Work Text:
Something was wrong with her.
Something had been wrong with her for a while now, and she knew it, but she wasn't ready to face it. She just-- if she told herself she was fine, that everything was fine, then it would be, right? If she said it enough, then it had to be true.
If she looked at herself in the mirror, and didn't recognize her reflection, then that was okay. If she couldn't go a full day without losing time, or hearing something whispering behind the curve of her ear, or being reminded of-- of-- everything, then that was okay. She was fine.
She was fine.
.
.
The rabbit plush on her bed kept looking at her.
It was like it was judging her. Scared of her. It knew what she'd done. Its beady black eyes stared into her soul and saw everything wrong with it, saw the way it was black with selfish urges and actions. It resented her for what she did to that innocent life, snuffing it out just to heal what time would mend on its own.
She kept looking back at it, like she couldn't help herself. She kept catching it staring at her from the corner of her eye-- did its head move? did it shift to get a better view of her?-- and this sickening feeling of fear, and dread, and this awful sensation she couldn't describe or identify would surface. It made her stomach twist, something heavy in her gut that hung from her ribs like clawed hands.
The knife under her mattress was always there, these days. It made her feel just that little bit safer, especially when everything got so loud. Now, she slipped her shaking hand around its hilt and brought it up to her chest. Memories of holding it above a breathing body that stared back at her with trust sprung up unwarranted into her mind's eye.
The bunny on her bed stared at her.
It did not run.
It did not struggle when she grabbed it.
It stared at her with the innocence she'd lost.
The noise that left her throat was guttural. It ripped at the skin of her vocal chords and it hurt. It was this awful scream that shattered through the air like glass. She dug the silver kitchen knife into its breathing chest.
Stuffing exploding out. She blinked and it was red, red, red, soaking into her bed, and then it was soft white cotton once again. Her hands were slick with its blood, the sensation was splattered on her face, staining her skin. Cotton clung to her blade and dripped onto her duvet.
Brutal sobs kept clawing their way out of her throat around the way her breath yanked through her lungs, sharp and quick gasps that didn't bring anywhere near enough oxygen to her brain.
Her throat felt raw from screaming.
She couldn’t stop.
She didn't even hear the pounding of her mothers footsteps until the door slammed open behind her. She whirled around, knife still dripping blood-- or was it stuffing? An unwitting piece of cotton that slipped off the blade and gently floated to the floor-- held in the direction of her mother. The woman stumbled to a stop, inches from the tip of the blade, and stared at her daughter in horror.
Norah couldn't put the knife down.
She couldn't stop crying.
She was a monster.
She'd taken an innocent life.
Something was wrong with her.
"Mom," she cried. Her voice was wrought with despair and fear. She didn't want to be broken. She didn’t want to be like this. Why was she like this? "Mom, please."
"Honey, I'm right here." Her moms hands reached out slowly, like they were reaching for a frightened animal, until they clasped around Norah’s white knuckle grip. She pried apart her daughters shaking fingers until the knife fell numbly to the carpet below and she could safely wrap her arms around the young girl. "It's alright. It's okay, just breathe, I'm right here. Okay, sweetheart?"
"Mommy," Norah begged. She didn’t even know what she was asking for. She clung to her mom with a fervent desperation. Her hands dug into the fabric of her mom's shirt, clinging for dear life, like it would bring back her grip on reality. "Mom, somethin-- something-- I'm--" she gasped around her words, struggling to get anything out around the rock in her throat. "I think something's wrong with me."