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I kissed him.
I pleaded for him to fuck me.
There has to be some crossed wires in my brain, some rational reason to explain why I’d behave so… irrationally. I just don’t know what. And not having a good answer is probably why I wait for him to honor his promise and come after me. Maybe he can put an end to this spiral. To be quite honest, I’m not sure of what I would do if I had him in front of me. Contrary to what I believed five days ago, I am not final girl material.
I survived by doing the exact things that get horror movie characters killed.
Seeing red flags and choosing to ignore them? Check.
Making dumb decisions? Check.
Running upstairs with no way out? Check.
Having sex while a killer is around? Mother fucking CHECK.
I stare at my wrinkled fingers. I’ve lost track of how much time has passed in the shower and have been wasting water. On top of being stupid, I’m also irresponsible. Somehow, being worried about my impact in the environment should be the least of my concerns when I helped a murderer escape and now he’s hunting me.
Like I said, I’m beyond fucked up.
Shrugging my thoughts away, I tilt my head to rinse the rest of my hair when I hear the bathroom door creak as it closes.
Flinching, I jerk against the wet tiles, searching for the knife.
My heart rattles in my chest, wanting to break free and escape from its destiny. I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent any noises from slipping out. I’ve made plenty of mistakes that would get me killed, but I won’t call out to see who’s there. Not when I know the answer.
The shower curtains aren’t see-through, but I don’t have a doubt that he’s here.
He found me.
I hold my breath and tighten my first around the hilt, listening to the water gurgle down the drain. I don’t know how this night will end, but I refuse to die like the girl from Psycho. I will go down fighting, and I’m sure as hell not getting killed in the shower.
The light switch clicks off, and the bathroom is left in total darkness. I stand still, commanding my lungs to consume oxygen while I wait for the steps to get closer. A hand moves the drapes, and my instincts take the lead, swishing the knife around. I push through the fabric, slamming my body at full force against the figure behind it.
The blade slashes the curtains, slicing skin at the same time the rod breaks from the wall, crashing atop both of us.
“Puñeta,” I grit out, shoving the shaft to the ground where it clangs.
“What the hell are you doing?” he screams. “Fuck!”
The darkness in the bathroom is deep enough to prevent me from seeing the details of what’s happening, but I make out the silhouette of his body crouching and holding his right bicep.
I stare down at my hand holding the knife, and I touch the blood-soaked blade. Nausea rolls through my stomach. My heart rate spikes, making me dizzy, and I bright spots dance in my vision.
Dios mío.
Am I about to faint?
I shake my head, forcing myself to stay conscious.
“Did you just fucking stab me?!” he shouts, grunting in pain.
“You broke into my house five days after your murder spree. What did you expect? I thought you were trying to murder me!” I yell back, louder than I intended to.
I’ve reached rock bottom in the way I least expected. Somehow, I don’t think my brain processed that I would have to hurt him when I carried the blade with me. Nor did I consider how I would react to wounding a living, breathing person.
“Murder you?” he echoes, sounding confused. “What are you talking about?”
I frown, but don’t lower the knife, keeping it high between us. As squeamish as it makes me to think about stabbing him, I will still do it if he comes at me.
