I squeezed my eyes shut.
Kneeling.
Praying? No.
When I open my eyes, the reflection is still there.
Staring right back.
Mocking.
"FUCK!" I scream, and my fist comes in contact with the clean glass.
It shatters, the pieces falling into my sink.
I burst into tears, and soon my face is wet and salty. When I try to wipe away the tears, it just stains my cheek red.
I forgot my hand was bleeding.
Squatting on my bathroom tiles, I weep.
How many of my friends are dead? I trace the answer with my finger in the grime soaked tiles. Seven..
"Hurry up!" I yell into the walls, and it echoes throughout my soul. Such sweet vibrations. Like drums, they are. Constantly beating.
"I was thinking this time I could draw it out," a voice says. He sits besides me. I do not meet his eyes, but the mask covers a great deal of skin.
"Draw out my death, or are you going to monologue here?" I ask.
"Nah, that's for the epilogue," he says. Then he starts chuckling like he's said the funniest thing in the world. I don't know what the joke is. But I do notice his laughter is like my screams; the same sweet vibrations.
"Just give me the playing card," I say. He taps his knee lightly.
"But, you kind of cheated. You didn't go to school to see the pretty pictures of your friend."
"Which friend?" I ask in a low whisper.
"Santana."
"Oh."
He pulls up his hood farther, so I can't even see his hair. "Here." He holds the card out between his index and second finger. I take it delicately, because it did hold my fate.
PSYCHIC.
"Interesting," I murmur. He hums in agreement. I toss it across the room. "Does it mean anything?"
"Of course it does. There's meaning behind everything."
"Are the deaths of my classmates symbols for your..." I am at a loss for words. "bloodlust, perhaps?"
He grins, and that's one thing I can characterize about him. He certainly has a set of pearly whites. Reminds me of a shark.
"You're a clever girl. Quiet, shy, unnoticed. Clever. I wonder how easy you'll be to kill?" he wonders.
I look up at the ceiling. "Maybe I'll go willingly."
He tsks, waving his finger. "Not apart of the instructions, but not allowed. I can tell you who will get those particular instructions, though. I'll pretty much tell you everything."
"Why?"
"Number one," he says, listing it on his finger. "You're going to be dead, so I doubt it matters. Number two? You got PSYCHIC. Ergo, you get the wonderful knowledge."
"You heartless bastard," I say with gritted teeth.
"Deary me," he says, gasping. "Heartless? I deny that." He forcefully brings my palm to his chest. "You feel it beating, do you not?" I nod, my hand acknowledging the steady thump. Reminding once more of my vibrations, but in a different way. "Oh, I have a heart to be shot or stabbed in, no doubt," he continues, "and if it cease to beat I should cease to be, but you know what I mean. I have no softness there, no sympathy, sentiment."
"Quoting Dickens?" I ask. "Isn't that cheating?"
"How so?"
"Well, the killer is supposed to be quick thinking in ways of clever responses. Slightly insane, but clever. Making me think. Stealing people's quotes isn't being clever, is it?"
He shakes his head. "That's where you're wrong. Knowing the quotes and managing to click them into context at an appropriate point shows intelligence, and I say that's pretty damn clever."
I manage to stand on my two shaky legs, and nod. "I suppose."
The Killer copies me, standing up. "Let's have a chat, Raven."
"Raven?" I ask.
"A pet name," he explains. "All of the black, the accusatory but watchful eyes; it all fits, right? So, I have named you Raven."
He takes me outside, the air being slightly chilly, but enough to make me sigh with contentedness. What a nice day to die.
"So, just tell me everything," I say. He nods.
"Well, let me tell you the scenes of the deaths before you," he says. I nod, tears in my eyes. "First up, Mike Chang. Well, he got FIRST, because of obvious reasons, and..."
In horrifying detail, The Killer spun the tales of the scenes of my friends' death. At first, I tried to block him out, by looking away at anything, anything. Children running in playgrounds, teenagers holding hands, just to distract me. I could never ignore Mike's death, of course. After that story, it started to get easier with each one he told me about. Because somehow, I managed to pretend it was all fiction, never happening. Never happened.
"Now, onto the future deaths..." he said, which made me have to stop walking down the street, and turn to him.
"Please, no," I whisper.
"Why not?" he asks, bewildered. "I thought the ones that had already died would be hard to hear, because you know that it happened. With the future ones you can give yourself false hope that, hell, I don't know, maybe changed my mind and not killed anyone." He chuckled. "Like that would ever happen."
I look off into the sun, that was just beginning to fall asleep. "Maybe it's because if I hear them, I know I wouldn't be able to warn them in time. Right?"
"Right."
"So, it's even more hopeless. That knowledge, is enough to break someone down."
"But I'm telling you anyways."
He does.
The rest of the cards.
Who they're assigned to.
The instructions that will be on the back.
And how it all ends.
All standing still. When he's done speaking, he just watches me, and I watch back.
Like a raven would.
Wind flows by us.
"You're next," he says.
And I run.
Weaving throughout the abandoned streets, I run.
"A chase?" his voice echoes throughout the city. He is after me, and probably much faster. "Interesting, none of your friends has tried that tactic yet. It won't work, it never does...does it? But you already know that. So why bother?"
I consider answering him.
"I know," he continues. "Because you're a raven! Ravens fly, but not very high. Low, to watch. Did you know that ravens are signs of death? Fitting, perhaps?"
I duck into a dead end street, surrounded by abandoned buildings.
I breath.
I still hear his voice.
"Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven."
Cheater, I think. Taking even more quotes.
I back up into the building behind me, the stone rubbing against my back.
I'm still waiting.
Still watching.
He appears, no longer running. Slowly approaching.
"Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore..."
I shut my eyes again.
He's so close I can feel his cool breath on my cheeks.
I don't dare open my eyes.
But I do recite the next line for him, "Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
He leans in.
He holds my face with his hands. "The raven won't watch me with those eyes ever again!" he says, and a knife comes in contact with my eye. It cuts away, and blood spots my eyesight. I do not scream, but the pain reverberates throughout my body.
"And I quoth the raven," I say softly.
He whispers, "Nevermore."
Before he removes the other one, the other eye, he removes his mask.
"You were always so clever, so psychic," he tells me. "Too bad you weren't able to warn the others before you die."
I chuckle.
"The raven is always a warning," I say. "That will be enough."
A/N: So, the killer does poetry this time instead of lyrics. Of course, The Raven is copyrighted with Mr. Poe.
Goodbye, Tina.
Oh, yes, I forgot: the option to vote for who you want to die is CLOSED. But just because that's no longer an option, doesn't mean you have to ignore the review button.
