i should hate you , scream [REWRITING]

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Without hesitation, Wes nodded. "Sure. I'll let my mom know to order a little more sushi."

———

Wes paused the game, setting his controller on the coffee table before standing up. "Wanna help me set the table? My mom's gonna be here any minute with the sushi."

"Sure," I said, following him into the kitchen. We grabbed plates, laying them out on the table along with small dishes of soy sauce and sriracha.

As I stacked some napkins beside the plates, I nudged Wes with my elbow. "I need to call my dad real quick. Your fat ass better save me some California rolls," I teased, slapping his stomach lightly.

He let out an exaggerated groan. "Bitch," he shot back, laughing as I headed upstairs.

I stepped into Wes' bedroom, closing the door softly behind me. Sitting down on his bed, I pulled out my phone and tapped on my dad's contact. The line rang for a few seconds before he picked up.

"Hey, Emmy," my dad greeted. "Is something wrong?"

"No," I assured him. "I was just calling to let you know I'll be at Wes' house until you get off work. Just to be on the safe side."

"Alright, honey. Tell Wes I said hi."

"I will. Bye, Dad."

"Bye, Emmy. I'll see you soon."

I ended the call and quickly slipped my phone back into my pocket. As I reached for the door handle, a faint thud echoed from downstairs.

I rolled my eyes, assuming Wes had knocked something over—again. He had a habit of dropping things, and honestly, at this point, it was almost a talent.

But god, was I wrong.

I wish I could erase the image from my mind. I wish I could unsee it. But I can't. The sight is burned into me forever.

"WES!"

I stood frozen at the bottom of the staircase, my breath caught in my throat. His body was slumped against the front door, blood pouring from the deep gash in his neck. His once light blue shirt was now soaked in blood. I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I could barely breathe.

In school, they teach you the human body holds five liters of blood. You know it's a lot, but you never truly grasp it until you see it—all of it—right in front of you. There was so much blood. How did he have that much? Nausea rose in my throat, and I squeezed my eyes shut, rocking back and forth, desperate to make it all disappear. But when I opened them, reality hit me even harder.

Memories of him flooded my mind on an endless loop—his dumb jokes, that ridiculous donkey laugh, and the way I'd always end up yelling at him when we would study together. It played over and over, a relentless reel that I couldn't stop, each moment crashing into me harder than the last.

After what felt like an eternity, the distant wail of sirens finally broke through the heavy silence. Relief washed over me—I didn't know who had called the cops, but I was grateful. If they hadn't shown up, I probably would have stayed here forever, frozen in place.

The front door burst open, and two officers stormed in, guns raised. My breath caught in my throat as I lifted my hands slightly, but the moment their eyes met mine, they lowered their weapons, realizing I wasn't a threat. One of them stepped forward, reaching for my arm and gently helping me to my feet. He started talking—his voice calm, firm—but I wasn't listening. It all felt distant, like I was underwater.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sam. She was trying to push past some officers, her face stricken with panic. Before I could think, my feet moved on their own. I tore away from the cop's grip, dodging past the officers blocking my path, and ran straight into Sam's arms.

"Oh my god," she breathed, holding me tight. "You're okay. Thank god."

"Ma'am," an officer interrupted, stepping forward. "We need to take her down to the station for a statement."

Sam's hold on me tightened slightly. "Can't you get your statement here?" she asked, her tone sharp.

The officer sighed, pulling out a notepad. "Fine. Now, I need to know what happened."

I hesitated before pulling away from Sam, wiping at my tear streaked face. My hands were still shaking. "I—I was only gone for a minute." My voice barely sounded like my own.

"Did you hear anything?" the officer pressed.

I thought back to the dull thud I'd heard before I came back downstairs. The sound of Wes' body hitting the floor. But the words stuck in my throat.

"No," I lied. "Nothing."

The officer studied me for a moment, then nodded. "If you remember anything, come down to the station." He closed his notepad and walked away, leaving me alone with Sam again.

The second he was gone, the weight of everything hit me all over again. My knees buckled, and I collapsed into Sam's arms, sobbing.

It was my fault. If I hadn't gone upstairs, if I'd stayed, if I had done something, Wes would still be alive.

Sam didn't say anything, just held me tighter, rubbing slow circles on my back.

"Let's get you home, Logan," she murmured, her voice steady but gentle. She started guiding me toward her car, keeping an arm around me.

But as we walked, Cameras flashed in my face. Dozens of them. Reporters shoved forward, their microphones and cameras catching every moment. A news van screeched to a stop nearby, and a cameraman rushed out, filming me climbing into the back of Sam's car.