#morricide

The young man sitting in Whitefield Heights’ atrium is tall, lanky, long legs curled awkwardly – she observed him a while: he flicked his knives about – then seemed to get bored with the ordeal and picked up a piece of paper on the ground, igniting it with a lighter.

Rebecca’s brows furrow, her insides twisting with sudden panic: what would happen if the mall burned down? Would she burn with it? What would happen to her? She allows herself out of the shadows, her eyes glimmering like a deer in the headlights until she’s fully coated in bone white light from the cupola above.

“Stop it – you’ll burn this place to the ground”, she orders sternly.

Jackie’s eyebrow furrowed as she looked at the blade that was placed into her palm. When she agreed to a blood pact, she didn’t think he’d be serious about it. “You’re serious?” She asked, her eyes moving from Frank to the knife. Too late to back out now, she supposed. Turning the knife over in her palm for a moment before she took hold of the handle and slid it across her hand, a gasp left her lips before she held her hand out to him, letting the blood drip down her hand. “What do we do now?” She asked. She’d never really done anything like this before.