Hurt

4

I moved him to the chemotherapy room. I'd wait for him to wake up, then burn most of the alive cells in his body. Just like he did to you. It was too late to turn back now. If I let him live, I'd probably be arrested. I knew how manipulative he was. The police would believe him and not me.

Anyways, I remembered how this machine worked all too well. Technically, due to privacy policies, I wasn't supposed to be there with you during chemo, but we both insisted and they caved easily. Maybe they knew you were going to die. Maybe they were a part of it too.

My already skyrocketing anger rose.

I was snapped out of my thoughts when I heard some scraping noise.

He's awake.

After some more careless wandering, I returned back to the room I started in. The room PhatHoe was trying to escape. There was a fire in his eyes, a deadlier one than before. He looked like he would enjoy killing millions of people, just for the fun of it. And I'd definitely be the first person on the list. I wondered if I looked like that too.

The cut I'd made had almost stopped bleeding by now, but some of the crusty blood from the shirt had chipped off onto the gash. It looked horrible and probably felt worse. I felt elated by just looking at it.

I slowly walked over to him, just to make it dramatic. I was the predator, he was the prey. The anger in his eyes started to mix with fear. I knew what he was feeling. Hopelessness. How I felt when I woke up in this hell. His hell.

The fear in his eyes made it clear that he knew I was out for blood. "You want to be convicted for murder, just for the little piece of shit that you call your sister?" He asked, as if he was in disbelief. 

With each word he said, I felt something I call insanity set in. I don't know how to explain it. It was like with every passing second, I lost control of more and more of my body functions and I didn't care. I could've stopped it. My 'insanity' was fueled mostly by anger and pain. Hurt. If I took any of my anger out on something else, Mr. PhatHoe would've still be alive right now. But he didn't, and still doesn't, deserve to live.

 The first body control I lost was talking. I wanted to say so many things to him, make him feel worthless, scream at him, scare him. Instead, I just laughed. Ringing laughter filled the air. The bone-chilling, hysterical type of laughter that would make a horror movie a hit, even with a horrible plot, graphics and acting. I laughed so hard, I cried. It was the right move. Not only did the sound scare him obviously shitless, it said I wasn't taking him seriously.  The hurt, both physical and emotional was obvious on his face.

The next parts of my body to lose control were my legs. They moved towards him with immoral meaning. The sound of my shoes slamming the concrete floor echoed throughout the room. I ended up less than centimeters away from him, crouched uncomfortably in front of his face.

I studied it. He might as well be the ugliest person I know, even today. Narrow pale face seemingly squashed on either side by two enormous ears. Crooked yellowing teeth inside lips who's size could rival Christina Rei's, and inhuman, narrow holes were called his eyes

My hands grew their own brains too. With one hand, I slapped him so hard, my own hand heated up to the extent it could've fried an egg. Or a doctors cheek. Was it pain I felt? Yes. It hurt. That was undeniable. The thing is, insane me loved the pain. She still does. My other hand sat uselessly by my side, randomly twitching every now and again.

He was going to pay. Pay for what he did to you, and by the looks of it, countless others.