You know that this could never work out. After all the death and chaos she caused earlier just trying to find herself… And with her downright abhorrent visage… And that absolute horrifying voice that makes every hair on your body stand… Not to mention you can plainly see what part of your friends went where…
She’s just too far gone. You couldn’t possibly love that thing in front of you. Keeping that satanic abortion alive for even a minute longer is a thought that disgusts you. It feels like she’s mocking you with her gaze, like she’s taunting you with the appendages that once belonged to your friends. No, fuck this thing.
You pull the trigger. Even though you prepared yourself mentally, your ears still throb painfully. She slumps down as blood trickles out of her head, dripping onto the grass underneath her. You rack another round into the chamber and fire once again. A Zimmerman Telegram. You know better than to take a chance with monsters. More blood pours out of the second hole. You watch as the creature bleeds out below, looking to see if it still breathes or gets up. It’s not until the blood slows to a light trickle that you’re convinced she’s dead. Strangely, you feel a tremendous amount of satisfaction in having down that. At least you’re self-aware enough to know that might not be a good thing.
Sighing, you sling the rifle around your shoulder and look back towards the street. The sirens in the distance let you know that more police are coming, likely armed much better than before. Somehow, getting caught up in the legal bullshit and trying to explain everything isn’t very appealing to you. Knowing it won’t take long, you bolt into the nearby woods and keep running until the sun comes up.
A few months go by without much event for you. It’s public knowledge now that some terrible experiment got loose or something and killed a few schoolgirls before hitting up the town. Luckily, nobody really came to you to ask about your involvement. Your parents had grilled you on the damage and why you took the rifle out of the house. Thankfully, all you had to mention was that the thing on the news had come by and ‘invited itself in’. After that, they dropped the matter and just made sure that you were ok.
The literature club isn’t around anymore either. The school provided grief counselors for students who were affected by the loss of the dokis. As much as you wanted to believe otherwise, it hurt you that they were gone. You tried getting a session in once, but the line went out the door. It didn’t take much thought to figure out that these students were just trying to find a way to skip class but make it look like they cared about their fellow students. Shallow assholes. You’ll just have to bottle everything up.
The school did ask you if you wanted to continue the literature club. They understood that the circumstances were pretty outstanding, and would offer you all the time you needed to gather more members and rebuild the club. You told them that the club was what the girls mostly made of it. It didn’t seem right for you try and interpret what they aimed to do with the club and that you don’t think you had it in you to continue it. The answer was enough to get the school off of you and formally dissolve the club.
At the end of another school day, you find yourself walking in front of the door to the old club room. Stopping dead in your tracks, you look at the door. Many of the memories that you had with the girls hit you like a train. Next to the door is a picture of the girls together for an official club photo. You joined not too long after, so you weren’t in the picture. You pull the picture from the wall and look at the photo. A few tears trail down your face while you stare at the smiling girls in the picture. You wish that you could have done anything different for them. Realizing that you’re crying with other students walking around you, you can only mutter to yourself.
“…Fuck.”
THE END
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