Page 58 of Writhe
The blood comes.
Hot. Pulsing. A thick, arterial spray that paints my face, my hands, my hospital gown in a glorious crimson. The pristine white of his coat is instantly ruined, the fabric saturating, darkening, dripping.
He staggers, a choked gasp escaping him as his hands fly to his throat. Useless. So, fucking useless. His polished shoes slip in the growing pool of his own blood, his legs buckling beneath him as he crumples to the floor.
Wide, disbelieving eyes lock onto mine. Not fear. Not yet.
Betrayal.
He thought he had me. He thought I was his.
A sick thrill rushes through me, electrifying my veins.
I step closer, watching—studying as he sputters, gurgling on his own lifeblood. His hands clutch at the wound as if he can somehow will it closed, but the hole in his throat is too wide, too deep. He is drowning in red.
A shuddering rasp escapes him, wet and broken. His lips form around my name, but nothing comes out beyond a strangled whimper.
I tilt my head, fascinated. So, this is what he looks like when he loses control.
“Look at you. Not so powerful now, are you?”
His chest rises and falls in rapid, shallow bursts. His body is twitching, muscles locking up as the blood loss overtakes him. He’s dying, and I am his final sight.
“You did such a good job for me, Dollface.”
A giddy, manic laugh spills from my lips, bubbling up like champagne, like something bright, effervescent, and wrong.
Theo is proud of me.
I sink to my knees beside the doctor’s convulsing body, watching the last vestiges of life drain from his darkening eyes. I trail my blood-soaked fingers along his cheek, smearing the warmth of his ruin across his skin.
“How does it feel? To be the one who’s helpless?”
His mouth parts, something like a final plea forming in his throat, but the sound dies before it can be spoken.
A final shudder.
A final, broken exhale.
And then, nothing.
His body stills—his glassy, lifeless stare locked onto the ceiling, unseeing.
I hum, dragging the blade down his chest, splitting the buttons of his ruined coat one by one. A pointless act, but the sensation of cutting—of destroying him—feels too good to stop.
Theo’s voice is there again, curling around me like smoke.
“Beautiful, vicious girl. But we’re not done yet, are we?”
It’s not enough.
The Doctor’s blood is everywhere—soaking into the floor, splattered across my skin, thick and hot and reeking of iron. His body lies motionless beside me, eyes staring at nothing, mouth still parted in shock. The room hums with silence, broken only by the distant ringing in my ears, the wet sound of my own breathing.
But it’s not enough.
Something is still wrong.
My hands tremble as I press them against my stomach. A thin layer of sweat clings to my skin, mixing with the doctor’s blood, making me feel filthy, unclean. Beneath my fingertips, there is something there. A tiny swell. A sickness. A curse.
