TW // gore

Today’s been arguably one of the longest days in the history of long days. Michael, my boyfriend, had alerted me that I was just a cover for him while he went off seeing other girls. I had hoped that I could actually have a normal high-school relationship. Screw me, I guess.

I set my backpack on the floor and plop face first onto my mattress, failing my legs in the air for a moment while I cry into a pillow. When I pull myself back up, I notice that my mascara has spilled into the pillow cover and stained it, making the once bright pink an ugly shade of magenta.

I sit up as someone knocks on my door, likely my dad. “Hey, honey? Someone left this in the mailbox for you.” He says, handing me a letter sealed with a cute butterfly wax stamp. He leaves, quietly closing the door behind him. I wipe a tear away and pen the letter. 

It has an odd bulge in it, almost like someone put a small eraser cap in there. There’s oddly no letter inside the envelope, but instead, there’s a USB drive. Taped to the front of it are the words ‘My Love’. Other than the weird USB, there’s a small slip of paper, with red ink splattered over it. ‘I love you, and soon we will be together’ is written on the front, and a smile is written on the back. 

Now I’m really creeped out. I feel something else in the envelope, and I tip it over, and a lock of hair falls out. That’s . . . that’s my hair. There’s no doubt about it, that’s my freaking hair.

I quickly put it in the trash can, feeling a shiver go down my spine. This is horrible. I hate this. What type of cruel trick is this?

I shakily grab the USB, putting it inside of my computer. It quickly loads up, but there’s nothing at first. Just a weird file. When I open them, my name, along with the names of my friends, are all labeled as separate files. There’s also an odd folder at the far right, with no label. I decide that one should be last.

I click on my folder, expecting the worst. What’s inside is worse than I could have ever expected. There are hundreds of pictures of me in there. Pictures of me in class, at clubs, even inside my own home. I scrolled for a few minutes, but somehow there were close to a thousand different pictures of me.

Each of my friends’ folders had the same thing. Each had close to two hundred pictures, and each had a picture of where they lived.

The last folder, however, was the worst. Nothing could have prepared me for what was in there. It was the mutilated body of Michael, with the words ‘I love you’ etched into his chest. I almost vomited, and I looked away from the screen, panting.

My breaths were heavy and made worse by the sound of a camera shutter.