I'm not the only one in my reflection.

Part fifteen

The brunette grabbed the rapidly approaching knife by the blade with one hand, exerting all her strength to keep it away from her head and face. 

— I will not allow my identity to be determined solely by who the people who conceived and gave birth to me were. I'm not like you, Roman or Stu or God knows who else. I am me.

— Oh no, — Leslie, grabbing the handle of the knife with two palms, began to overpower her daughter and the blade began to slowly descend, approaching the girl's face. — you're not like us. You had such genes embedded in you, but you still became such a laughing stock. Did you really think that this little Sidney Prescott trick of yours would help you escape?

From the outside, this whole situation might seem strange. The daughter and the mother fought for the knife, fought with each other, but they did not do it in silence, but continued to talk, as if one of them was not trying to take the other's life.

— This trick still got you right where I need you.. — Katherine croaked, abruptly raised her hand, which was not involved in stopping the knife from approaching, and hit her mother on the head with a meat hammer.

The woman fell off her daughter and, dropping the knife, clutched her head. Her blond hair, wet with sweat, became even wetter, only now it turned a reddish color from the blood that began to flow from the new wound.  

Murphy stood up and looked straight into her mother's disoriented eyes for a second, then looked away at the gleaming blade of the knife that so beckoned her to take it and finish with her mother. 

Stu reappeared behind the brunette and leaned into her ear, whispering very softly. — Finish what you started. Go ahead, kill her.

The girl grinned and, ignoring the knife, tightened her grip on the handle of the hammer with her fingers. She raised her hand again before bringing the hammer down on her mother's head again, whose skull made a strange squishing sound and her body shuddered uncontrollably.

— You have his eyes. — Those were Leslie Macher's last words. It seems that she finally (rather unexpectedly) gave up, let go of the hatred she had for her own children and Sidney in the last seconds of her life, and went to her beloved Roman.

Maybe even if it happened in the last seconds of her life, Leslie finally saw in her daughter's dark hair and green-flecked blue eyes more of Roman, the man she loved, than Stu, the brother who ruined her life.

The brunette shook her head and pulled off the mask of a Ghostface from her head, threw it in the same place where she had thrown the umbrella earlier.

— Say hi to my daddy.

Continuing and continuing to strike, Katherine had to endure, gritting her teeth, those times when the hammer made Leslie's head, which had already turned into a bloody mess, squish and spray large drops of scarlet liquid into it.

She did not calm down even when the blonde's body stopped twitching in death throes, and her mouth made hoarse, painful whimpers that will forever remain in the brunette's memory and head. She didn't stop until she could see the color of the floor through the huge hole in her mother's head.

Murphy's punches were stopped by a scream she heard from the kitchen, which clearly belonged to her ex. She sighed heavily and leaned against the wall, slid down it, and looked down. No washing machine or dry cleaner could save her beige sweatshirt now. There was too much blood soaked into the material, and too many slits left from the knife blade that Amber and Leslie had used to wound her.

Her dark-haired head rested wearily against first one shoulder, then the other, and from somewhere nearby came a noise and suspiciously similar gurgling sounds that her mother's body had made, most likely just the head, just a few seconds ago. Or was it minutes ago?

The girl got up, bracing her bloody hand against the wall, and stared at the hammer in her hands in confusion, seeming to remember only now that she was still clutching it in her hands, somehow finding the strength to do so, even though her tired body was littered with physical wounds. What can you say about psychological trauma? She had just killed her mother by smashing her head with a meat hammer.

Thoughts of Tara, Sam, and the others she'd left behind were only now beginning to enter her disoriented head. She dealt with her mother, but did Sam deal with Richie, and Sidney, Tatum, and Gale deal with Amber? Would she have to face these two madmen face to face and still die despite the fact that she had defeated her personal Ghostface?

Stumbling into the living room, Katherine saw Tara writhing there and knelt down in front of her, tears uncontrollably flowing down her cheeks. The hammer, bloody as if it had been dipped in a bucket of scarlet liquid, fell to the floor. On one side of the hammer, there were even small patches of skin from Leslie's face caught on sharp pyramidal protrusions, her brain fluid mixed with blood.

— Tara, stay conscious, the police and ambulance are on their way. They have to go. — The brunette looked up, hearing several pairs of footsteps, and met the gaze of worried brown eyes. She breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that all her loved ones were fine, the Ghostfaces had lost. As always.

Then everything happened too fast. Amber, who, despite her horrific wounds, was able to get up, grabbed a gun lying next to her and fired at Murphy with a scream.

The former redhead, who seemed to have foreseen this, managed to dive down (in fact, she just fell to the floor, losing her last strength, a few seconds before the shot was fired, but she won't admit it to anyone), but the man who just walked through the front door and stopped right in the In the doorway, I didn't have time.

The bullet hit the chest of the man, who fell to the floor, groaning. 

Leslie Macher's last and, one might say, only true wish, what she regretted in the last seconds of her life, which she could not do, was fulfilled. Roman Bridger, her lover, was avenged, and his killer was killed, even if not by her own hand, but by Amber Freeman's hand.