Scarlett Romero has spent her entire life as an ordinary citizen; going to school, getting a job and definitely not killing people in the middle of the woods on a Friday night.
Until one Friday night, she does.
All she can remember is acting out of...
Am I supposed to be Grateful to have Survived this?
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No matter how hard I closed my eyes, I couldn't sleep. I gave up close to dawn, watching the pouring rain fade to a drizzle and the orange sun start to bleed through the grey clouds. I waited to see if Monica would come trudging her way back to the house, but she never did.
I stand as fast as I dare, trying not to wake Alexander. He's lying on the floor, close enough that I can feel every twitch of his fingers against my clothes. Kylie's sprawled out on one of the broken halves of the couch, mouth open and legs spread wide. Nothing short of an earthquake will wake her up.
Alexander must have been exhausted, because he doesn't even stir when I trip over a stray piece of wood and tumble to the floor. I huff, crawling to the door so I don't fall over anything else. Because I know me, it will happen.
It's muggy outside, and I'm thankful for the little droplets of water that run down my spine and sit on my neck. I loosely follow Monica's trail, trying to pick up any hints she might have left behind.
I cringe as the grass turns to mud, squishing between my toes and sticking to my heels. I should have worn shoes. Still, I keep going, heading towards the forest. If Monica's gone anywhere, it would be to the trees.
It's unnaturally quiet when I step into the bushes. The only noise is the occasional chirp of a cricket or flap of a stray bird. No big animal stayed after the racket at the house, the stomping of people and smell of destruction.
I walk aimlessly, going in no particular direction until the earth hums beneath me. Their whispers are soft and steady. Little footprints sink into the dirt in front of me, and I follow them to a dark part of the forest, where the air buzzes with something dangerous.
Then the footprints disappear, and the whispers die down. The back of my neck prickles, hair standing on end, and the feeling of being watched clogs my throat. I swallow harshly, shoulders tense as I turn back around.
I'm not sure how I didn't notice her first.
Monica swings from the branch of a tree, body limp and lifeless. She used a vine to wrap around her neck; it was all over very quickly after that. Her eyes are open, and look so much like her sisters in their nothingness.
I'm not sure what to feel as I stare up at her. The branch she hangs from bends under her weight, like it's sorry to take one of its own from this world. Maybe I should be the same. Sorry I pissed off the prison; sorry I pushed us to escape; sorry the only family Monica had left died; sorry she was shot.
