Guilty | ✓

XXIII | Guilty

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE | SIX FEET UNDER

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A BONE-CHILLING TWITCH crept upwards in a thin line over Genevieve's spine, her irises dilated numerously as she attempted to focus on something around her. A spot, a seat, a window, something.

Uncountable amounts of chills nipped her skin, as gusts of cold air flowed thoroughly around the flat.

A shadow creeped next to her making her snap towards its direction, yet, only emptiness met her eyes. The pale grey curtains that framed the large window display in her bedroom slapped against the walls, the window pulsing the sheets into the air.

Genevieve gripped her hair desperately, her chapped lips parted cold, ragged huffed breaths leaving her lips. She could feel her nails digging into her pale scalp, thin, looming rigged hairs tangling into her fingers tightly, the sharpness creasing on the layers of calloused skin that coated her fingers.

'You're forgotten. Never will you be someone again.'

Her teeth gritted, her jaw bone flexing as she squeezed her eyes shut—so tight that it made her temporarily lightheaded.

As she took a step forward, her bare feet consumed the feeling of pricking as the pieces of broken ceramic from a vase ragged her, the heavy metallic smell of flowing blood, surrounded her, adding to her suggested nausea. A sharp intake of breath filling her nostrils.

The floorboard creaked under her, the cracking bouncing off the walls onto the dark corridor from the welcoming open bedroom door. Light that came sourced from the floor lamp in the corner vibrated, the lit bulb silently glitching.

Her gaze was silent and steady as she twisted her back, the dead silent room clamping with her risky breaths. Genevieve looked slowly behind her, facing the doorway towards the corridor.

Several shadows loomed over the walls, all moving, shapes of women, men and children surrounding her. Tension clenched the hallway, echos and groans pricking the air—frankly none were from the brunette.

'Elias doesn't love you anymore.'

Genevieve shook her head, her hands clamping together on her chest. Her body still, frozen, unable to possibly move. Yet, her fingers shook violently, not even her muscles could control her. Goosebumps coated any visible surface of her skin as sinister smirks graced the shadow's features, the hairs on her arms shooting up as needles of cold punctured her arms.

Her feet stepped back, momentarily forgetting about the broken pieces of ceramic and glass that stood shattered against the dark gray floors. She stumbled slightly upon touching the piercing edges, the feeling of blood riddled onto her arches.

A ghost of a yelp escaped her tight lips, slightly jumping from the sudden contact. Nonetheless, tears loomed on her waterline—none from her visions or optical illusions that shifted in her a stare for a while now. It was the fact that, she couldn't control what she saw, and the visions were awfully horrifying; dead children, raped and hurt women, the look of menacing men—but what brutally banged her was the thought of their faces.

They were all almost identical to the souls she'd taken—the ones that she reckoned that haunted through her mindless dream, extenuating, threatening her insomnia.