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It’s funny the things you think of when you’re dying. Like, I wonder what kind of birthday cake Ainsley got? I was hoping for chocolate, maybe with a raspberry filling... although, I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. Or... it’d be really cool if I was walking on the beach right now, feeling the ocean tickle my toes as the waves crash against the shore. I bet some local going out for a jog will find my body. Haven’t you ever noticed that? Runners always find the dead bodies. I can see the headlines now:
Teenager Stabbed to Death in Quaint, Mountain Town
It’ll shake up this community temporarily, but before you know it, I’ll just be that poor girl who died by the water’s edge. Goosebumps scatter across my flesh as a chill courses through my body. Damn, it’s cold up here. Of course, the one time I actually wear a dress, I get stuck out in the wilderness.
What really pisses me off—and yes, I have every right to be pissed as I lie here bleeding out—is that I can’t stop thinking about the fact the people responsible for this will get away with it. They’ll graduate high school, go off to college, eventually get married and pop out pretentious little babies, never looking back. Never knowing what it’s like to have consequences for their actions. These people will always live in a world where you can solve any problem, get away with any vile act, by throwing a little money around.
My body sinks into the ground, the smell of mud and copper assaulting my senses. I really should get help, but moving isn’t exactly an option. Screaming isn’t one either—I’ve already tried that and all I have to show for it is a raw throat. My head lolls to the side, eyes falling to the glassy surface of the lake as the fingers on my non-broken hand flutter over my abdomen, unsuccessfully trying to staunch the flow of sticky blood.
As I stare unblinkingly at the full moon reflecting off the lake’s surface, I realize the irony of my situation. I’m no stranger to violence—I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by it. When you’re impoverished, or craving your next fix, you’d be surprised what people will do when desperation sinks in. That’s why my mother taught me to be vigilant, to take precautions. I took her lessons to heart and managed to survive over seventeen years without incident.
It fucking figures that when I actually do become a victim of violence, it’s in a place drenched in wealth.
I suppose that’s what I get for trusting a liar.
The last thought I have before losing consciousness is that I’m going to make them pay. If I get out of this alive, I will make every last one of them pay for what they’ve done. And if I don’t make it... if this is the end for me... I’ll haunt those motherfuckers from the grave.
