αяє тнσѕє му ¢нυ¢к тαуℓσяѕ? *:.｡..｡.:*ℍ𝕠𝕓𝕚𝕖 𝔹𝕣𝕠𝕨𝕟 *:.｡. .｡.:*

𝖢𝖧𝖠𝖯𝖳𝖤𝖱 𝖥𝖮𝖱𝖳𝖸: 𝖠𝗍𝗍𝖺 𝖦𝗂𝗋𝗅

Bile coats my tongue, the thick liquid running down my throat in disgusting garbles each time I swallow it back. No matter how many times its banished, it comes running back, ready to fill my mouth with its bitter taste.

The man goes slack beneath me, the rise of his chest ceasing. His head is a mass of blood and- Oh my god, is that his brain?

The bile comes quicker this time, filling my mouth with a foul taste, warning me of what is to come. I leap to my feet, knees immediately bashing into the blood-slick tiles as my legs give out beneath me during my haste actions. I manage to crawl to the toilet, not even bothering to lift the seat before I wretch into the bowl of it.

I'm not too sure how long I sit there, vomiting up anything and everything between the walls of otherwise pristine porcelain. My hair sticks to my face from the sweat, tears and blood coating it. Due to the fact that I'm not really trying to stay clean, I wouldn't be surprised if there was some sick plastered on my chin, too.

The nausea eventually subsides to gentle churn in my gut, but I continue to feel the pounding ache in my head from the feverish hurling that had gone on for god knows how long. Slumping against the edge of the bathtub, I stare straight ahead, out into the hallway, ultimately avoiding the sight of the two dead bodies in my close proximity. Dizziness overcomes me, rendering me disoriented and more breathless than before, the once steady rise and fall of my chest limited to shaky, sharp intakes of breath when my panic-ridden body allows it.

My hands, covered in violet bruises and blood, rest themselves palm-down over my thighs, their muck tainting my jeans in streaks of red.

Jesus, fuck, man.

Knowing I can't stay there forever, I rise on shaking legs, feeling pathetic; beaten.

Beaten by some lousy, suit-wearing cunt with a smile that probably costs more than my Ma's car.

My body moves towards the sink, chucks squeaking slightly through the puddle of gore smeared across the cheaply made white bathroom tiles. Shaking hands fumble for the knob handle of the tap, grasping it as tightly as possible before twisting it left. After a second of resistance, it turns on, clean water rushing from the faucet. I stand there for a minute, letting the loud noise flush out the sound of the gunshots, the sound of my sister's scream as a bullet punctures her forehead, from my brain.

After a moment, my hands finally fall beneath the faucet, tired eyes watching as red fluid runs off my knuckles, exposing more of the bruised flesh beneath. I spy a bottle of bleach next to a decorative potted plant sitting idle on the counter.

Better than lousy old hand soap.

Wet hands untwist the child-proof cap of the bleach. Once the red cap labelled "DANGER: TOXIC" is removed, the smell of chemicals fills my senses, oddly refreshing after only smelling the iron taint of blood and puke for the past fifteen minutes or so. Tipping the bottle forward, I let the clear, condensed chemical concentrate run over my free hand, before placing the bottle down and smearing said concentrate evenly between both hands. The slight burn of the alkaline substance eating away at my flesh doesn't even make me blink as I work the cleaning product over my bruised knuckles, between my fingers, slicking it across my palms.

My hands then dip beneath the flowing water once again, ridding my now-reddened hands of the bleach. They shake as I twist the knob right until I feel resistance.

Only then do I meet my own eyes in the mirror.

A large purple splotch dons my jaw, from where that clumsy oaf had clocked me as we fell through the bathroom door. Dried blood flakes from my cheeks and onto my shirt. My eyes are puffy and bloodshot, first from the excessive sobbing, then from the excessive vomiting.