17 | My Fault

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THE MASKED FIGURE WAS COMING IN!

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THE MASKED FIGURE WAS COMING IN!

My brain cells liquefied on the spot, everything else frozen in place. The world swirled in slow motion, my sanity slipping out like water through a crack.

The soft chuckle turned into high-pitched laughter as the door continued to scrap open at a relaxed pace.

A frenzy of gushing blood surged in my ears, heart mauling at my chest like a vicious wolverine.

"My Hunny-Bunny," the masked figure cooed, white robe dancing along the threshold. The figure had the door open about a quarter of the way when an item in their other hand caught my eye.

The fluorescent lighting glinted down on a hammer — the kind my mother used to slaughter our family.

That jerked me into motion, electricity shooting through my veins like jumper cables on a car battery. My feet skidded across the floor as I ran toward the threshold, throwing my body weight against the door like a battering ram.

Sizzling pain shocked the left side of my body, but the door closed with a loud thud.

A soft cackling broke out on the other side. "My daughter, I want to see you," the figure said, tone soft and airy.

With my body still against the door, I slide up and locked it. This time locking all three locks.

"My daughter, I want to see you," the figure said again.

"Fuck you," I panted, the electric adrenaline still coursing through me. "Stay away from me."

My eyes closed, the sight of the hammer still in my thoughts. The last time a hammer like that was in my presence, it was soaked in blood, dripping on the white carpet.

My mother held it in her fist as she and Angie struggled. Both of them covered in blood, screaming and wrestling.

Imagine walking in on that at seven. I just got first place in my school's spelling bee and was bringing my red ribbon home to show my family. And instead of happiness, I walked in on the worst day of my life.

Memories of that day were still spotty. The last thing I remembered was my mother and Angie wrestling with the hammer while my dead brother laid on the kitchen table, head gashed open, eyes blank.

My therapist said I probably repressed everything from that time, and that even what I remembered could be wrong. I didn't know. I never tried to analyze that day; I just wanted to forget.

But this show wouldn't let me.

"But I miss you," the figure spoke again, a metal sound scraping against the door between us.

"I hate you," I said, placing all my weight against the door. Everything tingled, especially my fingers as a thick weight blanketed my shoulders.

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