The story so far:
Black despair. A feeling that grips your heart and mind like poisen, slowly choking off every sense of reason...It's my fault, oh God! What have I done? Please! No, no, no...
I remember once, when I was eight, and my family went camping by Lake Powell. My entire family was there and the trip was made into an event, full with s'mores and songs and storries. My eight-year-old heart was filled with giddy happiness. My mother and father, along with all the other parents had been enjoying drinks by the fire, and had wandered off the the lakeside in a group. I remember lying by the fire, staring at it. Oh! How beautiful I had thought How pretty. I absent-mindedly stuck a stick into the fire, marveling at how the flames licked up the gray bark....and then I felt heat on my arm, teasing. I looked down and began screaming hysterically. The flame, which at first had been gentle and warm was now cruel and painful, crawling. It consumed my every thought: in that searing moment, the fire was my life...My mother saved me, but I'll never forget the cruel, yellow-red heat...
The feeling of the fire gripped me once more as I realized I had no more tears left to cry: all-consuming, and unrelenting. He did this to me. My heart stopped for a sickening, painful moment as my mind absorbed this. The bastard! And his consorting Bimbo! They...they....they're going to pay.
As I realized this, it all became crystal clear: She caused this. She was going to die.
I rolled of the sofa with a thump, and hit the ground running to my bathroom. My mind shouted directions like a drill seargeant: Shower! Brush! Towel! Mirror! I stumbled to the front door, pulling my hair into a sloppy ponytail, and began sprinting into the darkness.
My feet took me where they instinctively wanted to: a person who would understand. A friend. I pounded on the front door hysterically, gasping "It's me!" as if he could guess.
I stumbled forward as the door swung open, my eyes adjusting to the light.
"Bella...? Bell--what are...what in the Hell are you doing?"
"Sorry, but I need your--you're looking well Jake." I said, smiling crookedly as I took in his appearance: his hair was askew in a mess of black, his eyebrows raised, eyes ridiculously wide, and toothbrush dangling out of his mouth.
"Wha--?" He sputtered, genuinly bewildered.
"Look Jake," I sighed, "I need your help....I need to kill someone."
He grinned his famous smile, sure I was playing a trick on him "Bells, I know it's April, but we're not in highschool anymo--"
"I'm serious--dead serious. Now let me in."