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Looking down the barrel of a gun is the most powerful feeling a girl could get. Your heart races and your palms sweat. You wish you could pull the damn trigger before the cops get at the scene, but you can hear the sirens, edging closer and closer.
So you shoot. The girl in front of you goes down, a red stain spreading across her chest. You feel regret, not wanting to go to jail, so you run, into the woods and through the lawns of unsuspecting neighbors. You go somewhere nobody would think you’d run, to your own dang house. The first thing you should do is clean the gun and take a shower, but instead, you lay down, you feel so dang tired, your head feels heavy and you close your eyes.
The next second you hear your name being called and someone banging on your door, Go away, you think, I’m not here. Just go the heck away. The door bursts open and in comes three police officers. Their uniforms clean and ironed. Dang prisses! Get outta my house! Your thoughts spinning around and around, swirling so hard you topple off the couch. “What? I- I didn’t do a thing.” Your voice is surprisingly slurry.
“Girl, you’re drunk, we’ll call your parents at the station.” They take you harshly by the arm, reciting your rights.
At the station, you repeat what happened:
“I- I hated her. She was a… stupid priss. She was ungrateful. And a friken retard. I saved everyone from her hatful words.” Your voice is still slurred; you can tell they can smell the booze on you.
“You knew her?” One officer asks.
“Heck. Yeah. She went. To my school. Her name was Oscar Keith. But now she’s dead. And gone. No need to. Thank me, officer.”
Days go by and you sit in a juvenile cell, people sneer at you, call you names, and want to make you cry out in pain. You sit and wait for your time to come, you got the death penalty. Great. This is how they treat a hero. You Think, Maybe I should’ve killed the whole family of priss-holes.
You don’t understand why your parents won’t see you or your friends hate you. I’m not a murderer. The voices made me. You remember that night when the voices told you that you could be a hero to the world:
“Come on, Astrid, you could rule the world, be a famous person, just merely get rid of the little bug sitting in your way. She needs to go to hell. That’s were her friends are waiting. She wants to leave the human world. You’re helping her.”
You pretended you yourself were thinking it, but you knew it wasn’t you. It was too clear in your head, like a tiny person in your head, telling you right from wrong.
Even now you block the voice out. You don’t want to listen to it, but it has an enchanting power, you need to listen.
“Your friends are waiting for you in hell, Astrid, one sharp bite on your wrist and you’re there. You know you need to leave.”
“I know I need to leave.” You repeat. “I know I need to leave.” Your eyes tear up and the pain in your wrist sharpens.