He depresses the needle again, this time injecting the entire contents of the murky liquid into his vein.
I am not stupid. And Trip isn’t either.
It’s a lethal dose.
“Trip?”
I move over next to him, and his eyes flicker open just for a brief moment.
“Always was a coward.”
His head lulls to the side, his face gray and clammy when he slips into unconsciousness. There is a gurgling sound in his throat and then choking.
I reach for him, and I don’t know if I can watch this.
But it’s over as quickly as it began.
His body falls into stillness, and he is gone.
I fall back into the couch beside him and stay there for a long time.
And I grieve.
I grieve what we both became. I grieve the unfairness of life and the hard choices.
When it’s all done, I wipe my eyes.
And I leave.
Twenty-Six
Scarlett
Terror mademe cruel- Emily Brontë
Ibumpinto Whiskey on the way back to the apartment. He’s being his usual self, carrying on about something that’s upset him.
“I get it,” I tell him. “I didn’t listen to you, and I should have. You tried to warn me.”
He swishes his tail and spins in a circle, and I have no idea what that means.
But when I bend down to give him a pat on the head, there is blood matted into his fur. I swallow and scratch between his ears while I search his feline eyes for clues.
He trots a few steps ahead of me and then turns back to see if I’m following.
I retrieve my knife and follow him to Mrs. Rogers door. It’s cracked, and there’s a distinct metallic smell permeating into the hall.
And this is that part you see in every horror movie.
Mrs. Rogers can’t be dead. She’s just an old lady, and she doesn’t hate anybody. Except for maybe me because sometimes I steal her cat.
I shoo Whiskey away and push open the door with my foot.
There is blood spattered across the kitchen floor.
And there, in her recliner as usual, is Mrs. Rogers. With a steak knife lodged into her throat.
Hot tears spill over my cheeks, but I don’t make a sound.
