Drip, Drip.

*Content Warning: sexual assault and violence*

I look down at the object in my hand, watching the blood drip, drip, drip from the cool silver blades to the tile floor, the white stone now stained with red––

“Ava, are you all right?” Mrs. Mullen looks at me, her eyebrows furrowed and raised in concern. “You’re quite pale, dear. Do you need to go to the nurse?”

“I’m not… sick…” the words sound strained. Agonizing.

I blink, and then squeeze my eyes shut. The blood is still there. The white tiles. I open my eyes. Mrs. Mullen still stands over me, biting her lip.

“Ava, honey, it’s all right. You need to go to the nurse’s office––my orders, dear. Eric, can you accompany her to the nurse, please?”

“Sure, Mrs. M. I got it.”

Eric smiles at me. I stare at his lips. They’re full and red.

Too red.

Bile rises to the back of my throat. I swallow––hard.

My eyes follow the blood dripping, dripping, dripping. A line on the floor. A trail. Leading to it. The body lying on the white tile. A black sneaker––

“Need some help?” Eric holds his hand out to me, smiling crookedly. His green eyes glitter.

I stare at his fingers for a moment. Each nail is perfectly cleaned and trimmed. His skin looks rough and dry. A strange juxtaposition.

I rise to my feet, ignoring his hand. Something flashes in his eyes. I blink. He's smiling again. He stuffs his hand into his pocket.

I look away, dazed. Confused. What is happening?

“I can go alone,” I say through gritted teeth, the memory––was it a memory?––of the white tiles and the blood and the sneaker vivid and vibrant and everywhere.

I can’t remember. I can’t remember how I got here. I look around. Dazed. Everything is blurry. There exists in this universe only the tiles and the blood.

“Mrs. M. told me to go with you. I think she makes a good point, honestly. You look like you’re about to throw up.” He turns and walks to the door. He holds it open for me, gesturing with his other hand, still smiling with that crooked little grin.

A wave of nausea. I clench my fists and walk through the door stiffly. Eric follows close behind. The door shuts loudly behind us.

Silence. Except our footsteps against the floor. The white tiles.

My eyes travel further, across the black sneakers, across black jeans, across a black leather jacket. Still, unmoving hands. Black hair. So much darkness, everywhere, silence, everywhere, stillness, everywhere––

“Here. Come this way. It’s a short cut.” Eric veers down a hallway to the left, away from the main corridor that leads to the nurse’s office. It’s dark where he is. A light flickers above him, casting strange shadows across the walls.

I pause. “No. It’s this way.”

“It’ll be longer that way. Come on––I’ve been this way a hundred times.”

I hesitate. But Eric’s green eyes soften. That smile again. It’s sweeter this time. He beckons me forward. “Come on. I just want to get you some help as quickly as possible. Don’t want you to faint or something.” A light laugh.

I glance down the main corridor one last time. Another wave of nausea. He has a point. I sigh before following Eric down the narrow hallway.

How did I get here? Where are we going? The blood and the tiles and the black sneakers and the black jeans and the black jacket and the black hair are everywhere. I can’t remember––

Eric walks ahead of me, hands in his pockets, whistling. Then, he pauses in front of a yellow door on the right wall, which rests between rows of lockers.

“Here,” he says. “The shortcut.”

“It looks like a door.”

“What an astute observation.” He laughs softly. Gently. “You must really be sick.”

“I’m not––"

“Shh. You don’t have to use your energy to talk. Just follow me––we’ll get you some help. I promise.”

He opens the door and walks inside. I don’t know where he is going. I don’t know why I am here. The black clothing and the blood and the white tiles dance across my eyes.

Darkness, silence, drip, drip, drip––

I follow him inside.

“Wait, what is––”

The door shuts.

It’s dark.

Black.

Blood. White tiles. Black sneaker.

I feel his hands.

I try to shout, but I can’t. Something covers my mouth. It is rough. I bite down. Hard. A swear word, whispered harshly. I taste it, then. Blood. A lot of it.

Blood. Dripping, dripping, dripping––

I struggle. I fight. I feel the energy burst from me, and I explode, swinging and biting and flailing and kicking, trying to shout, to scream––

Black sneakers. Black jeans. Black jacket. Black hair. Green eyes, still, gone––

Something pinning me down against the door. I can’t breathe. I feel the lips, then, I taste the blood––

A hand on my skin, beneath my shirt. Panic.

Remember. It was beside you. On the desk. Feel for it. Stop fighting.

The weapon flashes before my eyes. Dripping, dripping, dripping––

No. Before that. Feel for it.

Yes. The table. I see them, clearly, resting there, sitting peacefully in the light of the small office space, sitting upon a wooden desk.

I stiffen, stopping my movement cold. The hands stop in surprise. My hand darts out to the left, and I feel around in the darkness. Something hard. A desk. My fingers travel across.

The hand on my skin starts to move again. The hand around my neck squeezes.

There.

The scissors.

I wrap my hands around them.

Drip, drip, drip…

I plunge them into his chest.

Stillness––

The hand stops against my skin, and the other releases my neck. I hear him gasp, and then he stumbles backwards, slipping, falling––

Silence––

Everything is still. I am breathing. I am the only one.

Dripping––

The scissors are in my hand. With my other hand, I slowly feel along the wall, until I feel the light switch. I turn it on.

Eric lies on the ground. Still. Quiet. Black sneakers, black jeans, black jacket. Black hair, ruffled and messy. His eyes are open. Green. Unmoving.

I look down at the object in my hand, watching the blood drip, drip, drip from the cool silver blades to the tile floor, the white stone now stained with red.