Hi you guys,
This is a random story that I thought up when I was super-bored and reading one of my friend hal99's stories. I don't know what possessed me to write this, but I guess my fingers have a mind of their own. Enjoy, if you dare.
Blood. It was everywhere. Puddles were forming from the fresh liquid dripping from the walls. Drip. Drip. Drip.
I can't believe what I just did.
I looked at the knife in my hand and the body at my feet. There was blood all over my shirt and hands, but I didn't care. I was honestly in too much shock to be able to process much of anything right now except that she was dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
That was all I could think of right now, what I had just done. These were the kinds of things that haunted my dreams, gave me nightmares. And I had just done it myself. I had had no control over myself.
It had just happened.
She shouldn't have been here, not now. Or, I shouldn't have been here. I wasn't sure which was one was right at the moment, and as the police cars pulled up, headlights lighting up the wall, I could clearly see the damage of my mistake.
Blood was everywhere, the red liquid painted across the brick canvas of the old abandoned apartment building. I hardly even moved when the police car's sirens shut off, the ignition being cut, the door opening. Because, right now, it didn't matter. All that mattered was what I had done.
I let the knife clatter to the pavement beside me, putting my hands up to resist the urge to kill myself for killing an innocent person. She hadn't done anything to me, she was only trying to help me.
Why did I have a knife right then? Was were we both there at the same time? This was all my fault. It was all my fault that she was dead.
It took me all my will-power not to pick the knife back up and stab myself right in the heart, ending my existence because I had ended hers. I didn't deserve to live anymore, I deserved to die. But what would dying solve? I needed to face the punishment for my mistake, even if that meant living the rest of my life being tortured.
Anyways, I was just some messed-up teenager that had had a knife and killed my friend. I didn't mean much to many people anyway, maybe my parents when they weren't drunk. Apparently, according to my former best friend, it was just natural for me to be so messed up considering the circumstances that I was living in.
I grabbed my phone out of my pocket, the same one that I had used minutes ago to call the cops on myself, and hurdled it as hard as I could against the blood-soaked wall. I didn't deserve it.
I just kept standing there, not caring if I was blinded by the Police car's violently bright lights, holding my hands up, waiting for them to take me away.
A large black cop guy got out of the car, his combat boots pounding against the rocks covering my town's nearly-destroyed street. His handcuffs glinted in the car's lights as he walked over to me, his overwhelming form looming over me.
Wordlessly, he hooked them around my bony wrists, and gave them a sharp tug, getting me to follow him towards the car.
I wanted to bolt, but fought the urge, knowing that this was meant to be my fate. I slid into the back of the car and glanced through the barred window. All that I could see was my friend's dead body, lying there in the middle of that ally.
This was like one of those nightmares that I used to have when I was a kid, when I would be taken away and tortured relentlessly by the man. But this time was different.
Because this time, I was the murderer.