|Eight|

•Week Six• (6)

(Welcome back to this painful mess of a story. Get ready to suffer.
Tw: gore, angst, spelling mistakes probably and whatever)

I blenched away from the room, putting a hand over my mouth in shock.
Blood, so much blood, oozing out onto the hallway carpet, staining everything in its path.
Jack stumbled back and hit the wall, a surprise shriek from him piercing my ears. The scene made more and more painful cries erupt from him, and the chaos and noise slowly started to turn into white noise in my mind. I wanted to comfort him, I wanted to scream and cry, too. But I couldn't, I felt like I was astral-projecting and everything around me turned into a blur of red and grey.

The crimson liquid felt like a tidal wave, pouring out of Ryan's room and soaking the floor under my feet.
So much blood, just like in my nightmares. Just like in my nightmares that were about Ryan.
I shuddered. Air was flowing out of Ryan's room along with all the blood, making my arms feel numb from the cold.

I had to go in, but I couldn't. I had to see if Ryan was okay, but I couldn't. I wasn't strong enough, I was too scared because I knew he was most likely dead.
That made my stomach tie itself into knots, twisting my insides until they ached. He was dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.

Half of me thought that if I didn't go into his room, then he wouldn't actually be gone. Maybe, if I didn't see his lifeless body, that means he isn't dead. But the other half of me wants to go in and see for myself, I want to make sure Ryan is alive, and the only way to do that is to look in his blood splattered room.

I inched into the room, the door creaking as I opened it wider. I was terrified, and my brain wouldn't stop spewing out random nonsense every two seconds, which clouded my mind with nothing but insane and horrifying thoughts.
Someone attacked Ryan, they hurt him, they murdered him. His room was dripping with his blood and the walls were smashed in by a heavy object. An axe.
Tears threatened, but I had to look through all the ripped up pieces of human flesh that were floating in the pools of blood, I had to find Ryan. Whether or not the pieces of sliced up limbs were him, or if he was somehow untouched, I had to hold him one last time. I can't let go of him yet.
I prayed all the cut up pieces of human weren't him, but as I searched every inch and corner of his room, I had to deal with the reality that it was him. He had been chopped and scattered around the room, and seeing the remains of the person I cared so much for made me choke back tears.

Jack just whimpered in the doorway, squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to puke.
The stench of rotting corpses flowed freely in the room, and the only bit of light was streaming from a cracked window. It was stuffy, and the smell was so strong I felt like I could taste it, and it burned my mouth.

Ryan's bed was the bloodiest thing in the room, almost like the killer attacked him while he was asleep. His big white sheets were now coated in crimson blood. The Big White Bed was now a Big Red Bed.
The clothes in his closet were torn and shredded by human hands, and it almost seemed like he had done that himself. Why? Did the stuff under the sink really send him into such a strong state of traumatic shock that he had ripped his clothes in a desperate attempt to cope?

Jasper planted the evidence from his last crime in the cabinet because he knew that Ryan would go into a frenzy of emotional horror, making it easier to murder him. It was a sick, horrible plan that I shouldn't have ever let work. But I did. I let all of this happen. Everywhere I looked in the room I felt like I could see images of Ryan struggling to stay alive, too scared and full of shock to scream for help. I could see the axe rip through his body, blood gushing out along with his insides.
I could see the blood spilling from his mouth, dripping onto the bed.