Lost Cause » Void Stiles

09; bloody murder

The soft tapping of bloody slippers on hardwood flooring almost sounded like sandpaper, combined with an eerily still silence. Occasionally, the faint sound of a drip would entwine with the quiet noise, leaving behind a faint trail as she continued up the stairs. A slow, scarily steady pace remained the brunette's lone focus as she walked, her goal to extend the amount of time she had within the blissful silence to as long as possible before hell ascended upon the Mitchell house for the second time today.

Images burned themselves into her mind, each remaining in thought for no more than a second before another appeared. Each horrific scene was enough to send just about anyone straight to Eichen for the duration of their existence, but it seemed as though an exception would always be made for a certain psychopath. To her, each image brought back the memory of something she'd been waiting too long to do- something she'd forever be proud of, and never forget.

Now, it was time to destroy the evidence.

Her left hand held tightly to a small, red container; the sound of liquid sloshing against the sides emitting each time she would stumble. It was a fact that'd never be spoken aloud, but the brunette was far from ready to return to her demonic companion- with a sharp pain each time she attempted to move her jaw even the slightest & a very prominent black eye, she hadn't completed her task without taking some damage.

But those who knew Lita Mitchell, knew that whatever she was given, she returned it twice as worse, if not, more. Pain didn't weaken her, it made her angrier & allowed her to continue fighting until the final second, making her both dangerous & deadly. The blood on her face may have been mostly hers, but the crimson soaking her clothing belonged to the lifeless corpses downstairs, and Lita was going to wear it like a gold medal for as long as she could.

The brunette made her way to the top of my stairs, no longer savouring time in silence as she turned to see what was once her bedroom, her favourite place in the world, was now her father's in-home office, complete with a top of the line laptop, brand new everything & even an exercise machine in the corner, for whatever reason. He wasn't fat- and in Lita's opinion, if you aren't fat, there's no point in wasting time & energy on exercise machines. They were stupid.

Lita unscrewed the cap of the red container just seconds after seeing the monstrosity they'd made of her once favourite room, the simmering coals of rage now reigniting into fiery, red hot flames. The only room she'd ever genuinely liked in that godawful house had been completely destroyed- every last thing she owned was gone, as if she'd never even existed, and replaced with department store office furniture. It was like her father had resurrected only to sucker punch her once again & blacken the other eye; he never did like mismatched things.

The strong scent of gasoline took less than a millisecond to consume every other fragrance in the room, even the blood soaking most of Lita's shirt. She shook the container violently, splashing the liquid across every item within the room; particular the piece of exercise equipment & the seemingly new shelving installed along one wall. Every paper laying along it, the laptop, her father's cellphone; everything possibly usable accessory was destroyed in under a minute, and by the time she was done, Lita barely had enough gasoline remaining to pour over her parents' corpses.

Recapping the container, Lita set it in the doorway of the room as she lifted the hem of her shirt. On the waistband of her sweatpants, was a small hole she'd cut using a pocket knife Malia had stolen from an orderly days ago at Eichen. Lita had learned the trick from a kleptomaniac nearly a year ago, a girl who'd been later moved to the closed unit. She would cut holes in the waistband of her sweatpants, where a small space for the elastic was, and use it as a place to store little things such as tweezers, bobby pins & pills. It worked like a charm whenever the orderlies would search their pockets; no one ever thought to check there.