Am I A Murderer?

Am I A Murderer?
Lucy’s POV

This time I woke up slowly, lazily with the sunlight warm across my skin and a stupid, giddy smile already pulling at my lips. 

My body ached in the most delicious places…thighs tender, core throbbing, little bruises blooming on my hips and ass like secret love letters. 

I stretched like a cat, humming low in my throat, and realized the bed was empty again. This time it didn’t scare me. It felt…safe. Like he’d be back anytime soon.

I rolled out of bed naked, thighs sticky and crusty with everything we’d done, the evidence of him still dripping out of me as I padded to the little table. The tray was still there, cocoa long cold, but next to it was a folded note in sharp, masculine handwriting.

‘Had to run to the station…paperwork waits for no man. Eat something, beautiful. Can’t wait to have you again tonight.
 —E.’

Does this mean he’s really coming back? Are we like…lovers now?

Heat rushed straight to my cheeks, then lower, pooling hot between my legs at the memory of how thoroughly he’d already had me. I bit my lip, a silly little giggle escaping as I picked up the note and pressed it to my chest like a teenager. Tonight. God, yes.

I floated into the bathroom humming an old love song I hadn’t thought about in years, turned the shower on hot, and stepped under the spray. The water stung the little marks he’d left and I welcomed it, running my hands over every ache, every bite, every fingerprint. 

My fingers drifted lower, brushing my swollen clit just once…still so sensitive I gasped, and I laughed out loud, the sound echoing off the tiles.

Let them hate me. Let the whole world think I’m trash. As long as Ethan looks at me the way he did last night…like I’m worth saving, worth keeping…I don’t care.

I took my time…shaved, scrubbed, conditioned my hair twice, singing softly the whole damn time.

When I finally stepped out, I didn’t bother with clothes. Just slipped into my short silk robe, nothing underneath, belt tied loose. Underwear would only slow him down later, and I was feeling deliciously impatient.

I reheated the toast, poured fresh coffee, and carried everything to my small desk by the window. Afternoon light spilled over the keyboard. 2:47 p.m. I’d slept like the dead…happy, sated, actually hopeful for the first time in weeks.

“Okay,” I whispered, cracking my knuckles. “Let’s see if the internet has moved on to someone else’s tragedy yet.”

I opened the laptop, typed “FinCa Corp” into Google out of habit more than anything, ready to scroll past the usual garbage.

The first result stopped my heart.

It wasn’t the headline that got me first.
It was the picture.

Jenna from HR…smiling in that stupid sunflower dress and picnic hat from the company retreat last summer…right next to a grainy crime-scene photo of a black body bag on a stretcher.

MUTILATED BODY OF FINCA CORP EMPLOYEE FOUND IN BASEMENT GARAGE

My stomach lurched violently. The toast I’d managed to swallow surged back up. I barely made it to the bathroom before I was on my knees, heaving into the toilet, tears streaming, body shaking with dry retches long after my stomach was empty.

Jenna was dead.
Mutilated. How? Why?

I saw her yesterday. She’d cornered me right outside the door elevator, hissing that I was “a disgusting whore who deserved everything coming to me.” She along with her clique had left malicious comments about me on the company’s group chat.

So how come…

I sat back on my heels, cold tile biting into my bare legs as my robe fell open.

The nightmare from two nights ago flashed behind my eyes…hands around a throat, a scream cut short, blood on tile, my own laughter echoing as someone begged.

My blood turned to ice.

Did I…
No.
No, that was just a dream, Lucy.
 …Wasn’t it?

I stared at my trembling hands like they belonged to a stranger and swallowed hard.

Could I have done this? 

Will I be a prime suspect during the investigation? Will they accuse me of murder? They will clearly say that I have a motive for killing her.

The room spun as I started pacing bare feet slapping tile, then carpet, then tile again), faster, faster, like if I kept moving the thoughts couldn’t catch me.

But they did.

I bit down on my thumbnail so hard I tasted blood. My mind wasn’t my own anymore. It was a broken projector, flashing images I didn’t ask for, didn’t want, couldn’t unsee.

Me.
Standing over Jenna in the underground garage, fluorescent lights flickering.

A chainsaw was in my hands (where the fuck did a chainsaw even come from?), roaring, hungry as my own face twisted into something monstrous…eyes too wide, pupils blown black, lips peeled back in a grin that was pure, terrifying joy.

The blade biting into flesh, bone, cartilage. Blood spraying in hot arterial arcs across the concrete, across my arms, my chest, my smiling mouth. Jenna screaming loudly in a wet, desperate voice, then gurgling, then nothing.

I jerked back so hard I slammed into the wall, head cracking against plaster.

“NO!” The scream ripped out of me raw and animal. I clutched my ears, nails digging into my scalp, trying to hold the memories or was it the visions? inside so they wouldn’t spill out. “No no no no NO… I didn’t, I couldn’t—”

I was with Ethan. I was fucking Ethan all night, he was inside me, on top of me, under me…every minute accounted for, every bruise proof I was here, not there—

Yes! That’s right. I have an alibi.

Just then, another memory flashed through my mind…clearer and sharper.

My hands were slick with blood, stuffing something soft and heavy into a black bag. A leg. Jenna’s leg, still wearing that stupid sunflower-printed flat from the retreat photo. I felt the zipper catching on skin and my blood chilled.

I screamed again, a sound I didn’t recognize as human, and lunged for the laptop. Slammed it shut so hard the screen cracked. The room went dark except for the afternoon sun slicing through the blinds like knives.

I dove for the bed, yanking the duvet over my naked body like it could hide me from myself. Curled into the tightest ball, rocking, rocking, rocking so hard I started feeling dizzy.

“I didn’t do it,” I whispered, voice cracking. “I’m innocent. I’m not a murderer. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not—”

But the blood on my hands felt so real I could smell it.

I’m not a murderer.
I’m not.
I’m not.
 …Am I?