Chapter 395: The things we do for love.
TRIGGER WARNING !!!! (BLOOD, MURDER, GORE ETC)
I walked back to the bedroom.
The knife felt light in my hand. Balanced. The weight distributed perfectly between handle and blade.
Cain’s breathing had gone ragged, his hand moving faster. He was close. His whole body tensed, chasing that final release while staring at her picture, whispering her name.
I stood at the foot of his bed.
He opened his eyes.
For one long second, we looked at each other. His hand frozen mid-stroke, pants around his ankles, my best friend’s face still glowing on his laptop screen.
His expression cycled through confusion, then recognition, then the beginning of fear.
"Sarah? What—"
I moved before he could finish.
The knife went into his chest. Just left of center. I felt the resistance of skin, then the give as it punctured through.
He gasped. Not a scream. Just this surprised exhale, like I’d startled him rather than stabbed him.
His hand came up, touching the handle, trying to understand what had just happened.
I pulled the knife out. Raised it. Brought it down again.
This time he made a sound. Wet and choked.
Again.
Again.
Again.
No words. No explanations. Just the rhythm of it. The knife going in and coming out. The sounds he made getting quieter each time until they stopped entirely.
Each time the blade sank into him, I felt more real. More solid. Like I was carving myself into existence with every thrust. Like his blood was the ink that would finally make me visible.
I don’t know how many times I stabbed him. I lost count after eight. Maybe fifteen. Maybe more.
When I finally stopped, my arm was tired and Cain wasn’t moving anymore.
I sat on top of him, the knife still in my hand, breathing hard.
Not from exertion. From adrenaline. From something that felt almost like euphoria.
Blood was everywhere. Soaked into his sheets, pooled on the floor, splattered across his laptop screen, covering Aria’s face like a veil. It was warm and wet and more red than I’d expected. Almost pretty in its excess.
Cain’s eyes were open, staring at nothing. His mouth slack. One hand still reaching toward his laptop like he’d been trying to save the image even as he died.
I should have left then. Should have run. But I couldn’t stop looking at him.
At what I’d done.
At what was left.
If I cut him into pieces small enough, would he disappear? Could I unmake him the way he’d unmade me? Reduce him to nothing, the way he’d reduced me to a tool?
I started cutting.
It was methodical work. Almost peaceful.
I started with his hands. The one that had touched me. The one that had touched himself while thinking of her. Those filthy hands that deserved neither of us.
I sawed through the wrist joint, feeling the blade catch on bone before breaking through. Set the hand aside.
Then the other one.
His arms next. Separated at the elbows, then the shoulders. Each piece placed carefully on the floor beside the bed.
I worked my way down. Torso. Hips. Legs.
The knife got dull. I had to press harder. My hands were slippery with blood, kept losing my grip. But I didn’t stop.
I don’t know how long it took. Time had gone strange and elastic. Could have been twenty minutes. Could have been two hours.
At some point, I looked down at my hands.
They were red to the elbows. Blood under my nails, in the creases of my palms, dripping from my fingertips onto what was left of him.
And I felt... nothing.
No remorse. No horror at what I’d done. No guilt.
Just a distant, analytical observation: I killed someone. I took him apart piece by piece.
And I feel nothing.
Then the fear came.
Not fear of what I’d done. Fear of getting caught. Fear of being locked away again, of losing my freedom, of losing Aria.
I couldn’t let that happen.
So I stood up, my legs shaking, and I started to clean.
His coat was hanging on the back of his door. Long, dark, thick enough to hide the blood soaking my clothes. I pulled it on, wrapped it tight around myself.
The knife went into the pocket.
I looked around the room one more time. At the pieces of him arranged on the floor like a disassembled mannequin. At the blood painting the walls in arterial spray patterns. At his laptop, still open, Aria’s face barely visible under the red.
Then I left.
The hallway was empty. It was late... past midnight, maybe later. Most people were either asleep or out at parties. No one to see me slip down the stairs and out the back exit.
The walk back to my dorm felt impossibly long. Every sound made me flinch. Every shadow could have been a witness. But the campus was quiet, and I moved quickly, head down, coat pulled tight.
I made it to my building. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Into my room.
Locked the door.
Only then did I let myself breathe.
I stripped in the bathroom, letting my clothes fall into a pile at my feet. Everything was ruined. Shirt, jeans, underwear, socks. All of it soaked through with his blood.
The shower took a long time.
I stood under water hot enough to hurt, watching red swirl down the drain. I scrubbed my skin until it felt raw. Dug under my nails with a brush. Washed my hair three times.
When the water finally ran clear, I stayed there for another ten minutes. Just standing. Feeling the heat. Trying to process what I’d done.
I killed someone. I actually killed someone.
And you know what? It was easier than I thought.
I burned my clothes in the dorm’s incinerator, the one in the basement that students used for pizza boxes and failed term papers.
Waited until three in the morning when no one would be down there. Fed everything into the flames piece by piece and watched it turn to ash.
The knife I cleaned thoroughly, wrapped in newspaper, and hid in the ceiling tiles above my closet. I’d figure out what to do with it later.
Then I sat on my bed in clean pajamas, hands folded in my lap, and waited for morning.
I should have felt something. Fear, guilt, horror, something.
But all I felt was empty. Hollowed out. Like I’d cut away a part of myself along with Cain and now there was just this void where something used to be.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Aria: hey you ok? haven’t heard from you today
I stared at the screen. At her name. At her casual concern.
She had no idea. No idea that Cain had used me to get to her. That I’d found out. That I’d killed him.
That I’d cut him into pieces on his bed while thinking about her.
She had no idea what I was capable of.
I typed back: I’m fine. just tired. talk tomorrow?
ok! love you
love you too
I set the phone down.
Then I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up.
....
They found him on Saturday afternoon.
His roommate came back early from his weekend trip. Opened the door. Started screaming.
I heard about it from Aria. She called me, voice shaking, barely coherent.
"Oh my god, Sarah. Oh my god. Did you hear? About Cain?"
I made my voice small. Confused. "No. What happened?"
"He’s—someone killed him. In his dorm. Sarah, someone fucking killed him."
I let the silence stretch. Let her hear my shock through the phone.
"What?"
"The police are here. They’re saying... god, Sarah, they’re saying it was bad. Really bad. They won’t give details but people are saying there was so much blood—" Her voice broke.
"Sarah, are you okay? Oh my god, you must be—I’m so sorry. I’m coming over right now."
"No, I’ll come to you," I said, keeping my voice shaky. Uncertain. The way someone in shock would sound.
"Are you sure? Sarah, he was your boyfriend. You shouldn’t be alone right now."
"I need to see you," I said. And that part was true.
The campus was chaos. Police cars everywhere, yellow tape blocking off Cain’s building, students clustered in groups whispering and crying and speculating.
I made my way to Aria’s dorm, keeping my head down, my expression carefully blank. Numb.
The way someone who’d just lost their boyfriend should look.
Aria opened the door before I could knock. Her face was blotchy from crying, crying for me, I realized. She pulled me inside and wrapped her arms around me. For someone who hardly cried for herself, she’s easily cried for others.
"Oh, Sarah. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry."
I let myself lean into her. Let my body go limp and heavy. Made a small sound that could have been a sob.
She held me tighter. "It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here."
Her roommate hovered nearby, looking uncomfortable. "I’m gonna give you guys some space," she mumbled, and left.
Aria guided me to her bed, sat me down, kept her arm around me. "Do you want to talk about it? Or do you just want me to sit with you?"
"I don’t understand," I whispered. "Who would do this? Why?"
"I don’t know." She squeezed my shoulder. "But they’ll find whoever did it. The police are everywhere. They’ll find them."
I nodded. Let a tear slide down my cheek.
And felt nothing.
No guilt for lying to her. No remorse for taking away someone she thought I cared about. Just a cold, analytical satisfaction that she was here, focused entirely on me, worried about me.
That I was the one she’d chosen to comfort.