Untouchable |h.s|

Six

I observe his brown and almost lifeless eyes, his blonde blood-stained hair, and his white-toothed smile in the midst of the redness coating the entirety of his face as it is mine. His is dry, though, while mine is rapidly dripping down from my chin onto my clothes and the floor of my bathroom. His also looks like it belongs to him, while I know mine doesn't belong to myself.

It takes me a moment to recognize him out of shock, but once I do, I attempt to stammer out choked phrases of defense toward him. I can't get a word out, though, leaving my jaw dropped which allows a metallic taste of the blood with an unknown owner to rapidly collect on my tongue and seep into my tastebuds from its gape.

"Miss me, pretty girl?"

Ian.

Out of instinct, I try to back away from the reflection of him I'm face-to-face with. That only makes my back crash into his chest to serve as further proof that he's really here, his cold hands grabbing onto my shoulders to hold me in place before I have the time to react and shake out of his hold.

He holds my eye contact in the bloody mirror as it looks like we're in the middle of a crime scene, not caring about the fresh blood coating his hands and the front of his body from touching me. I guess the bullet hole in the side of his head makes all other things less of a worry.

The bullet hole in the side of his head. From the shot I fired point-blank to end his life on the day mine began in order to save myself and those around me.

How is he standing here right now?

"I- You- You're—" I struggle to spit out what I'm thinking as I stare into his eyes, disbelief coursing through my veins at a rapid pace and making this hard to grasp.

He looks at me like I'm stupid as he questions me, "I'm what, Aubrey? Dead?"

"Y-yes."

"And who do I have to thank for that, killer?" He asks, looking down at my hands as I suddenly feel a cold heaviness in them that wasn't there before.

My eyes drop down to the newfound presence of an object in my hold, realizing that the gun I took from Harry's pocket on the most bittersweet birthday I've ever had is now in my possession yet again. Where did this even come from? How did I get it?

"No, no, no." I repeat in denial as I instantly drop it, hearing it crash to the tile flooring beneath my feet and flinching with a harsh shake that has him squeezing my shoulders as a nonverbal order to stay put.

He brings his mouth to my blood-covered ear so I can hear him properly through the thick plasma partially blocking my eardrum, saying, "That's what you are, Aubrey. A killer."

His words make me gulp down a harsh swallow since I know they're ultimately the truth, my previous tears only worsening as I feel a sharp pain in my chest in pure anxiety. I don't understand how in the hell any of this is happening or how to make it stop, but I don't know how much more I can take. Real or not, alive or not, this is torture.

Am I hallucinating? Was I wrong to assume that I killed him months ago? Have I been convinced of yet another false death of someone in my life?

I want nothing more than to crawl out of my own skin right now, feeling nothing but disgust from being in this body and living through this situation. My typical response to a high-stress situation like this one kicks in, my hands coming up to grab my dampened and matted hair to tug at it with my bloody hands.

I curse through gritted teeth when my hair doesn't immediately allow itself to be pulled from my scalp, my fingernails digging into the skin and most likely leaving small cuts behind that will only add to the blood I'm covered in right now. I pull and pull until I'm screaming out in agony with a reddened face and bloodshot eyes, needing to do something that could bring me away from where I am now and struggling to succeed with my usual solution.