It doesn’t matter that it was self-defense. I killed one of the wealthiest, most untouchable men alive. I’ll be okay, they’ll just call me in for questioning.īut will they protect me? It’s not like I killed just anyone. What … do I do now? Call the police? The justice system protects kids. When he doesn’t do just that, I begin to think again. An illogical part of me expects my stepfather to sit back up and attack me. I lean over the granite countertop and assess the pink mixture of blood and water that stains it, the floor, and the sink. But then it’s on my shirt, and I can see it congealing in my hair. I can’t get it out, but it doesn’t matter because I notice the red liquid coats my arms. It stains my cuticles and embeds itself beneath my fingernails. Oh, God, I need to get his blood off of me now. Out damned spot! I dash to the kitchen sink, leaving a trail of bloody footprints in my wake. I stare down at my hands, feeling like Lady Macbeth. It speckles my homework, and one fat droplet obscures Lincoln’s face on my history textbook. It takes only a few more seconds for that realization to hit me. All I know is that tonight, I actually faced my fear and I survived it. I know people are supposed to mourn the loss of life. For the first time in what seems like an eternity I can breathe. Even if he can no longer hurt me.Ī shuddering sob pushes its way out of me. If I were a braver person, I would’ve placed my ear to his chest to just make sure that his cold, blackened heart had stilled. His glassy eyes have lost their focus, and his skin its color. I drop the broken bottle, the glass shattering as it hits the ground, and fall to my knees.

My entire body shakes, adrenaline still pumping through my veins. No one can survive that much blood loss, not even the monster at my feet. There’s far too much of it staining the kitchen’s polished floors. It’s splashed across my chest, and to my horror, I can taste a few droplets on my lips.

There’s blood on my hands, blood between my toes, blood speckled in my hair.

Rhapsodic by laura thalassa