4 Minutes. [Discontinued]

Prologue.

Dedication goes to Minajislife for wanting me to write NickixRihanna again. :)

(and Avant inspired me with the title.)

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I do not regret anything I say or do. I do make mistakes. But the difference is, I never learn from them. What's the point if I'm just going to keep making the same mistakes over and over again? I'm a human being just like anyone else, but my actions seem...unhuman, almost foreign. The way I do things, the way I see the world.

When I look down at the world passing by outside the thick glass of my window, all I see is nothing but red. Blood red. I see bodies being sliced, blood instantly oozing. I can hear their screams of mercy, begging me to not take their lives. But when I blink my eyes, I am faced with reality, and now I'm glaring in defeat. Visualizing battered bodies and loud shrieks are only my guilty pleasure. A guilty pleasure that I can't resist.

I swear I am not crazy. What I think about is perfectly sane. No one can judge what I envision, because they are just thoughts—my thoughts that are kept in my mind, swarming within my brain on a daily basis. Nobody can judge them but me, and I say that it's normal.

I am not crazy.

I slowly step away from the window, turning around to walk over to my bed, plopping on top of it. I stare up at the ceiling, unblinking, tracing my eyes along the irregular patterns made on the white surface. They remind me of veins that poke out of human's bodies when they're tense, when they're stressed. Scared even.

My heart begins beating faster in my chest. My fingertips are tingling. I can sense the guilty pleasure flooding back in my head.

And before I know it, I can't stop myself. I'm already out of my bedroom, heading down the hallway towards the front door.

"Nicki? Nicki, is that you?"

My hand hovers just an inch above the doorknob as I freeze in place at the prominent Barbadian accent. I widen my eyes, slowly craning my head to look behind me over my shoulder. My roommate, Robyn, is standing in the middle of the hallway, sleepily rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hands. Her curly dark brown hair is going in all sorts of directions, almost resembling chocolate-icing on a cupcake.

A breath is caught in my throat as I stay frozen. I don't know how to respond in situations like this.

When she notices I'm not replying, a yawn escapes her nude lips as she asks, "Where are you going at two o'clock in the morning?" Her voice sounds deeper, almost like gravel, filled with tiredness. I blush a little, feeling bad that I had woken her up somehow.

"W-why are you up?" I counter, purposely avoiding her question, finally blinking anxiously.

Robyn begins rubbing the back of her neck. "Oh, I wasn't up. I fell asleep on the couch watching some show on TV and heard footsteps in my sleep," she explains before adding in an obvious tone, "So, I woke up."

I mentally grimace in defeat. I forgot how Robyn has this sort of sixth sense when she's asleep, practically hearing and/or feeling someone's presence subconsciously when they're near her; and the sense is even more vital when she's awake. I always secretly envied her for having this ability.

"Oh," is all I say after a minute of staring at her, still blinking. My hand remains hovering an inch above the doorknob the entire time, itching to twist the grey metal to head out the door.

Robyn slightly squints her tired eyes at me, making the green in them look darker from the dimly-lit hallway. "Are you alright, Nicki?" she asks suspiciously, tilting her head a little. "Why are you acting weirder than usual?"