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The puddle shimmers under the dim light coming from your bedside lamp; it’s a mix of glitter and little shards of glass that get swept up in the spreading fluid. The base of the snow globe lays in the rubble, the little Bambi figurine is broken too. You can see his decapitated head lonely on the floor.
“Oops,” Susan says. You can’t stand to look at her, but it sounds like she’s smiling. This must be really funny to her, you think to yourself, still watching the snow globe’s blood spread.
Your hands tighten into fists. Your breath shudders. Your ears are still ringing from the sound of your most precious treasure shattering on the floor.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to cry,” Susan goads, but your eyes feel dry. You used to cry when her bullying began. She would stand on the other side of the bathroom door and let you hear how hilarious she thought you were being. You hate her laugh. It’s ugly, like a braying horse spooked in its stable. No one else seems to mind it, though. None of your sorority sisters ask her to stop, even when she’s laughing so hard that she cries too.
Your father bought you that snow globe. He used to shake it up for you then put it in your hands, making you promise to be careful with it. He died when you were ten. The glitter in Bambi’s eyes makes it look like he’s weeping for you.
“It’s just a piece of shit toy, anyways. You’re too old for a stupid Bambi snow globe, aren’t you? I mean, that’s probably why no one wants to date you. Everyone can tell you’re just a weird loser freak. I don’t even know how you got into this sorority. I’d ask if you slept with someone to get here, but I don’t think there’s a single person on Earth that would take you up on that.”
You keep watching the puddle. It turns the wood dark as it flows into the cracks. Susan laughs and laughs, you can see her holding onto her stomach like she’s making herself sick.
“Hello? Are you ignoring me now?”
You look up at her. Her smile is ugly and mean.
She follows behind you as you walk downstairs.
“Where the fuck are you going? Are you leaving? Don’t you know it’s rude to ignore someone who’s talking to you? Hello!”
She’s in your ear like a gnat. You don’t know why she can’t just leave you alone. You walk into the kitchen, and you rip your arm out of her attempt to hold you back.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, huh? Are you broken or something? You can’t just ignore me!”
You pull a knife out from the storage block. She guffaws, rolling her eyes.
“Seriously? You fucking bitch. Is that for me, or are you finally going to off yourself already? Everyone’s placing bets, you know,” she says, still laughing. “Go ahead and do it. Slit your wrists, I won’t save you if you do.”
You’re not laughing. You stare at her. The knife is surprisingly heavy in your hand. You lift it up by your head.
Her laughter dies down.
“You can’t be serious. It was a joke!” she says. She stumbles back, but you follow her. “Stop it! What the fuck is wrong with you!”
She runs up the stairs and you follow her. In the long straight hallway, you lunge and drive the knife into her back. Susan screams as she falls, and you follow her down. She’s screaming and writhing in pain, but you sit on her hips and drive the knife down again and again. She’s leaking like the snow globe, her fluids spreading across her shirt. Once she’s quiet, you sit back on top of her.
Sniffling, you lay down the knife on top of her back. You feel numb inside still; part of you had hoped that doing this would snap you out of it, but it didn’t. You don’t react when you hear someone climbing down from the attic. You only barely glance at him when he kneels down next to you.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur to him.
“It’s okay,” he whispers back. “You didn’t mean it.”
“I think I did,” you admit.
“Bitch whore deserved it. Fucking cunt.” There’s so much animosity in his voice. You wonder why you’re spared from it. You wonder who this stranger is.
Still, you don’t respond to him. You keep watching the blood grow.
“I can help,” he says after a moment. His voice is quiet and nervous, like he’s never said those words before and wasn’t sure how to pronounce them. He gestures you to climb off of her and you do, standing up shakily beside him.
“How?” you ask. He doesn’t answer you, just hands you the knife and takes a hold of your dead sister. He holds her wrists and hauls her towards the attic ladder. Her blood smears like jelly on hardwood toast.
“Fuck. Fuck,” you mutter to yourself. You need to clean the mess before it stains. You hurry to the bathroom, running the hot water and putting on gloves. When you get back to the hallway, all that’s left is blood. You clean diligently, and it’s all mostly out. What’s left might be unnoticeable to someone who doesn’t know where to look.
The man comes back down, his sweater covered in blood. You frown.
“I have to wash that before it stains,” you say. You take him to the bathroom, and he sits shirtless on the floor next to you as you rub out the stains in the tub.
He keeps looking at you, you can feel his eyes on the side of your face. You don’t look back at him.
“I can help,” he says suddenly. He sounds more sure now.
“It’s almost out,” you say, shaking your head.
“I can kill the rest,” he says. Your hands stop moving in the freezing cold water.
“You don’t have to,” you murmur, still not looking at him.
“You’re so pretty.”
“They’re not all like her,” you tell him gently, ignoring his comment.
“They’re pig sluts. Disgusting shit-smelling whores,” he spits. You look at him then.
“What about me?” you ask him quietly. He looks into your eyes.
“You’re so pretty. I like Bambi,” he says.
You couldn’t cry before, but now you mourn your snow globe. Your face crumples, and the stranger hugs you.
“They’re so mean sometimes,” you whimper. “I don’t know why they hate me.”
“I can help,” he says into your ear. “Billy wants to help Bambi.”
You know there’s no saving Bambi, though. His head is cut off and he’s crying in his own blood. All that’s left are shards of glass.
Billy’s a stray. He’s a kicked dog. He’s going to bite and hump anything that moves. He’s been abandoned at the park, or maybe he just ran away and forgot how to get home. But you own him now. He caught your scent, and he loves you. He’s your good doggy and he’s so terrible he should be put down for what he’s done.
He’s so loyal to you. You’re so nice to him. You rub his scalp and give him food and water. You don’t beat him. You only make him feel so so so good. He loves you so much. He could bite you. He has, but you forgive him. He loves you. He doesn’t mean it when he draws blood. He’s so lonely and cold, and you let him sleep at the foot of your bed.
You plan in the dark. Sometimes, you face each other; other times, you hold him from behind, arms wrapped around his waist. You hold hands and let your legs touch under the covers. You fix his hair when it gets messy, and he brushes an eyelash off your cheek with the pad of his thumb.
“We’ll do it one by one, while they’re asleep,” you tell him one night, tracing the line of his nose. His eyes are closed, relishing in your touch.
“Tie them up so they can’t fight. Stupid sluts,” he whispers a week later. He entwines your fingers together, staring at them. You think he likes seeing how close he can get to you. He watches how your body wraps around his with reverence and worship.
“We could set the house on fire. They’ll never know it was us,” you giggle, laying on top of him. His hands are on your hips, and his touch is so warm that it makes you want to take your sweater off.
“I’ll cut off their heads if they talk to you again. I’ll saw them off and kick them like footballs,” he says darkly, drying your tears with his palm. He’s so angry you think he might kill them right then.
When Susan left, no one thought to ask you where she went. They knew how she treated you. They all watched her mock you, and they laughed along like it didn’t make them complicit. They cried and wrung their hands while the police questioned them, and you tell Billy about it at night.
“Tonight,” he hisses, holding you down on the bed. He pins your wrists down against the mattress and he sits on top of you. Sometimes, you realize what he is. Rabid, feral, untamed. He can be mollified with fresh food and pets along his back, but he’s wild, even when he manages to speak clearly. “I’m going to kill them tonight. They’re all going to die.”
“Wait, please. One more day,” you say, trying not to look afraid. “Just hold me. Please.”
He does, but you wonder if you let him go too far. You gave him too much lead, and now you won’t get him to heel again.
Like Billy entering your bedroom in the dead of night, some changes happen so quietly you don’t realize what’s happened until it’s too late. You wake up one ordinary day, and your sisters are nice.
Maybe you’re just easier to be around, with how happy Billy makes you. Maybe they felt guilty and wanted to make amends. Maybe Susan had your sisters under an evil spell that made them act like complete cunts to you and, by killing her, you freed your housemates from her mind control.
They laugh with you, they invite you to eat lunch with them. They still get teary eyed when they think about your missing sister, but they don’t say anything when you don’t cry. They know, and they’re sorry, and it feels good to hold that over them.
“Billy,” you murmur at night. He moans low and quiet at the back of his throat, and the sound vibrates against your chest. You brush you hand through his hair gently. “I don’t think we should hurt them anymore.”
Billy doesn’t respond. He’s so still, you wonder if he’s asleep.
“They’re not so mean nowadays. It’s better now,” you explain. “I think they’re sorry.”
Still, Billy doesn’t respond. You pick your head up to look at him, but he’s already staring at you. His eyes are hauntingly empty of emotion. You try to smile, as placating as you can.
“I’m sorry, Billy,” you whisper.
He turns his face towards your chest, pressing his nose against your bare sternum. He groans, but it sounds like a growl.
“So stupid,” he mutters, sounding far away. “Stupid Bambi. Stupid slut.”
“That’s not nice,” you whisper quietly. You can feel his lips against the swell of your breast, and he kisses you like a lover.
“Stupid. Can’t see what Billy sees. Stupid disgusting lying whores,” he says against your chest.
“I’m not stupid,” you defend yourself meekly. “Stop being mean.”
“Billy can help. Billy's gonna help his Bambi,” he promises.
“I don’t want your help anymore, Billy,” you say, pushing at him. He doesn’t budge.
“Need Billy. Bambi needs Billy,” he mutters. You wonder if he’s even listening to you, if he’s ever listened at all.
“No, I don’t,” you say, trying instead to sit up. Billy effortlessly keeps you down. “Stop it.”
“Stop it,” he says, matching your tone. “Stop it, Billy.”
You sob out of frustration, trying to squirm out of his hold. He doesn’t let you go.
“I hate you,” you say, looking into his dark eyes. “I wish I didn’t know you.”
Billy freezes at your words. The room falls quiet. He stares at you like you’re food.
“Something’s wrong with you,” you say, voice shaking.
“I love you,” he finally manages to whisper.
“Leave me alone. I don’t need you,” you say, turning your face from him. You can still feel his eyes on you, they burn through you like the sun through a magnifying glass.
When you don’t say anything else, Billy stands. He stares at you from the side of the bed, and you pull your sheets up to hide your bare chest. It feels strange, hiding from someone that you’ve already shown everything.
Billy leaves without shutting your door.
The next night, you lock it. You can hear him on the other side, twisting the knob. He rattles the door, wanting it open. Your pillow is so wet you have to turn it over to go to sleep. Your bed is so cold without him.
In the morning, the house is quiet. No one’s in the kitchen. There’s no line for the bathroom. No sounds are coming from any bedroom. There’s nobody in the house. You find some eventually, a pile of five girls in the bathtub. The tile is wet with their dark blood, so are their pajamas. You scream when you see them. Clare is on top, staring at you accusingly.
Sobbing, you fall onto your ass and kick your legs to get away. You feel like a kid again, throwing a tantrum when faced with consequences. You did this, you tell yourself, you asked for this.
When he appears by your side, you hug him without a second thought. He cradles you in his arms on the bathroom floor and he lets you weep.
“I love you,” he whispers against the crown of your head. “I love you. I love you.”
You sob. You keep your eyes screwed shut. You can’t look at them, laying like logs for a fire. You fist your hand in Billy’s sweater, remembering what it was like to hold the knife for Susan.
“Billy won’t leave Bambi,” he promises. It feels like a death sentence and a wedding. You’re the only two living souls in the house, and maybe the entire world. You love him because of it, but you wish you didn't.
“I need to clean before it stains,” you say, sniffling as you pull away from his chest. There’s so much blood. You wonder if there’s more in their beds, but you don’t want to know. Maybe it’ll be easier to burn it all to the ground with you and him still inside.
You find the bucket and gloves under the sink and turn on the faucet. Through the mirror, you see Billy rise and walk towards the tub. The water burns your hand and fogs the glass until you can’t see him anymore.