herself?
Camille was naked. She was almost always naked. She scrubbed at her arms, her stomach, her thighs, but it just kept spreading. It was under her nails, in the grooves of her palms, and she clenched her teeth as she scrubbed harder.
She’d really done it.
Slamming the water off she tried to stop shaking, dripping pink droplets into the tub. Grabbing the already ruined towel she managed to wipe most of it away, and she almost tripped as she climbed out of the bathtub, bracing her hands on the sink.
Her blue eyes were bloodshot, her white blonde hair lank and damp against her cheeks.
Was she crying, or was that the water from the shower?
The knife. It was in the sink, still slick with blood. The sides of the bowl were streaked with it too, and she stifled the urge to start screaming as she flipped the water on to rinse it.
Had she screamed earlier? Had someone heard her? Had they made noise?
Shaking her head she pounded her fist against her temple. “Get it together, Camille. Get it the fuck together.” Reaching for the knife she hissed and yanked her hand back. “SHIT!” The water was boiling hot, and she growled as she flipped the faucet the other direction before she snagged the washcloth and wiped the knife clean, and then the sink.
Water won’t work. Water doesn’t do this.
Turning on her heel she stormed through the house, ignoring the petite bloody footprints that criss-crossed the already filthy carpet. The kitchen was a wreck, dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the smell of rotting food wafted out of the fridge even with it closed. Swallowing the bile in her throat she tore open the cabinet under the sink and almost laughed when she saw the bottle of bleach next to the half-empty bottle of dish soap.
“Looks like it’s my day, asshole.” Camille ripped it from underneath and poured bleach onto the rag as she traced the path she’d taken. Cleaning her bloody fingerprints from the walls, the doorknobs, the railing at the bottom of the stairs. Then she was back in the bathroom, pouring it into the sink and splashing it across the tub and the tiled walls.
Her reflection caught her again and she wanted to slam her fist into the mirror.
“I’m not you! I’m never going to be you again, you hear me?” She was shouting at the girl in the mirror. The weak, pathetic girl that had existed before tonight. That had been locked in the closet. That had been held down, and used, over and over and over.
Never again. Never .
Camille dropped the bottle of bleach into the tub. There was too much blood across the house. Too much to wipe away, and even then they’d find her DNA everywhere. Not to mention the fucking bodies. She couldn’t move Steve, or Mama Carrie . Fucking pointless.
Clothes. Shoes a size too big. The knife. Cash from the coffee can in the back of the pantry. A coat that reeked of pot smoke and cigarettes.
Dressed, she finally went and got the key and unlocked the room. Two terrified shapes huddled on narrow beds, whimpering, shaking. She had been like them an hour or two before. She had been them, or maybe she had never been like them, but now she knew she wasn’t. She would never be again.
It took a minute more to unlock the cuff at each of their wrists, and then she pulled away from them. Not wanting to touch them, not wanting to feel their fear, afraid her own might return.
“Run.”
They didn’t speak as they stumbled past her, grabbing clothes left in the closet. The closet they all knew too well, and then they were gone. No questions. No words.
What words were there for this level of fucked up?
Then she was standing at the front door, looking at a crime scene, or what would be a crime scene in a day or so. They’d come back. They always came back. Joe. Clinton. Barry. Roger. They would find them, and then they’d know. They would know she had done it – the other two never fought back.
Joe would be first.
Joe was the worst.
Joe Wilson.
His face flashed in
Camille was naked. She was almost always naked. She scrubbed at her arms, her stomach, her thighs, but it just kept spreading. It was under her nails, in the grooves of her palms, and she clenched her teeth as she scrubbed harder.
She’d really done it.
Slamming the water off she tried to stop shaking, dripping pink droplets into the tub. Grabbing the already ruined towel she managed to wipe most of it away, and she almost tripped as she climbed out of the bathtub, bracing her hands on the sink.
Her blue eyes were bloodshot, her white blonde hair lank and damp against her cheeks.
Was she crying, or was that the water from the shower?
The knife. It was in the sink, still slick with blood. The sides of the bowl were streaked with it too, and she stifled the urge to start screaming as she flipped the water on to rinse it.
Had she screamed earlier? Had someone heard her? Had they made noise?
Shaking her head she pounded her fist against her temple. “Get it together, Camille. Get it the fuck together.” Reaching for the knife she hissed and yanked her hand back. “SHIT!” The water was boiling hot, and she growled as she flipped the faucet the other direction before she snagged the washcloth and wiped the knife clean, and then the sink.
Water won’t work. Water doesn’t do this.
Turning on her heel she stormed through the house, ignoring the petite bloody footprints that criss-crossed the already filthy carpet. The kitchen was a wreck, dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the smell of rotting food wafted out of the fridge even with it closed. Swallowing the bile in her throat she tore open the cabinet under the sink and almost laughed when she saw the bottle of bleach next to the half-empty bottle of dish soap.
“Looks like it’s my day, asshole.” Camille ripped it from underneath and poured bleach onto the rag as she traced the path she’d taken. Cleaning her bloody fingerprints from the walls, the doorknobs, the railing at the bottom of the stairs. Then she was back in the bathroom, pouring it into the sink and splashing it across the tub and the tiled walls.
Her reflection caught her again and she wanted to slam her fist into the mirror.
“I’m not you! I’m never going to be you again, you hear me?” She was shouting at the girl in the mirror. The weak, pathetic girl that had existed before tonight. That had been locked in the closet. That had been held down, and used, over and over and over.
Never again. Never .
Camille dropped the bottle of bleach into the tub. There was too much blood across the house. Too much to wipe away, and even then they’d find her DNA everywhere. Not to mention the fucking bodies. She couldn’t move Steve, or Mama Carrie . Fucking pointless.
Clothes. Shoes a size too big. The knife. Cash from the coffee can in the back of the pantry. A coat that reeked of pot smoke and cigarettes.
Dressed, she finally went and got the key and unlocked the room. Two terrified shapes huddled on narrow beds, whimpering, shaking. She had been like them an hour or two before. She had been them, or maybe she had never been like them, but now she knew she wasn’t. She would never be again.
It took a minute more to unlock the cuff at each of their wrists, and then she pulled away from them. Not wanting to touch them, not wanting to feel their fear, afraid her own might return.
“Run.”
They didn’t speak as they stumbled past her, grabbing clothes left in the closet. The closet they all knew too well, and then they were gone. No questions. No words.
What words were there for this level of fucked up?
Then she was standing at the front door, looking at a crime scene, or what would be a crime scene in a day or so. They’d come back. They always came back. Joe. Clinton. Barry. Roger. They would find them, and then they’d know. They would know she had done it – the other two never fought back.
Joe would be first.
Joe was the worst.
Joe Wilson.
His face flashed in
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