“Fucking shit.”
I open the messages and type something, anything. I know it will fall on deaf ears, but I have to try. I have to do something. So when I type the next words, I nearly cry when met with those three little dots on my screen and they disappear.
Can we meet? I have to explain, please kitten. I need to tell you in person what happened tonight. I can’t live with myself if I don’t.
…
…
Silence. Everything is so fucking silent. I don’t know what to do or how to handle this. Fuck. She has to answer me. I don’t know where she lives, just her work address. I only have it because I sent her that gift. We hadn’t made it to more personal details of our lives yet.
She knew my real name, but hadn’t been to my place yet. She knew where I worked. Had watched my streams, but she didn’t know anything else. It was enough to get me put in jail. To fuck my entire life over.
