Page 49 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I stumble two steps before bile claws up. My hand braces against the wall—bloody, and now so is the concrete. I double over and vomit until my ribs ache.

The sound echoes: splash, heave, gag.

I spit. My mouth tastes like acid and panic. I wipe it on my shoulder—useless. There’s blood there, too.

Everything is covered in blood and looks like the aftermath of a Tarantino film.

I can’t even wipe my mouth to clean the rapist’s blood.

The dead rapist. Because I killed him.

I stumble backward, hand out like I’m on a high wire. My palm smears red over the beam, leaving a print like a warning label:

Caution: Woman on the edge. May stab again.

A laugh slips out—or a sob. Hard to tell.

The air’s too thin. The smell—metallic and wrong—burns my throat.

He’s dead.

That thought should settle me but it doesn’t.

Because it’s not just that he’s dead. It’s thatIdid it.

My hands. My blade. My rage.

It wasn’t clinical or quick or fair.

It was animal.

And beneath the horror, the sick and shame, a voice whispers:

You liked it.

I shove it down hard—but it’s there. A flicker in the dark.

The same one my mother must’ve heard when her voice said,make it stop.

And she did.

So did I.

I press my palm to my forehead. I need a plan. A breath. Something normal.

But first—I need to move.

I need to clean up.

And get the h-e-double-hockey-sticks out of this blood-soaked building before anyone finds out what I’ve done.

Because the truth still hangs in the air like the smell of copper and sweat:

I may have saved Mariela’s life tonight...

But I don’t think mine will ever be the same.

A prickle raises the hairs along my spine. A pressure. Like someone’s watching.

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