A Number of Unfinished Things

The sheet of paper tremors in my grasp as I internally debate whether to throw it away or to store it back where I found it. I compromise by lying back in bed and rereading the well remembered words. I'd found my suicide note tucked in a book, folded over and over. It was written out of hysteria, the contents scrawled and so close to revealing what I can't even admit to myself. In fact, that very secret is what stopped me from killing myself. Imagining Holden's reaction to my monstrosity, imagining her face with fear dawning upon it, is enough punishment for my existence. I'm the greatest danger to her and she doesn't even know it yet.

I don't notice the tears trickling down my cheeks until I instinctively reach up to wipe at them. My nails have grown sharper lately, enough to catch on the edges of sleeves and blankets and in an unfortunate occurrence, the curtains. Apparently they're also sharp enough to rake down my face when I wipe at my tears. I frown and investigate my nails, wondering when they've grown long enough to taper at the ends. Underside are shallow stains of blood, bold against the slightly yellow tint. My cheeks sting a little bit.

Something about the pain doesn't register so much as the fact that I'd drawn blood. I can't stop looking at it. It dried quick except for a couple of still shiny drops. They run down the tips of my finger, quivering like flesh expecting to be abused. Before I can think too much into it I lick at a particularly fat drop, one that reminds me of the extraneous juice of a pomegranate, and smells twice as rotten.

I expected it to be gross of course, but I wasn't prepared to feel like I chugged a whole bottle of hot sauce. I recoil just as fast as I'd licked, feeling more tears harshly mingling with my scratched cheeks. My tongue burns as if I licked a stove instead of blood, and I'm sure there will be a blister bubbling up on the tip. The smell of slow decompensation doubles and I'm surprised I haven't thrown up yet. Instead, my gag reflex has me retching, and I'm left gasping for what little air is left untainted.

Maybe fresh air will help. Blinking hard, I pull a pair of leather pants and tuck my lingerie top, shrugging on my leopard print coat before stumbling outside. It's been raining, which somewhat cleanses my nostrils with the smell of ozone and moist mulch. The hotel Holden and I are staying at is in a modest town and not too far from a quaint strip mall. I make my way there at a slower pace than my usual stride, forcing myself to breath in and out. Now that my initial freakout seems to have slowed to an agitated simmer, I can concentrate on how my stomach is rumbling. Maybe Holden would appreciate chinese food or something? The thought spurs me faster as well as the clouds- they're starting to bloat again, occasionally winking with a pulse of lightning. I rush into the first store I come across with little thought, which turns out to be a bagel cafe. Nice.

It's a small place, and my heels slide a little on the checkered floor. There's a few round tables set off to the side, and over the counter is a menu stretching to opposite walls. The rotten fruit smell returns, stronger than before, but I clench my fists and bear it. No one else is in here, and I'm willing to wait out the storm inside. Venturing further only serves to make me more hesitant though. There's a wet sounding gurgle coming from behind the counter, and I inch towards the sound as weak coughs disturb the gurgling. When a roll of thunder booms, it reverberates through the floor and urgency kicks in.

Just like I didn't expect to be burned by my own blood, I don't expect a corpse to lie prone behind a bagel cafe countertop. Or more specifically, the dead body is the form of a middle aged man, bleeding generously from the neck as a teenage girl bows over him, her red hair covering her face and intentions. The girl's friend has no problems glaring at me like I just interrupted something intimate. They're both my age, though the friend is definitely more petite. She's dark skinned, keeps her hair bound in highlighted braids and is wearing a tennis skirt with a turtleneck neatly tucked in. When she asks,

"Can I help you?" with her jaw clenched enough to splinter, I recognize her as Holden's twin sister. Though I don't think too deep about it most of the time, Holden has certainly changed so it would be reasonable that everyone else has too. While Holden has largely changed for the better, having grown out of awkward teenage proportions and shaved her head, (which has emphasized her strong features and made me feel somewhat childish in contrast.) Juno seems to have reversed the effects of puberty somehow. Her eyes are bulging slightly, and her skin is stretched over birdlike bones, making her glare affect me the same way I'd be affected by being shanked by an orphan. I mostly just feel like a tool for upsetting her.

Deciding to not give anything away I smile sarcastically and tell her, "Sorry, I'll leave y'all to your corpse party."

"Don't reference an anime you've never seen."

"I'll reference whatever I want while you're waiting to take a bite of  Mr. John Doe over there."

Before Juno gets to snap at me, the other girl, who must be Cooper, resurfaces. She has a new beard of blood soaking her anemic looking skin. If I thought Juno downgraded over the past year, Cooper has half died. The dark circles under her eyes have coalesced into bruised crescents, and it's clear by how greasy her hair is that she hasn't showered in a while. She's draped in some sort of black robe, her head bobbing with the effort it seems to take to hold itself up. I wonder when the last time either of them ate. When Cooper laps at the leftover blood painted on her, matching my forced smile with a lazy one of her own, my question answers itself.

She asks, and I notice how sharp her teeth have gotten with the slight lisp she has now, "How's Holden? Are you guys still playing domesticity?"

"No," I respond pointedly, "we're playing Bonnie and goddamn Clyde because we were left to fend for ourselves."

Juno shrugs. "No one told you guys to run off." Even so, I can tell by the way her expression softens that she's relieved to hear an update about Holden. It's almost nostalgic, the way we're gathered and circling each other with insincere quips, either settling amongst ourselves or breaking into a fight. Almost nostalgic, if it weren't for the twitching mess that John Doe was left as. His glazed eyes meet mine as he mouths a silent plea for help.

I should help him.

I would help him if I weren't paralyzed by the sight of blood continuing to pool from his neck and sticking everywhere. His head is at a tilt, barely still connected by bone and torn muscle, and blood is swallowing his ear and hair. If I can't help, I should at least be nauseated, but I'm not. It smells putrid, and yet I'm even more drawn to this blood than I was to my own. In my periphery I can tell Juno is ready to stick her nose in my business. I'm immediately proven right.

"You have to tell her eventually." Her voice is infuriatingly even.

"Vinnie...'

"I'm not like you. I don't want to run off and worship Satan or whatever it is you've been doing."

"I think you know what we've been doing."

I'm saved from responding by Cooper, who lunges for my face. She lifts a shaking hand adorned with talons, and turns it until she's brushing her knuckles against my lips. I can feel blood smearing, sticking like poorly applied lipstick. My head jerks against the feeling but Cooper uses her other hand to hold my cheeks, digging just a little bit of pressure with her nails. Soon I can feel my face relax, and my tongue dart out to capture blood.

I'm in a haze, and can tell Cooper isn't touching me anymore. Actually, I don't think she's even here anymore, but I can't bring myself to care at the moment.

I'm left alone with the body.