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Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Dark · #2262878
The house behind her is dark and there's blood on her hands.
The house is dark as she steps outside, just as dark as the night around her. There are a few stars above, but it’s been cloudy all day, so their light is faint and cold, too far away to offer any comfort. It’s the middle of November and the wind cuts into her skin until it feels like it is freezing the wetness on her face, which was comfortingly warm before. Without thinking, she reaches up and wipes at her cheeks, but only smears the wetness further.
When she pulls her hand away, her fingers are glistening darkly; if it was daytime, they would be dyed red. Her father’s old truck is parked a few metres away, as familiar as the steps she walks down towards it, fishing for the keys with her free hand. Six years ago, she learnt how to drive in that car, two years ago they went to the coast with it, her father, her mother, her little brother and her. Back then, she had another name, one she has left in the house and doesn’t want to remember anymore.

After all, it wouldn’t fit her anymore, it was too sweet, too innocent. She’ll find another soon. Her father’s car keys get jammed in the lock for a moment, which should give her a jolt, a sliver of fear cutting into her heart, but there is nothing. No humming, no thoughts, none of the rage she has gotten accustomed to. Just blissful silence. The door opens and she takes her father’s seat, knowing he doesn’t need it any longer; out of habit, she puts on her seatbelt, like the road, and not she, is the most dangerous thing around. And at last, she puts down the last souvenir she has taken from her old life onto the seat next to her. If she had had a plan, taking it wouldn’t have been part of it, just something done out of impulse, and yet it feels right.
„Let’s take a trip“, she says and wonders how her voice is still so calm. Her baby brother’s eyes stare back at her lifelessly, but without his voice chords, he cannot answer.
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