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The first thing that happens isn’t the blinding burst of pain in her head, or even the sluggish blink of her weary eyes. It’s the immediate knowing, the flurry of panic in her chest—the question she asks herself:
How long was I out for?
Feels like it was a second. Maybe two. A minute?
Or ten.
Billie doesn’t know how long it’s been. What she does know is that when she opens her eyes, a sudden burst of searing pain is quick to explode throughout her brain and blind her.
With a stifled groan, she slaps her hands to her face. Her groan weakens into a pitiful sound, a whine, made worse when she feels the wet blood still on her face, smeared all over her brow.
Bastard knocked her out, cold.
Bastard…
The panic in her chest hits her all over again.
Blood Hood.
A breath sucks in through her parted mouth, a sharp sound, sharp like the pain spearing through her thumping head. The pain is dizzying, blinding, but the panic pushes her off the wall—
And she falls forward onto all fours, blinking away the searing white spots in her vision.
However long she was out for, that doesn’t matter. What matters is what Blood Hood did in that time.
And it’s only now Billie notices the eerie silence in the cul-de-sac home. Silence so thick and heavy that it feels almost deafening.
With a grunt, she pushes forward. On all fours, one hand thuds down on the plush carpet. Then the next. Her knees shuffle behind her, and so slowly it’s borderline punishing, those white spots start to fade away at the edges, shrinking.
But as they shrink, Billie should see the white carpet beneath her hands, or the white-painted decorative ladder across the landing, the one that leans against the wall for all its days.
Instead, she sees a black lump on the landing floor, just an arm’s reach ahead. She sees that… and red. Like a scarlet silk dress crumpled on the carpet.
Billie sinks back. Her bum flattens against the heels of her feet. Lifting her trembling hands, she curls her fingers and presses them against the tender touch of her eyes—and she rubs. She rubs as though the act is an eraser to white spots and poor vision. And honestly, it might be.
Because that’s what it does.
The white patches fade into a gloss, tears trapped in her eyes. She squeezes her eyes shut, tight, then—dropping her hands to her lap—opens them.
Billie looks at the black lump she saw on the floor, next to the crumpled crimson dress. Only, that’s not what she was really seeing. Not at all.
Her balance falters.
A shaky breath escapes her as she slides onto her side, leaning crooked and sagging on the carpet—
The carpet that’s not white like it should be. The carpet that’s stained crimson, no dress in sight, but with fresh blood.
Now she sees it, Billie can taste it. That hot, thick, metallic flavor. Iticksthe back of her throat, and her stomach tenses, as if ready to retch.
A red river runs between her and the black heap on the carpet—the red spillsfromthe heap. And now, with clarity in her eyes, Billie knows better.
It’s no heap or black lump.
It’s a fucking body.
And it’s bleeding out right in front of her.
The back of the body faces Billie. Now, with her sight clear, she recognizes the girl on the floor, she recognizes the familiar athletic shape of her figure and tight white pajama top with rose patterns on the straps. The smooth tan of her skin, the natural yellow of her perfect blonde hair, now clumped together with dried blood at the tips.
