It’s a small motel room. Stuffy, cheap bed covers. There’s shattered glass on the carpet. I can’t…won’t remember. Something feels cold on my left hand. Something heavy. I turn my head and see a smoking gun. Why is the room suddenly spinning? 

Last memory was John smiling. He was smiling. Fade to black and now I’m here. God knows where, holding a smoking gun. Head hurts. Stand up. Need to stand up.

Oh no…a body on the floor. A man’s body. I approach him slowly, I’m so scared. Why am I still holding the gun? He doesn’t have a face anymore, but I’d recognize those blond curls anywhere, even if they’re wet with his blood. John…

I swallow a sob. Sirens in the distance. My face is sticky and feels hot. The washroom door is open. A cracked mirror shows me John’s face, stretched and ugly. My eyes peek under it. He is the fifth. I told myself I could stop, but I can’t.

I can’t.

I won’t.


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