Yesterday night I had my friend over for a “slumber party.” Staying up till 3 a.m. watching TV and gossiping about the girls we love. She told me about one time the girl spilled milk on her in the fourth grade “on purpose.” What I didn’t know was that all the malevolent words she was spreading were untrue. Her name, Jill. Stood at 5’3”, black hair, and looked a little sketch from when you first observe. Jill’s dad had been murdered last week, but the police were unable to find the killer. Brittany kept telling me, “She probably did it,” *flip her hair then laugh.* Brittany and Jill had an uneasy relationship. Avoiding one another in the halls, staring each other down in class and Brittany would always telling people these “evil tales” in middle school of how Jill was mean and weird.
7 a.m. I woke up to a loud noise. “Attic?” I thought. Brittany was gone. She’s just downstairs or in the bathroom, so I went to check it out. Approaching the attic hallway though, right past the stairs, I spot two sets of streaks across the floor leading towards the attic opening. Open the flap. This odor filled with mold, dust and fruit floods my nostril. For a second the air becomes difficult to grasp. Drops of fluid converged with my hand. I thought it was raindrop from the tremendous storm last night. Turned on the flashlight. It didn’t go on. Smacked the flashlight in hope of light arriving. Flickering light. Don’t see anything wrong till I look up. Flesh dangling from a simple string. Neck squeezed so tight, the head was about to burst off.
A piece of paper fell covered in blood. “Gossip hurts?”