Drip… drip… drip… the broken silence crashes down to the floor of white linoleum as a blood curdling shriek echoes horridly throughout the blackened gymnasium. Blink. Breathe. Somehow, the formaldehyde wafts from the biology lab from down the corridor. The stench of preservation. The taste of flesh that can no longer rot.
The surrounding darkness envelopes me as I stumble towards what I assume to be the girls locker room. It feels like hours have passed by the time I reach a door. The frigid metal is soaked with a metallic, crimson liquid that I know so well. Too well.
I open the door, rushing inside and immediately shivering. There is a tiny amount of light from an open window above me, allowing snowy air to float into this realm of Hell on Earth. The reek of blood is even stronger in here. Stronger then it ever has been before. I crouch down, sneaking around the lockers in search of whoever, whatever, has harmed the poor girl who screamed not minutes ago.
It's so cold. My visible breath reminds me that it should never be this Antarctic inside of a school. This hyperthermic inside of any building with humans inside. For a second, I wonder if the heater is broken. Then I am snapped out of my mind the sight in front of me.
There she is. My baby sister, just barely fourteen, hanging by a noose from one of the overhead lights, with a deep, profusely bleeding gash in her throat. Her naturally pale skin is even whiter in the dimness, all colour having left her body when her neck snapped. Except for the scarlet rain dripping from her neck. Her young face, usually alight in wonder, is frozen in a mask of terror, her last shriek still etched on her open lips.
"Oh God," I whisper, my voice breaking as I back up into a locker. I am completely and utterly horrified, and disturbed, and infuriated by the ghastly sight in front of me. My poor baby sister. "Oh God, please no."
We're here, my mind whispers to me. She's here with us now. Forever.
I run from my sister, my dear, sweet Leanne. I run from the scene, stitched behind my eyelids forever more. I run, crashing into a person and tumbling down to the floor along with her. I recognize the girl immediately. Ramona Jenkins. Leanne's ex best friend.
"Why did you do that to her?" I scream at the girl with blood dripping from her tanned fingers, concealed by white, latex gloves.
"What?" she asks, crawling away from me on her backside hurriedly. "What did I do to whom?"
"Leanne!" I shout, tackling the horrible girl in front of me that killed my sister. She killed my sister. She killed my sister.
My hands grasp at her throat, slamming her head again and again against the cement floor. I ask her in a raspy shout, "Why? Why? Why? Why did you kill her? Why did you kill her?" God knows how long passes before she stops struggling against me. She goes limp in my hands, dead. She's dead. Just like my sister.
I crawl away from the girl I just murdered, backing into another locker and rising swiftly. I run back towards Leanne, realizing that she's not there. Where is she?
I search for the corpse of my little sister, running all around the locker room and nearly tripping over Ramona four times. I stop. I breathe. I listen.
She's not here.
Then where is she?
She was never here. She wasn't here at all. She died two years ago, having killed herself in the locker room after school on the last day of her Freshman year. She's not here. She hasn't been here for two years.
And I just killed another person.
"No," I cry, running to the showers and hiding in the corner. I curl up into the fetal position, rocking back and forth as I cry, beg, scream my sister's name.
Hours drag on by, slothing along agonizingly. When will someone find me? Will anyone find me? Of course they will. I didn't bother burying the body this time. The damned girl is laying there in a pile of blood from the biology room, and shattered memories. My memories. Twisted from years of guilt, and anger, and confusion.
They find me. Mr. Salvatore and Mrs. Alkin, the gym teachers. First Alkin screams when they find Ramona. Then Salvatore finds me and takes me to the police station for questioning.
I don't lie this time.
I don't pretend this time.
I admit everything. The voices. The visions. The anger. The guilt. Everything rushes to the surface, like blood spilling out from underneath flesh when a wound in opened. And, as I suspected, they lock me up in the Psychiatric ward of the local prison, for all the insane people that are never to leave this place. Ever. Again.
And neither will I.
I will rot here for years, existing, never living.
Until I escape again.
And I will escape again.
I always do.