He remembers it well.

Her shitty, small little kitchen in that tiny apartment she managed to snag, completely unaware of the threats and the money he had to trade for the landlord to give it to her. Filled with her laughter, her warmth, and her soft noises of pleasure as he massaged her scalp just right, technique practiced perfectly by now.

The back of her neck curved over the sink counter from where she sat beside it, guiding the water to drip down the drain as he rubbed the color out of her hair between his fingers, trying hard to keep his eyes off of the long, soft column of her neck, to not stare.

The way the wet strands felt nice against the skin of his hands. Her soft voice melodic as she’d talk about her day, both petulant, cute complaints and excited little exclamations alike.

The way he’d have brushed his thumb against her cheek by accident, making her open those beautiful eyes up at him with a giggle bursting from her lips.

He was about to ask if he could dye his hair the same color as hers simply to have an excuse to stay longer, but she gave him mercy. Instead, she begged him to stay the night, attempting to allure him with snacks, movies, and ice cream, thinking that would make up his mind.

She never realized all she needed to convince him was herself.

---

He found her body crushed beneath a glass cabinet that had been pushed on top of her. Glass shards pressed deep into her back and spine, making a million little lacerations there that wept crimson onto the dusty hardwood floor, ribs seemingly shattered and organs squished like a bug beneath the weight.

Her face lays in a puddle of her own blood, cold. She doesn’t open her eyes. Doesn’t smile like she used to, blood leaked down her lips, over her chin, her hair a mess of strands soaked in red. The floor is puddled, soaked with it, painting the bottom of his boots and the fabric at his knees.

It was just supposed to be a stupid fucking party, some little fling Connor and whoever he decided to fuck that night’s entertainment that she decided to go to because she wanted to be polite.

He remembers her grabbing his hand, giggling as she’d lead him up the attic with that adrenaline-fueled look in her eyes. The talk of ghost stories alive when Julia pulls out some paper doll with an anxious smile on her face.

He can’t even pick her up.

The fucking ritual that they all thought was fake. The bloody sound the paper doll made when they ripped it into 7 pieces. The wooden planks that had collapsed out from under them when it did. And, as the world shook, how he desperately held her tight against him, shielding her, as they both fell into the abyss below.

He can’t even hold her.

His blood rushes in his ears as he stares down at her corpse, unable to feel his own face. His hands felt so, so cold.

She was still so beautiful, even like this. But she’d never look up at him again. Never smile up at him again, never speak her mind about which teachers she hated the most, or laugh as she teased him about how much he was a prude.

He clenches his hands. Unclenches them. Watches them shake as he stares down at his numb fingertips, warmed only by her blood.

How long did it take for her to die? Was it the time it took for him to wake up? The time it took for him to realize she wasn’t there?

A sob escapes his throat, guttural, raw. He doesn’t recognize himself.

Or was it the time it took for him to start panicking? Demanding answers, grabbing Jason by the collar and slamming him against the wall until he told, before Connor dragged Matt off of him with a fear in his eyes that spoke of a withering friendship.

His hands run through his hair, uncaring of the crimson that combed through it.

Did she die right before he’d finally found her?

He screams, tears pour down his cheeks as he pounds the floor, the skin of his hands tearing at the grit of the wood. She lays in front of him, motionless. Her hair’s still the same color he’d felt spill between his fingers in her sink. Sobs rip through his lungs as he grabs at his own head, hysterical, inconsolable.

There’s nothing he can do about this. Not anymore. Not now that she’s gone. He hears himself scream again as he leans down further, but he hardly feels it, instead begging a god he doesn’t believe in that he’d still feel her warmth when he presses his forehead against her bloodied one. He doesn’t.

He doesn’t process what happens next. Vaguely knows that time passes as he sobs. It could’ve been hours, minutes. All he knows is, eventually, his body stands after pounding and clawing at the floor long enough for his knuckles to be ripped open and bloody, and when he walks out of that room, leaving her corpse behind, he feels as if he’s left his soul behind with her.

He only barely registers it as he makes his way back to the room where all of those fucking cowards sit shivering in, and before he gets to the door, he finds a loose pipe laid haphazardly on the floor, tinged with rust. And something in him breaks, and falls back into place. Differently.

He doesn’t remember what happens next.

---

His head swims when he finally wakes. A pillow beneath his head, his hands feeling sticky, the coagulated blood that crusts his hands smearing onto the sheets beneath him in a disgusting paste.

His body stutters when he remembers where he is, when he is. Her, dead. Connor’s head caving in, splattering the pipe red. Jason nicking him with his knife before Matt practically rips his windpipe out from his throat after knocking him to the floor. Julia’s scream before he sinks Jason’s knife into her right eye.

He’s caught between a groan, his head pounding, the pain sharp like a hot iron poker has been stabbed between his eyes, but, as he stirs, he hears a soft hum.

It sounds like her. He snaps open his eyes.

She stands above him, her warm hands immediately finding his cheeks. Eyes frantic, tearful, as she checks him for any more wounds. Still covered in blood herself, like she’s just crawled out of her own grave. Bandages messily dressed over her back and torso where he remembers she’d been ground into the musty fucking wood. And yet. And yet. She stands before him. Smiling.