#ehrptask002

November 22nd 2016 1:23am

Trembling libs desperately wrapped themselves around Payton’s stomach, thighs, calves — anywhere she could physically grab to drag her back down to the reality at the foot of her bed. His blood drenched the front of her dress, seeping through the fabric, sticking to her damp pale skin, spatter painting the right side of her face in random array as she gripped her skull in agony on what the next step of action was to take.Her phone slipped through her hands, knocking against her knee as she tried collecting herself enough to think a contact on her phone that could possibility help her in this situation. 

She thought about Louis—a dry laughed crackling out from the back of her throat when she realized he was dead just like the man she had just killed, Philip, his name is — was Philip. She thought of Stan— whom she knew would see her in a completely different light if he knew she took away another human lie. She thought of her father— it seemed like the most logical person to call and yet her fingertips purposefully danced away from his name. Her last resort was Harry— “oh god.” She couldn’t bear the look that would be edged into his features if she called him for help. She guessed— no she knew Harry wouldn’t love her anymore for such a heinous barbaric act preformed. She scraped the idea, fingers unconsciously typing in the number 9-1-1.

Shock overtook Payton’s petite body, anxiety bubbling up in the pit of her stomach climbing up her spine as she began retching. “What have I done?” she whispered, pulling herself toward the bathroom in the hotel room, wobbly legs guiding her to the toilet to throw up. Her body collapsed to the floor, bloody handprints dressing the toilet lid as she lifted it. “What have I done?” she repeated to herself, curling up into a ball on the tiled floor of the bathroom, tucked into a corner, drowning in guilt.

Her windpipe burned with fingernail imprints seared into her irritated skin like half crescent moons. She cautiously inspected the area with her filthy hands, vision blurred as she frantically made her way to the sink to wash off as much of the blood from her body as she could. She scrubbed her skin raw with the bar of soap provided to the room, obsessively feeling as if not an inch of blood was removed from her skin even through it had all been washed away down the drain.

Payton had never been one to defend herself whenever someone laid an unlawful hand on her body. For years she had been abused by the fists of her father for free; she was not about to let someone pay to do the same. When Philip’s hands enclosed around her throat, restricting the airflow to her lungs all she could do was thrash her legs in protest as his weight crushed her body. She remembered hearing a sharp ringing in her ears, a severe pounding against her temples as she suffocated. When you’re drowning, you don’t actually inhale until right before you black out. It is a phenomenon that is called sleep apnea. No matter how much the person is freaking out, the instinct to not let water into your body is predominant. Your body will fight until your head feels like it is on the brink of explosion. Even though Payton felt like she was on the very edge of passing out, she did not allow Philip the satisfaction of stealing her own life from her. She did not inhale.

Her hand reached out to the nightstand on her left, stretching desperately to grab anything to assist her, muscles aching in desperation. The object that was eventually won happened to be a fork. The fork was jabbed into Philip’s neck, piercing the skin and ripping open his jugular vein, spurting blood all over Payton’s face as if he suffered a gun shot to the back of the head. His body jerked for a good minute, quaking against her own trembling frame as his spark dimmed, body completely inert, motionless.The severity of her outburst weighed in on her conscience, tipping her morality scale to a less favorable side. Her past medical trained self jumping into action to attempt to save a person who was already long gone. However, she did not give up in trying to safe the man’s life, not until she had hot salted tears covering the body, diluting the blood that pooled into a silhouette on the floor around the body. After the initial realization of the act, she pushed herself as far away from the lifeless corpse as she could. She pushed her body up against the wall opposite the body, sobbing onto the off white wallpaper in pure anguish. There she laid until she had the audacity to call the police and in essence confess to a murder she did wholeheartedly commit, even if it was a sheer act of self defense.

A gloved hand rested on the back of Payton’s neck as she ducked her head to slip into the back seat of the police car. Her body shivered as her eyes remained glued to the tenth floor of the hotel building. The image of the young man’s body burned into the back of her eyelids, so all she saw when she blinked was the censoring visual. Her knees knocked against each other on the bumpy road to her prison cell, fingernail picking at a spot of dry blood covering her upper thigh as she replayed the night’s events as a marathon in her mind. She could not have been more terrified and alone in that moment. She now questioned her entire character, feeling out of her own body and mind the minute she jammed the fork into Philip’s neck during his paid session.

“Do you want your one phone call now?”

“No.”

“Do you know where you are?”