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23:23PM
SATURDAY
SANTA CARLA
NOT ALONE ANYMORE.
Trigger warning: Mentions of self harm, mental health and murder.
The beating of in my ears never fades, only stretches behind my eyes and laces around the curves of my skull. The tips of my fingers are numb and I wiggle them when I begin to regain a form of consciousness. my lips tingle and I run the muscle in my mouth over the cracking skin that poorly protects them. Exhaling, I acknowledge the softness of the surface that I lay on, hair comfortably looping around the base of my neck, scattered over what feels like feathered pillows. I open my eyes. I hear the boys laughter echoing from the rocky walls and I inhale the damp, salty smell of the crypt.
I don't remember how I got here, only a splatter of spots in my vision before a blackness that seemed endless, and an overwhelming sickness that washed up in my stomach. Red.
I swallow back the nausea that now attempts to surface and bubble up my fleshy neck. Flesh. I try to blink away at the images that my brains selfishly forces me to see once more, ones of bodies that once danced around campfires. Shakily, I inhale and quietly, a shadowy figure reveals itself behind the purple canopy around the pillowy bed that I lay on.
"I really assumed better from you, Sarah..." David speaks, feathering the tips of his fingers over the fabric of the curtain, "I'll be honest, I just didn't expect it from you."
"What did you do to me?" I ignore his confusing statement.
There is a moment of silence before he peaks his head inside, "You think we hurt you?"
I look at him through clouded vision, "You killed those people."
"We could never harm you, Sarah."
"You're changing the subject."
"Yes, we did. We do it to survive."
"You're still a murderer."
He stares at me, "Do you not think that we wish it to be any other way?"
He nears closer and I painfully raise my upper body to sit against the rattan headboard behind me. He sits by my feet and I push myself further away, if possible.
"I was a boy once..." he drops his head momentarily, standing to his feet and facing his back towards me, almost as if to shield me from any form of vulnerability that he may let escape, "I was a lost boy, orphaned at eight. Double overdose. I always wanted a family, but families always come with burdens..."
