Page 51 of Dollhouse

I’d spent three months planning this. I needed it to be foolproof.

Back in our bedroom, I had to work quickly. I needed to be long gone before he ever woke.

No time was wasted in carefully opening the blood bags and splattering it around the walls. I’d watched enough crime shows and listened to crime podcasts to know what to do and how to make it appear that I was dead.

I’d even grabbed the lamp from the bedside table and put blood on it to make it appear as if he’d killed me with blunt force trauma. I wore gloves to be careful that my fingerprints wouldn’t be fresh anywhere they shouldn’t be.

Taking Seb’s hand, I wrapped it around the lamp to get his fingerprints on the murder weapon.

Once my work was complete, a smile curled on my lips. I stood back to admire my handiwork.

My blood was splattered on our headboard and walls, the lamp with his fingerprints had been ripped from the wall and was dropped on my side of the bed. A pool of blood was on my pillow and the sheets, my bloody hair that I’d ripped from my scalp was on my pillowcase and the bottom of the lamp.

Our room looked like the perfect crime scene, and I knew without a doubt that it would be believable.

The bloody bedroom, and the photos that Delilah would provide to the police once she learned I was missing, was the final piece needed for Sebastian to be charged with murder. Or at least have his reputation ruined.

I also knew without a doubt that the law enforcement in his family would have no problem covering up their perfect golden boy. In this town, he was a golden boy, a perfect saint, and now everyone would see him for the abusive son of a bitch he really was. I could settle for a ruined reputation if he doesn’t go to jail.

A rush of excitement came over me just thinking about all the things the press would say about him.

I’d spent months documenting his abuse. Pictures, journal entries, video recordings. Soon, the entire town would see in full color the abuse he inflicted on me.

As much as I wanted, I couldn’t stand there any longer. I had to get out and go.

My final move was to roll up the rug on our floor after dripping blood on the carpet. The rug was heavy, but I was high on adrenaline and so close, so fucking close to the finish line to stop now or get tired.

I’d dripped a few drops of blood on my way to the garage from the most recent vile of blood that I collected this morning. I stuffed the rug into the trunk of his car, ensuring there was enough hair and blood to make it appear as if my body had been wrapped in the rug and he’d transported me somewhere to dispose me of.

The last step was to take my backpack and duffel back from the garage storage closet. The bags and clothes inside were all brand new, bought in cash. Not only would I have new clothing, different from anything I’d ever been allowed to wear, but I also had a stack of cash that would be enough to get me where I needed to be and to set me up with an apartment and hold me over until I found a job.

My plan had been well thought out. Still, I couldn’t help being a little paranoid.

After putting on black sweatpants and a black hoodie, I combed my fingers through my blonde hair, brushing it into a low ponytail and placed a black ball cap on my head. With the cap pulled down low to cover my face, I yanked up my hood to conceal my identity further.

With my bags on my shoulders, I slipped out of the garage side door and ran like a track star, away from that house. Away from the hell I’d been living in for far too long.

At the end of the driveway, I stopped and turned back around to steal one last glance at the house that held my blood, tears, and all my pain. With my middle fingers in the air, I smiled to myself before turning and running into the darkness of the night.

Today was the day I died, just not by the hands of my husband, and not in the way I expected.

I knew it was only a matter of time before he went too far and killed me.

Three months ago, I came to realize the only way out of this life and this marriage was by death. I came to terms with the fact I’d have to die in order to escape him. To be free. I made the decision that I’d rather kill myself than have him do it.

I wanted to live and be free, I’d been trapped in this life for far too long.

I’d escaped Greg and his hell, only to run into the arms of someone equally as sinister.

Living this life had been hard. I was dealt a shitty hand, and I’d looked for an escape long before I’d even met Seb.

In a way, killing myself wasn’t only a fuck you to Seb, it was a fuck you to everyone in my life.

To my parents for being pieces of shit, to all my foster parents for not wanting me, to Greg who stole the remainder of my innocence that existed, and to me for being so fucking weak and for allowing life to fuck me over and spit on me.

Today was the day I used death to set myself free.

Today, Lee Spencer-Riley died, and Tate Dawson was born.

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