Even fully aware of what I was waking up to, I still immediately rolled over in the bed and checked my mom. Part of me was hopeful of it being all in my head...a dream, a hallucination...anything as long as it wasn't real. We weren't the closest pair, but that didn't mean I wanted her to die! I didn't want to lose her. I certainly couldn't bear the thought of being to blame for her murder. And yeah, I knew that it was at least partially my fault.
Unintentionally reaching over and resting my hand in a puddle of blood that gave way to let me feel her entrails, I instantly jerked back, my now crimson palm raising to my face to hold it as if it would help keep me from crying. The bedroom was still barely lit so I hardly saw any details, but it didn't matter. I had already witnessed them all during the nightmare.
Choking on a sob, I threw myself off of the mattress and rushed out the door, down the hall, and into my room where I halted, almost gasping at what I saw. Where I had kept my prized possession displayed on my nightstand, it still lay...but stained red. The crimson of my mother's blood glinted off the steel blades of the glove which laid in a pool so thick that it took on a darker hue. The wood of the table was now decorated in beads of the plasma, running down its length and slowly dripping onto the floor.
In that moment, everything around me fell away. I saw nothing but the gruesome art in front of me...heard nothing except the drip drip drip of the droplets hitting the ground. I wasn't sure how long I had been staring, glued to my spot before I shook myself back to the present and strutted forward to retrieve the weapon.
"If anyone saw this, they'd definitely label me a psychopath," I murmured to myself as I grabbed an empty bag from my closet and shoved the glove down inside it.
I wasn't sure where I was heading to get rid of the thing, but I knew that even if I couldn't figure out how to destroy it in time, I had to hide it so I could get to it whenever I was released...or somehow get a message to Dylan as to where to find it. I was so focused on getting this done, that I completely forgot to grab anything else or even check my surroundings before flinging the front door open and setting into a sprint.
"DYLAN!" I squeaked upon seeing him walking up to the house, "What are you-"
"Dude, you've been ignoring me for six hours!" he complained, though worry was the only emotion he portrayed.
"I-"
"What the fuck..." the boy's gaze dropped to my clothes as he drew nearer, causing me to look at my attire for the first time since waking.
Shit. I was drenched, one of my favorite shirts now dyed red.
"Are you OK?" my friend rushed forward, reaching his hands out to check me.
Before he could touch the fabric, however, I pulled away, not wanting any evidence to get on him. I was not going to have him in trouble too. "Don't touch it!" I warned.
"Wh-what happened?" his voice dropped.
"I... Mom... He killed her," I barely mustered the response.
"Shit," Dylan immediately looked down at his jeans and began retrieving his phone from one of the pockets.
"What are you doing?!" I tried to grab the phone from him, but he jerked away.
"Calling the cops; what do you think?" he retorted, pausing momentarily as if to see if I had good reason to stop him.
"You can't!" I ordered, "Not yet."
"What do you mean?" his brow furrowed.
"They're going to think I did it!" I explained, "I have to destroy this glove or at least hide it until I can."
My friend stared at me for several moments, utterly confused as to what to do, as silence settled upon us. Suddenly, he started taking steps backward and then jogged toward his car. My heart sank. Please don't abandon me, I pleaded in my head, I need you.
But instead of getting in and driving off, he popped the rear door open and leaned inside, shuffling about for a few seconds before lifting and running back to me. In his hand, he held the hammer we had used at the power plant.
"Which window is where your mom is?" he inquired.
"Um...over there," I gestured, "What are you-"
"Your best chance at getting out of this is to claim there was a break-in and-" he rushed to clarify his plan, but I stopped him midway.
"That's not going to work," I mumbled.
"Why not?" he wondered.
I sighed.
"Here, follow me, but don't touch anything," I commanded.
He obeyed, carefully stepping over the threshold and following me to my room where I showed him the gory display where I'd taken the glove from.
"I already thought of trying to pin the blame on a burglar or something," I shared, "But this isn't explainable in any scenario like that. And if I cleaned it-"
"The crime scene investigators would pick up on any trace amounts of blood or wonder why it was recently bleached," Dylan finished.
I nodded.
"Well, fuck," his hands raised to nervously slick his hair back, "This means you can't hide the glove either."
"No?" I panicked.
He shook his head, "First, the space where you removed it? They'll question that too. AND they're going to need to find a murder weapon because if they don't, they'll think you were of enough mind to hide it."
"Crap. I didn't consider that," I admitted, "If they think that, it's more likely I'd be charged with murder, maybe even premeditated, meaning that my chances of a psych defense become very slim. Because if I planned these things or could instantly be aware of negative repercussions, then I'm mentally stable enough to know what I did and know it was wrong."
"Exactly," the boy agreed.
"What am I supposed to do then?" I asked, "If the police get the glove, then I'll never be able to destroy it. Not without breaking into a fucking police station, which I doubt is that easy."
"It's not," Dylan hummed, his brain contemplating alternate options, "Wait! What about your knife?"
"You mean my stilleto?" I wondered.
"I thought it was a switchblade," he observed curiously.
"I mean technically it's a type of switchblade?" I answered, "But it's specifically called a stilleto knife."
"Ok whatever, I don't know about that stuff," he shrugged, "Do you have it here?"
"Yeah..." I stepped to the side and began digging through my backpack to find the blade.
"You could get in a lot of trouble for taking that to school, you know?" my friend stated oddly.
I slowly turned and shot him an incredulous look, "Not what I'm worried about right now, Dyl."
"Sorry..."
I pulled out the knife and sprang to my feet, "So you're thinking to plant this in place of the glove? Make it look like this is the murder weapon?" I surmised.
"Stop reading my mind," he half-joked, "And yes."
"Brilliant," I nodded, "Now what about this?" I slung the handbag concealing the claw off my shoulder.
"Give it to me," he offered his hand, "I can go stash it somewhere real quick while you...stir up that blood on your nightstand and dirty the other knife."
I took a deep breath in and exhaled as I decided letting him do this was our best option. However, as I stepped forward with the bag, he retreated his hand and started to curse.
"Shit fucking dammit!" he stomped around in a small circle.
"What? What is it?" I asked, my heart pounding again.
"My dad..." he complained, rubbing his forehead and sighing.
"What about him?"
"He knows about the glove...about your whole thing with the Springwood Slasher..." Dylan exhaled loudly, "He'll be the one they talk to and I know him well enough to know he'll mention everything and if the glove turns up missing..."
"He'll immediately know something is up," I whispered.
In that moment, I felt so defeated, so helpless that it was ridiculous. I leaned against the side of my bed and slid down onto the floor, dropping my bag in front of me and fiddling idly with the blade.
"Are you sure she's dead?" Dylan's voice and the question itself both seemed out of place, making the situation feel that much more surreal. I turned a glare on him that was my answer. It was also apparently frightening enough to make his features quiver as he lifted his palms to face me in a silent apology.
"On the plus side," he tried again after several quiet minutes passed, "My dad knows you...and your family. I know he'd take your case on personally and he'd be the best defense you have."
"But he already thinks I'm crazy," I scoffed.
"Maybe...but he also knows you're not dangerous," he informed, "And he knows the kind of stress you've been under and your-" his eyes fluttered away from me awkwardly as if he really didn't want to bring up what I knew he was about to, "Genetics... Anyway," he cleared his throat, "My point is that from his view, you've only been a victim of disassociation brought on by acute stress, genetic predisposition, and adolescent hormonal fluctuation."
"Ok, but what does that mean exactly?" my tone grew a little bitchy, "What's the outcome?"
"You're still underage," my friend continued, "So if he can have you determined as not responsible for your actions due to psychological factors, then you're looking at being committed until you're eighteen when you'll be reevaluated to see if you pose a danger to yourself or others, which we know that you don't."
"You really think they'll let me out?" I wondered.
"Yeah, I do," he offered a weak smile.
"Huh. That's what Fred told me too," I recalled.
The boy hesitated, "You're going to have to play into the role though."
"Do what they tell me, you mean?"
"That and...your story is you blacked out. You don't know what happened tonight," he cast a finger at me, "If you need someone to model your actions and responses after...just think about your dad."
"For how long? At what point do I start acting normal again?" I inquired.
"Gradually...you'll talk to a psychiatrist within a day of now. Act entirely removed then, as emotionless as possible. If you start feeling like you can't keep yourself from getting upset, then make it over the top, really fucking dramatic and incoherent," Dylan instructed, "The next time you see one, be in and out like you're getting about half of what's going on. After they put you on medicine, start becoming more aware. Full effect of medication will be in place anywhere between one and three months and typically it takes a few adjustments here and there to get the dosage that works the best so..."
"Got it...but...what if they trick me? Give me fake pills to see if I'm lying?" I wondered, feeling a little paranoid.
"You watch too many movies," the boy let out a short laugh, "That's not going to happen. Besides, you'll know. Antipsychotics, antidepressants...all these medicines are going to make you feel drowsy, especially at first. Maybe even light headed or sluggish. You'll be able to tell."
"Ok..." I took a deep breath and tried to give him a smile, "Thanks, Dyl... I love you, bro."
"I love you too, buddy," he grinned, "I...I have to call someone now."
"I know..." I sighed.
"Put the glove back where you found it," he reminded, "And hand me the bag. I'll get rid of it. Don't want anyone having the slightest clue about us trying to cover up."
"Right," I got up and did exactly what he said, nervously waiting as he darted out to his car to hide my purse before coming back inside and dialing his dad's number.
This was going to be one hell of a ride.