So for my university course last week, we had to take the short story that we had written the week before (in my case, my previous blog post: The Hunt) and change the genre. I wasn’t entirely sure what my previous short story had been but I decided to turn it into a horror/crime.
I titled it, ‘Why Me?’
It happens the moment my eyes open in the morning. It happens the moment my gaze wanders around for the first time—noticing the rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains; surveying the way the sunlight reflects off the fronds of the plant that sits on the windowsill; observing, through still bleary eyes, blood.
The sounds of everyday life filter into the bedroom, completely oblivious to the blood that is everywhere in my bedroom—the carpet, the walls, my hands; completely oblivious to the sight and smell which overtakes anything else. The moment I roll out of bed and place my feet against the floor, the blood seems to beckon me closer for inspection.
The blood stares up at me with sad eyes, with an expression that seems to read, ‘Why me?’ I crouch down beside it and myhand hovers over it; hesitant. A single touch though is all it takes for me to ache for more.
Then the second touch is a completely different story. The second touch begins a whole new frenzy which causes for my own blood to chill, tasting the spilt blood that lies on my skin.You think, maybe a second time won’t hurt. Maybe it won’t be as bad. Maybe it will be easier.
Then just as I am beginning to focus—ping! I have a new Facebook message.
“Hey! How are you? What are you doing” I reply and then, “Oh, you know, planning my future.”
After a half-hearted five minute conversation, mostly one sided, I plan once more. The pen and paper come out and I’m scribbling. Stroke after stroke, word after word, plan after plan. Another ping! And my friend is sending me all of thoseemojis with the tears gushing down their faces while complaining about some relationship that has just ended.Bingo. My friend has just become a part of my plan.
Suddenly my pen is scribbling across the paper at a million miles per hour. The tip cutting into the paper as if it is as sharp as a butcher’s knife. The ink flowing out, the colour of blood.All over my hands, all over my face and all over the sheets of paper.
Blood is everywhere. There is now a body sprawled across my bed and it stares up at me with blank eyes. Eyes that once used to gaze at me with warmth and not the cold they are now filled with. Just like the previous puddle of spilt blood, theirs seems to ask, ‘Why me?’ But I cannot answer that. Nor could I answer it for the last body. It just is and just was. Not a question of why or how, but a matter of it is done and cannot be undone.
The frenzy that had been singing in my blood is satisfied… for now. The sight of orange jumpsuits and bars that imprison your freedom vaguely comes to mind. A large amount of evidence is stacked up, enough for the image to become a reality. But that is not a problem for me. My problem is my next who or when.
If only my friend knew what I did to help her.