switchblade {bette/juliet ; blitz }

JULIET BEAUMONT

It's dark here - he's painted the walls black, he's painted me blue. Just shy of a year ago, Dustyn Chase fell beneath an unworthy blade. He didn't deserve to die - none of them did.

The thought makes my blood run hot in my veins.

I haven't seen her in years, not since we were children. The name Bette Chautin sparks memories in my mind of the playground and the sweet smell of the summer grass and long afternoons of dollhouses and tea parties.

By memory, my feet carried me to her door. They knew the path well despite the passing years. I thought I had forgotten the bend in the road and the wildflowers that peaked out from a bed of tall grass.

At her doorstep, I feel as if I am visiting a grave.
Tap
tap
tap.

My hand almost sounds eerie against the door.

SEVENTEEN. FEMALE.