Quoted By:
You scoop water from beneath the running faucet and splash it across your face again and again as if you can wash away what you've become. What you're becoming. You look down at the pink water sloshing in the basin. Sitting on the edge of the sitting beside where your pill bottle had been is a pistol. It was probably about as old as you are. As a .22 it wasn't likely to do much damage unless you hit just right with it.
You pick it up and turn it over in your hands, the diffuse fluorescent light playing off its metallic finish. You consider putting the muzzle to your temple and pulling the trigger but…well, somehow you're not sure that would kill you. "Alright," you say, meeting your mirror's gaze again. "Almost home."
You find jeans wadded up on the shower floor. They're dry enough so you pull them on, tucking the pistol in your back waistband. You take one more steady breath and grip the doorknob back to the hotel room. You know what you'll find even if you don't like it. The metal feels electric in your grip.
You exhale and open the door to reveal a seen of carnage.
"Fuck…"
Well, the good news is that she's definitely dead. No need for a mercy killing tonight. The yellow glow of the motel's sign spills in through the gauzy curtains, lighting everything a sickly gold. Everything but the blood. The bed and its sheets are doused in it, more blood than a human body should really contain, though you're not a doctor or anything.
Still, you've spilled enough that you should be an expert by now
You circle the bed slowly, feet sticking slightly on the tacky floor. Your eyes don't leave the body. She's as naked as you are, face down, toned legs, perky butt, her back oozing blood from a nasty gash by her ribs.
You keep circling until you see her face. Her eyes are glazed, unfocused, jaw slack. Definitely fucking dead. Her neck is torn open, her jugular pumped what life she'd had left onto cheap pillows and sheets. You still taste iron in your mouth.
"Fuck…" You run your hands back through your hair, trying to remain calm. You've had situations like this in the past but…nothing so animalistic. You're going to have to do something about that at some point. The pills didn't work. You'll need a different type of medicine.
One thing at a time. Right now there's a dead chick in your motel room. Who is she? How did she get here? Did she know you?
You look around. Her clothes are neatly folded and siting on the dresser. You rifle quickly through them, searching for anything. Money, ID…anything.
Nothing. No cash, no cards.
You look back at the body, desperately wracking your memory. Why would you pick up a girl while you were on your way home? Surely you knew what a big fucking risk that would have been. Unless this was exactly what you picked her up for…
