Knives

She leaves the knives in a clutter all over the kitchen counter, bloodstains and all, without a second glance.

She doesn't care who knows anymore.

She watches from behind the strips of yellow tape, rereading the words on them over and over again and barely processing them.

CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS

There's whispering nearby, hushed and terrified.

"Who would do this?"

She turns and walks away.

She doesn't realize she's done it again until she wrenches the knife out. She watches the body crumble to the floor, blood seeping from the wound in his chest. A look of betrayal is stamped cleanly across his face.

His last expression.

She kneels down and wipes some of the blood off the knife with the hem of her victim's shirt. Not all of the blood, though--how was she going to add the knife to her "collection" if there wasn't any blood on it?

She hears the whispered words in her head again. 

"Who would do this?"

She smirks and revels in those words. Then she turns and runs, leaving the body of the boy who was once her cousin behind.

When the police officers kick her door down and charge into her home, it takes only a few seconds to find the pile of bloody knives she's collected.

As they march her out of the house in cold handcuffs that itch at her skin, she realizes the whispers of the public have changed.

"Why would she do this?"

She smiles.