Chapter 1
Chapter One: Sebastian POV
I stare down at the lifeless body, my breathing coming out in rushed gasps. The warmth of the blood on my hands feels wrong, it’s not just warm, it’s sticky. I want to wash my hands, to scrub the blood from them, and forget all this happened.
The knife clatters as my fingers finally release it, the sound seems far too loud for how small it seems. It’s like the sound echoes around the room, reminding me of the weight of what I have just done.
Stepping back, I fall over the bag, my eyes still fixed on his body. He caused this, him, not me. I didn’t want to do this, but he made me. He wouldn’t just shut up, he wouldn’t let me leave.
He just had to push, he had to try and force me into reacting, this is all his fault, his, not mine. Scrambling up, I stare at him. Leaning down I grab the knife and rush upstairs. I don’t have time to shower. I don’t really have time to change.
I know my mum will be home soon. I can’t be here when she gets home. I scrub my hands in the sink, then pull on a hoodie to cover the blood staining my shirt. Once I’m sure there’s no signs of the blood. I wrap the knife and grab a bag, throwing anything I can into it.
I can’t take my phone, or my bank cards, nothing. Transferring all the money into one account, I throw the phone away and rush downstairs.
My body stops instantly at the sight before me. For some fucked up reason, I pause. I stand here, staring at his lifeless bloody form. I want to feel guilty, I want to feel like I should be ashamed or feel like I did something wrong.
I don’t, all I feel is a sense of pride that he’s dead.
That pride vanishes the moment I hear the door, my eyes snap toward it, and I rush through seeing my mom step into the kitchen. She smiles at me, but I don’t stop.
“I’m going,” I say, before she can stop me. Then I’m out of the door. Before I even get out of the garden, I hear her scream and I know she’s found his body. I hope she realises I did it for her as much as I did it for me. He was an asshole.
I run to the local store, grab out the cash and get a cab. I didn’t plan this, I didn’t plan anything. How do you escape when you murdered someone? How do you run and stay hidden when you’re the only person people will be looking for?
Eventually I end up at a train station. I don’t think about where I’m going to go. I just book a ticket out of the city. Sitting on the train, I pull the hood over my head and keep it lowered. I’m not sure about my plan; why the fuck didn’t I plan?
Only I would murder someone and not think about the escape plan, about how I can stay hidden. I mean, I could go live in the wild, right? People do that, don’t they? Then again, I have no idea how the hell to start a fire, and I’d likely die from starvation before they even found me.
I’m not sure how long it is before the train stops at the final stops. I get off, and book another train, my plan is to get as far away from home as possible. Then maybe if anyone starts looking for me, I won’t be close enough for them to find me.
The train travels through the night, so I find myself drifting in and out of sleep. I need to shower, the thick and stickiness of the blood still clings to my chest through the shirt. I can’t stop yet though, surely it’s better to keep moving?
Maybe not, maybe moving is the thing that will get me caught? Maybe if I find some dive, a ruined, run-down, and botched motel I can stay hidden there? How long will it take for them to stop searching for me?
Sure, I killed someone, but they shouldn’t keep looking, right?
By the time I get off the train, it’s early morning. I don’t get another train. I just walk, and it feels like hours, too many hours, before I come across a motel. Now, if they tracked me to the train station, they won’t track me anywhere else.
I didn’t get a bus, a cab, nothing. Stepping into the room, I keep my head down and slide money across the counter. “Need a room,” I say.
The woman barely even looks up before she nods. “Sure, here’s the key.” She slides it across from me. “Is this for a week's stay?”
“If that’s all it covers, then yes.” I thought maybe it would last longer? How would I know? I’ve never stayed in motels before. I take the key and look at the number. Fourteen A. I walk out and look around, finding it. As I unlock the door, sirens sound and I freeze, but the cop car goes straight past.
Okay, they weren’t here for me. I move and go into the room and lock the door. Sighing, I collapse on the bed, exhaustion winning out. I let sleep take me and try to stop thinking about all the worries. Like how I’ll have money to feed myself, where I’m going to stay after this week, and mostly, where the hell am I going to find work?
Even I know I won’t, because the moment they release my image, no one is going to hire me, no one is going to let me near their place of work.
I had to do it though; maybe it was overkill, maybe I should have stopped when I was convinced he was hurt enough not to walk again, but him not walking again isn’t a guarantee he wouldn’t keep fucking around. So he died, he had to die.
