Page 5

The water hitting the shower tiles sounds loud in the bathroom.

I sit on the closed toilet, staring blankly at my shoes.

My heart still races with the echoes of the night, each beat a reminder of the violence that had erupted so suddenly.

The steam from the shower swirls around me, fogging the mirrors, but it does little to obscure the images etched in my mind—the masked figure, the blood, the scream that had clawed its way up my throat but never escaped.

I take a deep breath, trying to will myself to get up and step into the shower. I can feel the dry blood on my skin start to flake and the sweat from my panic filled blind sprint home start to cool.

I’m filthy, both inside and out, and the thought churns my stomach. The remnants of the night clings to me like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. I clench my fists, fighting against the rising tide of nausea that threatens to overwhelm me.

No more time for wallowing. I need to shower.

With a shaky exhale, I finally stand, peeling my clothes from my body and letting them fall to the floor in a crumpled heap.

The cool air prickles my skin as I step into the shower, the warmth of the water washing over me like a temporary balm.

I close my eyes, letting the spray drown out the memories, praying that the water will cleanse me of more than just the physical remnants of the night.

But as I scrub at my skin, I realize that I won’t be able to truly wash this away.

Tears leave my eyes as visions of Jack hitting his head on that stupid thing and falling limp rush through me. Did he die or just knock out?

A shiver takes over, and now I’m shaking, about to drop to the ground. I tell myself that he only fainted from the hard fall.

But the amount of blood that sprayed, it’s on my skin, stained.

I scrub harder, sobbing. My tears mix with the water streaming down my face, hot and heavy against the chill of the tiles.

I think of the blood, the terror, the way my heart raced in a fight for survival, and I can’t help but feel a wave of guilt wash over me.

I hadn’t wanted any of it to happen, yet here I am, caught in the aftermath of a nightmare.

Please tell me he didn’t die.

My hands tremble as I scrub harder, as if I could scrub away not just the evidence of the night but also the haunting images replaying in my mind.

I want to scream, but all that escapes me are broken sobs that echo off the bathroom walls, a stark reminder of how fragile everything has become.

Eventually the sobs subside into shaky breaths, and I lean against the cool tiles, letting the water cascade over me.

It’s soothing, almost like a balm for my frayed nerves, but it does nothing to ease the turmoil swirling inside.

I close my eyes, attempting to find some clarity amid the chaos.

I wish I wasn’t drunk and high right now.

What happened tonight feels surreal, like a scene from a movie I can’t escape, one that I’d rather forget. But the reality clings to me, refusing to let go.

After what feels like an eternity, I drag myself to turn off the shower, the silence amplifying the pounding in my chest. I step out, the air cool against my damp skin.

I wrap a towel around myself and wipe at the fog clouding the mirror.

When I’m met with my reflection, I flinch.

This is a face of a killer. My imagination runs wild with what photograph they’ll use when they take me to jail and blast me all over the news.

I gasp.

I’ll never live a normal life. I’ll never be able to forgive myself.

Maybe I should have let him rape me. I shake my head, hardly recognizing the girl staring back at me.

My eyes are red-rimmed, and there’s a hollowness in my gaze.

I just fucked up my entire life over not having sex with a guy.

I grab my hair. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Even if I walk free, I won’t be able to shake this. This will always haunt me. Jack’s life ended because of me!

I want to scream, to tell someone… but can I even do that? Who would I tell? I can’t tell Cassidy. I can’t bring her into this mess. I can’t do that to her.

I bite my lip and turn on the faucet. I feel the weight of secrets pressing down on me, as I splash water on my face. This feels unreal but as I glance at my blood-stained clothes on the bathroom floor, the weight becomes heavier.

I killed him.

I gather the clothes and march out of the bathroom and into my room. My heart is in my mouth as I kneel by my bed and drag a shoe box out from underneath it. After stuffing the clothes into the box, I shove it back under my bed. What the fuck am I doing? I should go to the police.

I shake my head.

No. No. No.

Slowly, I sit and hug my knees to my chest. In the dim light of my room, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on me, my heart is pounding in my chest like a caged animal.

The familiar comfort of my surroundings now feels alien, tainted by the night’s horrors.

I rock slightly, trying to find some semblance of calm, but the images of blood and panic replay in my mind like a relentless loop.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the memories to stop. But they only pause when the familiar sound of my ringtone pierces my ears. I jump at the sound, wondering if it’s the cops.

My phone lights up and vibrates against the desk. I can’t answer. I can’t look at who’s calling me.

I killed him.

I stay like this, in this safe cocoon surrounded by my belongings and my thoughts. There’s no way I can sleep.

The thought of facing the world feels impossible, but I know, as the sun rises, I have to.

I wake to soft meowing by my ear. Gregory is curled up on the pillow beside me, his green feline eyes boring into mine as I blink awake.

The weak sunlight streaming in through the window illuminates the room and the dust motes swirling lazily in the air.

The gentle rise and fall of Gregory’s purring is the only sound breaking the silence.

When I try to sit up, I wince at the sharp pain that lances up my back. My body feels heavy, every muscle sore. I rub at my temples, willing the intense headache to ease but a dull throb remains.

Sighing, I reach out to scratch behind Gregory’s ears, grateful for the brief distraction of the nightmare of my reality. He nuzzles into my hand, a small comfort amidst the chaos swirling in my head. But even in this quiet moment, the tension still lingers, tightening its grip on my chest.

I killed someone.

My mind flashes back to the party, the blood, the panic—everything blurring together in a twisted knot of dread.

Gregory seems to notice my anxiety and nuzzles closer into my hand, licking my fingers as if trying to comfort me, but the anxiety sticks to me like a second skin, weighing me down, clinging to my every thought.

I run a hand through my hair, trying to steady my breathing, but the walls of my room seem to be closing in, suffocating me.

Oh my god! What the fuck am I going to do?

I can’t shake the feeling that any moment now, someone will knock on my door. The police, my friends—someone will find out. My mind races with images of questioning stares, accusations, and worst of all, the truth coming out.

That can’t happen.

I throw my blankets off and stand, my legs shaky beneath me.

Gregory yowls and jumps off the bed, padding off somewhere but I ignore it.

I need to calm down, to think clearly, but my every thought is of Jack, bleeding, laying there lifeless.

I didn’t call the police. I just ran. A tremor runs through me as I try to block out the memory.

I walk over to the window and pull the curtain aside, glancing outside. The street below seems normal, cars driving by, people strolling leisurely on the sidewalk, laughing, completely unaware that last night a Blackridge college student didn’t want to be raped so she accidentally killed the guy.

I lean against the window, my forehead pressed against the cool glass, and wish that I could swap lives with someone, anyone.

I need a game plan. I need to pull myself together and cover my ass. No one can know about this.

But as that thought flashes through my mind, another follows in quick succession.

The masked stranger…he knows.

Oh, fuck.

I take a deep breath, trying not to tremble as my head throbs.

Who is this guy? Was he a frat member? A regular party goer?

I bite my lip as my anxiety builds, tension tightening its grip around my throat.

Would he have gone to the police by now? Or worse—is he waiting, watching, planning something? Blackmail? Revenge?

The uncertainty gnaws at me, twisting the panic deeper.

If he talks, I’m done. I need to find him… before he finds me.

I grab my phone. Not because I want to, but because I have to.

There has to be something by now. A post. A text. A single headline.

Dead boy found in frat house.

Party gone wrong.

Murder.

But there’s nothing. Just filtered photos of drunk girls in glittery dresses, red cup pyramids, and smiling faces under string lights.

It’s like last night didn’t happen.

I scroll faster. Searching tags. Mentions. Anything.

Nothing.

My hand shakes, and I almost drop the phone. Maybe someone found him. Maybe they’re covering it up. Maybe I dreamed the whole thing.

My reflection stares back from the black screen—wide-eyed, pale, with last night’s makeup still smudged under my eyes.

No. It was real.

So where the fuck is the fallout?

Having a midmorning class after a wild night of partying is the worst thing a college student can endure. Imagine nursing the worst hangover of your life and then having to sit in a two-hour social psychology lecture.

It is pure torture.