making strange wheezing sounds. The blood ran out of his body. He raised his eyes to me, his face twisted in horror, in disbelief. He tried to speak, but blood rolled over his tongue and bubbled over his lips.
He sank on his side to the grass, hugging himself. He bled out so quickly.
I stood there watching, fighting back my nausea, gritting my teeth. So quickly. It happened so quickly. Or was I standing outside time? Did it actually take him a long time to die?
I canât tell you, Diary. I stood and watched the spreading blood. Such a big puddle of his blood, with him curled on his side inside it.
I was still gasping for breath, fighting the deep shudders that paralyzed my body, when I knew he was dead. And as soon as I knew, I started to move, to breathe again, to think more carefully and calmly.
I wiped the blood-soaked knife on the sleeve of his hoodie. Then I folded it up and tossed it into my bag. Gathered my belongings and stuffed everything back where it belonged.
Then I drove home, sobbing all the way. Sobbing at the top of my lungs, big tears rolling down my face, burning my cheeks.
My boyfriend, my only true love, was dead. I killed him. Stabbed him and watched him bleed to death. Killed him. I killed him.
So of course I cried. Cried and sobbed and moaned all the way home. I knew my life would never be the same.
Â
15.
Thankfully, Mom and Dad were asleep in their room. I couldnât have faced them. I wouldâve collapsed in a heap and never moved again.
How could I explain to them what I did? I couldnât explain it to myself.
I stood in the dark kitchen without turning on a light. My bag suddenly felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. I let it fall to the floor in front of the kitchen door.
The house was so still. The only sounds were my harsh breaths and the hum of the refrigerator. I took a few steps toward the kitchen counter. My sneakers squeaked on the tile floor. I pictured them covered in blood.
I pictured Blade swimming on his side in a lake of his own blood. I never knew that blood could smell so powerful. It smelled tangy and sour, very metallic.
I pictured Blade raising his head above the blood, gazing at me. Blood flowed down his face, thickly matted his hair. But he stared at me through the layer of blood, an accusing stare. He didnât need to speak. I could read the horror and the anger on his face.
I shook my head hard, erasing the terrifying picture from my mind. I shut my eyes tight and held them closed. Could I stay in this darkness and keep all these pictures from my brain?
No. For some reason, Deena Fear appeared before my eyes. Her black hair flew about her head as if being blown by a hurricane wind. Her lips were bright red, brighter than Bladeâs blood.
In my imagination, my feverish imagination, she raised a red hoodie in both hands and waved it at me.
Why is she doing that? Why is she even in my thoughts now?
The frightening stories of the Fear family contained many murders. According to legend, the Fears throughout their history knew how to murder people in the most hideous and painful ways.
But Iâm a Donnelly. My grandparents came from County Wicklow in Ireland. We have never been murderers ⦠till now.
I made my way through the dark house, then up the stairs to my room. I leaned on the banister and stepped as lightly as I could. I didnât want to make a sound.
I closed the bedroom door carefully behind me, crossed the room in the dark, and slumped onto the edge of my bed. The window was open. The curtains drifted in and out softly in a gentle breeze. Pale light from the streetlight across the street washed over the carpet.
I sat hunched on the bed staring at the shadows of the shifting curtains. I donât know how much time passed. I didnât move. I barely breathed.
At some point, I scratched the fingernails of my left hand over the back of my right hand. Dug the nails into the skin. Just to feel something. Just to
He sank on his side to the grass, hugging himself. He bled out so quickly.
I stood there watching, fighting back my nausea, gritting my teeth. So quickly. It happened so quickly. Or was I standing outside time? Did it actually take him a long time to die?
I canât tell you, Diary. I stood and watched the spreading blood. Such a big puddle of his blood, with him curled on his side inside it.
I was still gasping for breath, fighting the deep shudders that paralyzed my body, when I knew he was dead. And as soon as I knew, I started to move, to breathe again, to think more carefully and calmly.
I wiped the blood-soaked knife on the sleeve of his hoodie. Then I folded it up and tossed it into my bag. Gathered my belongings and stuffed everything back where it belonged.
Then I drove home, sobbing all the way. Sobbing at the top of my lungs, big tears rolling down my face, burning my cheeks.
My boyfriend, my only true love, was dead. I killed him. Stabbed him and watched him bleed to death. Killed him. I killed him.
So of course I cried. Cried and sobbed and moaned all the way home. I knew my life would never be the same.
Â
15.
Thankfully, Mom and Dad were asleep in their room. I couldnât have faced them. I wouldâve collapsed in a heap and never moved again.
How could I explain to them what I did? I couldnât explain it to myself.
I stood in the dark kitchen without turning on a light. My bag suddenly felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. I let it fall to the floor in front of the kitchen door.
The house was so still. The only sounds were my harsh breaths and the hum of the refrigerator. I took a few steps toward the kitchen counter. My sneakers squeaked on the tile floor. I pictured them covered in blood.
I pictured Blade swimming on his side in a lake of his own blood. I never knew that blood could smell so powerful. It smelled tangy and sour, very metallic.
I pictured Blade raising his head above the blood, gazing at me. Blood flowed down his face, thickly matted his hair. But he stared at me through the layer of blood, an accusing stare. He didnât need to speak. I could read the horror and the anger on his face.
I shook my head hard, erasing the terrifying picture from my mind. I shut my eyes tight and held them closed. Could I stay in this darkness and keep all these pictures from my brain?
No. For some reason, Deena Fear appeared before my eyes. Her black hair flew about her head as if being blown by a hurricane wind. Her lips were bright red, brighter than Bladeâs blood.
In my imagination, my feverish imagination, she raised a red hoodie in both hands and waved it at me.
Why is she doing that? Why is she even in my thoughts now?
The frightening stories of the Fear family contained many murders. According to legend, the Fears throughout their history knew how to murder people in the most hideous and painful ways.
But Iâm a Donnelly. My grandparents came from County Wicklow in Ireland. We have never been murderers ⦠till now.
I made my way through the dark house, then up the stairs to my room. I leaned on the banister and stepped as lightly as I could. I didnât want to make a sound.
I closed the bedroom door carefully behind me, crossed the room in the dark, and slumped onto the edge of my bed. The window was open. The curtains drifted in and out softly in a gentle breeze. Pale light from the streetlight across the street washed over the carpet.
I sat hunched on the bed staring at the shadows of the shifting curtains. I donât know how much time passed. I didnât move. I barely breathed.
At some point, I scratched the fingernails of my left hand over the back of my right hand. Dug the nails into the skin. Just to feel something. Just to
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