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Rated: 13+ · Chapter · Mystery · #1755305
I'm not to pleased with the second half but otherwise, here you go!

Stevey held her right index finger up to the light. The feathering skin around her nail bed was raw red and blood was beginning to bead from under the ellipse of her fingernail.

“Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.”

Wiping her tongue on the sleeve of her jumper, to get rid of the dilute, metallic taste in her mouth, she closed her notebook and walked over to the cabinet opposite her desk.

“Plasters. Plasters, plasters, plasters. Found them.”

She opened the plasters. Shitty, fiddly little things they were, Sainsbury’s own brand. By the time you manage to prise off all the little bits of paper and plastic, you’ve already lost eight pints of blood. Jesus.  She smoothed a plaster over her wound and returned to her table.

Stevey Tomaszewski was a disappointment. She was 16 years old, and had the sort of pinched, inquisitive face that one saw quite often on the street or in the queue at the post office; blotched, spammy skin, a long nose and shrewd, deep set eyes.  She bit her nails compulsively and was an avid collector of empty Mountain Dew bottles, which she kept in a line on her bedroom windowsill. 

The phone rang.

“Shit, not now, not now.”

Stevey shuffled her chair over to where the telephone hung on the wall, hoping it would ring off before she got there. It didn’t.

“Hello.” Said Stevey, flatly.

“Hello, is that Amelia?” The voice which came through the receiver was male, cracked with youth but with something else as well. Who the fuck was Amelia?

“Yes, it’s Amelia, what do you want?” Her tone remained flat but she began to panic in realisation. Shit, why did I just do that? What if he’s a serial killer and this Amanda girl is the next virgin on his list to be sliced into quarters and dumped in the Thames, oh fuck! 

“Is it really you? Is it really Amelia?” Stevey wasn’t sure now if it was the dodgy receiver which was cracking or the boy’s voice. She hesitated. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into here, Stevo.

“Yes.” She spoke more gently this time. There was an odd noise. Through the mesh of the phone it sounded like a scratching or a spluttering or a tapping or something, she didn’t quite know.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry to be like this.” Shit, he’s crying. Oh Shit what have you done Stevey?  “ It’s been so long since...”

Oh look, you’ve got some soppy bastard sobbing down the phone thinking you're his ex girlfriend or God knows what, if you hang up you’ll cause a fucking suicide but if you don’t you’ll end up engaged to the fucker. Stevey you are an utter dickwad, what did your mother tell you, don't interfere.

“It’s okay, It’s okay.” She said, hoping to bring the conversation to a close.

“But it’s not okay, it’s not and it never will be he’s fucking dead, Amelia, he’s dead and it’s all my fault.”

Oh, hello. What have we here?

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