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She must’ve noticed she was in danger because she spun around and dashed out of the kitchen. Her bell tinkled with every frantic step of her tiny paws. She padded up the stairs and disappeared, likely into my parents’ bedroom.
I slumped against the counter, panting as the rage subsided. What was wrong with me? What happened, and why was I acting differently?
There was something inside of me, always watching and listening. That anger didn’t belong to me. I stayed relatively patient with everyone.
The hunger pangs doubled me over, and I held onto my stomach. A soft cry spilled from me, and my shoulder shook with silent sobs. I breathed through the pain, counting in my head, and when I got to four hundred, the pain subsided. I slowly straightened. My tangled, bloody hair clung to my face and neck. Tears tracked down my cheeks, and I swiped them away with a trembling hand.
I went through the pantries, searching for something to ease my hunger, but nothing looked appetizing. Opening the fridge, I scoured it, not finding anything there either.
Nothing sounded good.
Layla popped into my head again, like a plague that wouldn’t leave me. Her death weighed on my shoulders like I was the one who had stabbed her. It didn’t help that I ate her. My shame dragged me deeper.
I’m a monster.
Shaking from the adrenaline rushing through me, I quietly went upstairs and slipped into the bathroom next to my bedroom door. I flipped on the light and jumped at my reflection in the mirror.
I looked like shit. No, worse than that. I looked like roadkill that had been run over by hundreds of cars until I was nothing but splattered muscle and blood.
No wonder my appearance had agitated the dog and Slinky.
Dark circles hung beneath my eyes, and the ashen pallor of my skin made it look like all the color had been leached out of me. My blonde hair looked copper from all the dried blood. The dress Lucien changed me into was no longer white. Grime and dark reddish-brown splotches stained it, which reflected how I felt on the inside. I was a filthy hot mess.
I stripped out of the dress and turned on the water inside the bathtub, then switched the nozzle so that it sprayed from the showerhead. After stepping inside the tub, I snapped the curtains shut and stood under the hot spray. Blood, dirt, and whatever else ran down my body and pooled around my feet. The crappy drain struggled to keep up. Water collected and rose to my ankles. I couldn’t care less. I could only feel empty and so cold.
I leaned my head forward, my chin pressed to my chest as I let the scalding water beat at my hair and back. I squeezed my eyes shut, breathing through the pain in my stomach as the hunger returned.
I was going to be sick.
Layla’s vacant eyes popped into my mind, and I rocked with heaves as bile rose in my throat. I flung myself from the shower and crashed to my knees in front of the toilet, purging my stomach’s content until I couldn’t throw up anymore. Black gunk filled the porcelain bowl, and dry heaves consumed me.
I would find Lucien and kill him.
No. I can’t. I can’t kill anyone.
If thinking about my dead friend and eating her made me sick, how could I get over taking someone’s life with my bare hands?
“Then fuck him,”a scratchy feminine voice whispered.
I stiffened, sucking in a sharp breath, and snapped open my eyes. I glanced around the small bathroom, looking for whoever had said that.
It’s all in my head.
I squeezed my eyes shut as I flushed the toilet. I couldn’t get up because my legs were too weak.
“Fuck him.”
Images of Lucien, naked and beneath me as I rode him, popped into my mind. I frantically shook my head, sweat beading on my forehead and upper lip.
“No,” I whisper-yelled.
Silence.
I opened my eyes and wiped my mouth with the back of my arm. I got to my feet, my legs wobbling as I went to the sink and brushed my teeth and tongue to rid my mouth of the nasty taste. After I finished, I returned to the shower and cleaned myself.
Five minutes later, I was in my bedroom with a towel wrapped around me. My wet hair clung to my neck, beads of water dripping over my shoulders and down my back. I didn’t bother to wrap a towel around it.
Everything was still in place in my room and looked untouched. My bed was made, with the wrinkles still on it from where Layla had lain. Makeup littered my vanity, and pictures of Sebastian and me were taped to the sides of the mirror. My medicine bottles for my schizophrenia sat on the nightstand by my bed, reminding me I hadn’t taken them in however long it had been since I died.
