In my bedroom, lights zapped, the electricity cutting in and out, flickering broken shadows onto the white wall. I stiffened as hot breaths grazed the nape of my neck.
But that wasn't possible!
Lawrence wasn't breathing anymore—I knew that. Still, I turned in bed to see him.
There he laid, still. His perfect lips hung open in a frozen gasp. Wide green eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling.
Blood had stopped pouring from the deep slash across his throat, but it clung to his skin, thick and wet, soaking into the duvet beneath him. The once white fabric was now soggy and a dark crimson.
The room was quiet—too quiet, that even the buzzing sound of electricity, to me, seemed muted. My gaze lifted, drawn away from Lawrence's lifeless form to the digital clock above the chimney breast. Its red digits displayed.
Half-past seven.
I held the sheets tightly to my chest, twisting the fabric in my fist as I sat up slowly.
Trickles of blood was on the floor and the trail of clothes that led from the door to the bed made me reminisce the night before.
Throwing the sheets to a side, I stood up, letting the cold air bite my bare skin. Gliding my hips elegantly towards my wardrobe, I stopped and looked over at Lawrence.
There I was, naked, and I could no longer see the glitter in his eyes. Usually, he would stare at my breast as a pirate stared at treasures, longing for a touch. His gaze would trace down my figure, and it'd send flames through my body.
I'll never find anyone that'll make me feel what he made me feel, that I was sure.
I reached for a loose gray gown with petal sleeves and slipped it on.
Another glance at the clock—fifty minutes past seven. Walking over to my nightstand, I grabbed the bottle of scotch that sat there and took a large, burning gulp. The liquid scratched its way down my throat, leaving behind a dry heat.
I turned back to the bed at Lawrence's pale face. The sheets covered only his lower torso. Even in death, he was handsome—soft blonde hair covered his chiseled chest.
Without wasting time, I wrapped his body in the duvet.
I stopped, suddenly.
There was a heat in my head, but darkness covered my vision. My eyes flickered white and I gasped, crumbling to the ground.
Moments later, my sight returned.
The lights became steady and bright again. I stumbled to my feet and noticed the gory body on my bed. The body was still there. The blood was still there.
What happened? Did I kill him?
The thought hit my mind like a thunderclap. I fell to my knees, hiding my face in my palms as a sob sparked from my chest. I let out a screamed.
I killed him!
There was a weight on my finger—a band of five tiny emeralds, shimmering under the light—sat on it. Lawrence had given it to me six months after we met.
We were supposed to get married.
My hands trembled as I wrapped the duvet around his body. The fabric clung to his chest, slick with blood. I struggled to cover him fully. He was heavy—so much heavier than I expected. By the time I tied the ends of the sheet together, my muscles twitched in exhaustion. Dragging his body down the corridor was like pulling a sack of stones through mud.
I managed to move him down the stairs and across the large sitting room.
Hurrying to the garage, I tucked a shovel in the backseat and drove out my Volvo 740. I hit the brakes at the front door, got out, and heaved Lawrence's body into the trunk. I sat behind the steering, sighed, and stared at where the rearview mirror used to be before I broke it off.
The drive was fast. Empty roads stretched out ahead of me, flanked by dark woods. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white. I maneuvered into the woods, letting the trees swallow me.
Certain that I was far from the road, I stopped. I pulled the shovel from the backseat and dug.
With each thrust into the earth, my memory of him flashed before my eyes. When we first met at the train station. When he first kissed me. When he first told me he loved me. I remembered how his soft hands delicately caressed my body.
He would whisper loving words to me at night and I'd feel the hot puffs of breath against my cheek.
Dirt flew in uneven clumps, sticking to my sweat-soaked skin. The hole deepened slowly.
I was panting.
My body trembled, my breath dry, but I couldn't stop. Not yet. Shallow graves weren't my thing.
When the hole was nearly as deep enough to swallow me, I struggled out, collapsing against the car. I opened the trunk and pulled him out. The sheets loosened and I could see his face.
For a moment, I hesitated.
His face was still beautiful. I let tears drop as I pushed him into the hole. The sound of his body hitting the bottom finally broke my heart.
I gripped the shovel again and began to cover him. Each scoop of dirt, I hoped, was the memories I had of him—let me bury here not only his body but my memories of him too.
When I finished, I stood there, staring at the ground which Lawrence laid beneath.
On a quiet road, while I drove home, the sound of shovels striking the ground couldn't leave my head no matter how hard I tried.
I reached my building, its shadow loomed over me. The loneliness I'd felt before meeting Lawrence crawled back in. I gazed at the empty stretch of road leading to houses a few miles away. My only neighbors were the trees and the animals.
Dragging my feet inside, I moved toward the bar on the left side of the living room. Without hesitation, I grabbed a bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the cap, and tipped it straight to my lips. The burn coursed down my throat, but I needed it. The awkwardness—the horror—of having killed my fiancé.
With a cruel clarity, I was trapped in thoughts of the actions that occurred the previous night. It all began to come back to me. I froze, staring at the fluffy couch in the living room. The two-seater; his favorite.
I remembered sitting there, glancing at the clock on the wall. The moon was nearly full when Lawrence walked through the door.
Knowing what would happen to me, I begged him to leave, to turn around and drive back home. But he'd only smiled, saying he'd come too far to go back now. My protests faltered as he silenced me with a kiss—a foolish, intoxicating kiss that left my head spinning nonstop.
Ascending the stairs, I could almost feel his arms carrying me, my legs wrapped around his waist, my hands gripping his back. My fingers pressed so tightly they almost dug into his flesh.
I looked at the door and remembered how he nearly broke the bedroom doorknob when he pushed it open.
The sight of my room made me pause. First thing my gaze fell on was the maroon stains on the bedsheets. Shattered glass littered the floor by the headboard.
I swallowed hard, remembering it all.
My hands trembled as I crouched and reached beneath the bed. My fingers brushed against it—a broken bottle, its neck smeared with dried blood.
I held it in my hands and headed out through the back door, which opened to a vast field. The cool morning air tousled my ginger hair as I walked toward the lake at the edge of the property that was nearly as blue as my eyes.
The stillness should have calmed me, but it didn't.
I gazed at the broken bottle, clutching it tightly. A part of me wanted to think of this as scattering the ashes of a loved one. But this was different.
Urgent.
I hurled it into the water and watched it break the stillness, disappearing beneath the surface. Somewhere down there, among countless other murder weapons, it would rest. This one, though, held more of my emotions than the others.
As I turned to trudge back inside, an odd sensation swept over me.
Hunger.
The kind that bit at my insides. It didn't surprise me; it happens whenever the curse leaves.
In the kitchen, I threw open the cabinet, only to find it almost empty. My gaze flicked out the window, toward the mailbox outside.
It was Saturday.
I rushed outside, flipped open the mailbox's tiny door and pulled out a single envelope. Tearing it open, I found cash. A stack.
But who kept sending it? And why?
I have been here alone for eight long years and it baffled me how I couldn't remember anything before then or even how I ended up living in this isolated place at fourteen years of age. It was as though someone had ripped out pages from the story of my life.
I had nothing; no one. Only the spirits of the people my curse had made me kill—they kept me company at night in a quiet torment.
More than anything, I longed to know why I was cursed, by whom and the origins of my birth.
My life wasn't a choice. It never was!
Every blood I had spilled with my hands was forced upon me by the dark force that rests deep within my soul—a darkness my family left me with to face alone. Years of loneliness and guilt.
I will trace my family, dig up every secret they buried, and make them face the monster they've created.
All of them will pay.