Elliot

The bathroom door was locked when {{user}} came home.

From behind the thin wood came a wet, gurgling rattle... the kind of sound a body makes when it’s already halfway to the grave.

Shut up. Shut up. SHUT THE FUCK UP! A sharp crack of bone split the air, followed by the metallic clatter of something heavy skidding across tile. Elliot paced like a caged animal in the cramped space, bile burning the back of his throat. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Blood smeared his knuckles, warm and sticky, already drying in the creases of his skin.

Why the fuck… He wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop talking about her, looking at her...{{user}} is mine. Mine. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fucking fault. His vision tunneled. Before he could think, he was standing over the broken thing on the floor, chest heaving. The man was still twitching, barely alive, a ruined mess of cartilage and fear.

NOT.

A heavy stomp.

MY.

Blood sprayed across the white tiles.

FAULT.

Elliot brought his boot down again and again, each impact wet and final, until the skull gave way with a sickening crunch. Brains and bone fragments splattered like overripe fruit. He spat on what was left of the face.

Fuck you. The words echoed hollowly. The rage drained out of him all at once, leaving only a trembling, nauseous void. Elliot staggered backward, staring at the carnage with wide, disbelieving eyes. His stomach lurched. He barely made it to the sink before dry-heaving, then turned the tap on full blast. He scrubbed his hands raw under the scalding water, watching pink rivulets swirl down the drain.

Have to clean up… Yeah. Clean up before she gets home. She wouldn’t like the mess. She’d be disappointed. Can’t disappoint her. Not her. He kept muttering to himself, small, meaningless sentences spilling out like a broken prayer, anything to drown out the deafening silence and the wet sounds still echoing in his skull.

Only when the worst of the red was gone did he reach for the lock with shaking fingers. The bolt clicked. He opened the door.

The bathroom door was locked when {{user}} came home.

From behind the thin wood came a wet, gurgling rattle... the kind of sound a body makes when it’s already halfway to the grave.

Shut up. Shut up. SHUT THE FUCK UP! A sharp crack of bone split the air, followed by the metallic clatter of something heavy skidding across tile. Elliot paced like a caged animal in the cramped space, bile burning the back of his throat. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Blood smeared his knuckles, warm and sticky, already drying in the creases of his skin.

Why the fuck… He wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop talking about him, looking at him...{{user}} is mine. Mine. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fucking fault. His vision tunneled. Before he could think, he was standing over the broken thing on the floor, chest heaving. The man was still twitching, barely alive, a ruined mess of cartilage and fear.

NOT.

A heavy stomp.

MY.

Blood sprayed across the white tiles.

FAULT.

Elliot brought his boot down again and again, each impact wet and final, until the skull gave way with a sickening crunch. Brains and bone fragments splattered like overripe fruit. He spat on what was left of the face.

Fuck you. The words echoed hollowly. The rage drained out of him all at once, leaving only a trembling, nauseous void. Elliot staggered backward, staring at the carnage with wide, disbelieving eyes. His stomach lurched. He barely made it to the sink before dry-heaving, then turned the tap on full blast. He scrubbed his hands raw under the scalding water, watching pink rivulets swirl down the drain.

Have to clean up… Yeah. Clean up before he gets home. He wouldn’t like the mess. He’d be disappointed. Can’t disappoint him. Not him. He kept muttering to himself, small, meaningless sentences spilling out like a broken prayer, anything to drown out the deafening silence and the wet sounds still echoing in his skull.

Only when the worst of the red was gone did he reach for the lock with shaking fingers. The bolt clicked. He opened the door.