THE CALL OF HER

2

You tiredly scroll on your laptop, recently off the app Pinterest. You glance over to the time in the right side lower corner of your screen, raising your eyebrows eye the time. "Holy shit, it's already 12 in the morning." A smile shows itself on your face, making your heavy eyes shrink.

While you exit out of the last article you were reading and onto Google, your mind catches interest in the article that pops up just below the Google symbol on your screen; Murder of Five, expected to be another hit of famous killer posse called: The Proxies.

You furrow your eyebrows, clicking onto the article. Biting down on your lip, you begin to read the lines of typed words. A sickness in your stomach and a headache in the back of your skull forms, making you wince.

The hum of the heaters coming on makes your eyes look away from the computer and to the heater near the couch, paranoia already reaching your thoughts.

Looking back to your screen, you can't help but to keep reading;

The Proxies are a famous group wanted by the FBI, and are 'til this day still on the loose. Their last murder was recorded in March of 2015. And since then, the wounds on the bodies either tells investigators that there's a new choice of signature weapon, or worst case, a new group member has joined the posse since then. 

Security cameras in the apartment of the five was wiped, but a ring that holds the fingerprints of a said to be deceased Katelyn Hayes.

Your heart stops at the mention of her. 

Is it a coincidence? 

It has to be them framing it on her.

But how would they know her?

How would she-

"You think it's that Katelyn Hayes girl?"

You jump at the voice behind you and instantly turn in your chair, your heart nearly in your throat.

 Monica's blonde hair drapes down her shoulders, her tank top revealing pale skin. Even her looks can't make you not irrated by this comment. 

"Just because she killed her abusive father, in self defense, doesn't mean she's one of these sick murderers." Your voice comes off rude. Monica's eyes soften, and her hand rubs up against your shoulder. 

"That's not what I meant, hun." She whispers, wrapping her arms around you. You hold back the snarky reply stuck in your throat. Your hand goes to her arm, covering her moth tattoo. Closing your eyes, you let her hair drape over you and hide the two of you in your own little world.

"I didn't mean to get sassy with you," You whisper. Monica presses a soft kiss on your lips, her smell warm and comforting. "She's a sensitive topic for me." Like any ex would be, but Kate and you were something else. You saw her in blood, guilty blood, and still felt butterflies in your stomach when you saw her in heavy breaths and kissed back when she held onto you.

June 28th, 2007. 

At specifically 9:35 pm, Kate slid in through your window soaked in blood. You let out a scream, not recognizing who she was at first. But with her soft hand over your mouth, you immediately knew who she was. 

"Please don't yell." She knelt down beside your bed, slipping her bloodied hand off of your lips and to gather your hands in hers. 

With pleading brown eyes, she looked up at you with dried tears mixed in with the blood splatters on her face.

"They'll find my finger prints on the knife. A-And-" "What the fuck did you do?" Your urgent voice made Kate's grip on your hands tighten, for you to listen with no thought on innocent or guilty.

"He hit my Ma, and I just..." She lets out a heavy breath. You knew she had anger issues, but can any issues drive you to the point of...killing, someone? 

"I killed him." She whispers, letting her rest her forehead against your shaking legs. "And the worst part of it all, is that I don't feel sorry." You lick your lips, thinking of what to say to someone who just killed their Dad. 

"Like, I don't feel sorry, at all." A sob escapes her, but at least she's smiling.

'At least she's smiling.' You think to yourself as chills go down your spine. 

You roll over in bed, sweat on your face as Monica stretches. Tears stain your cheeks, like almost every night.

The feeling of fear eats at you, not remembering going to bed. But at least your in it, right?

Not murdered in your own house, by your youngest child, with a knife you were cooking your own dinner with. 

Right?