Who: Neil and Chloe What: Stabbity stab. Where: Neil's house. When: Now? Post this. Warnings/Rating: Brief violence. Blood.
It was horrible to wait. Absolutely horrible. But Chloe kept her spirits up (if you could call it that) by looking back at the pictures that Clementine had shared with her. Seeing all that blood, Jude's limp body, all that red that painted everything she could see, it kept her going. It kept her going through the night, through a bland hospital supper, through the hospital winding down and even Alexander stepping away for one reason or another. It lasted through her dressing, calm as could be, through telling the guards she was stepping out, but to tell her brother she wanted to be alone and to keep that door shut. It lasted through the cab ride to that address she had taunted Sam with a lifetime ago. And it kept her going as she walked down the street, kept the pain numbed and her vision sharp.
The knife in her hand wasn't anything special, just an off-the-shelf pocket knife she had carried for years, but the blade was sharp and that's what counted, wasn't it? She was sure it would sink real easy into flesh and muscle, and she almost looked forward to feeling it happen. Would he cry out, she wondered? Would he die pretty-like on the floor? Chloe knew she wasn't going to stay long enough to find out, lest they find her there, but she wanted to imagine what he would look at when he died, when he realised that it was her.
She was standing on the sidewalk in front of his house, the place darkened, but she knew he was there, could almost taste him in the air. The pocket knife was unfolded, held carefully in a hand that didn't have the strength it used to, but at least the jacket she wore covered the bandages on her shoulders. A deep breath, a furrow of her brow, and the tears started. They were believable, pulled from the depth of grief that Jude's death had started in her, and she used that grief, that pain, that hurt, as she all but ran up to Neil's front door and started pounding on the door.
"Help!" she hollered out, and the English accent wasn't thick right then, tucked away where it couldn't be heard. "My car's smoking and I don't have my phone with me! Anyone home that could help me?" She stepped back, her face pinched in worry, and she listened. She waited. Another shout of distress and then she heard the footsteps, the sound of the door opening.
Chloe didn't wait, didn't linger to see his face, his expression of recognition. No, she just pushed forward with that knife held out in front of her at waist level. Three times she shoved that blade into him, three times she felt a body give way to the sharp steel, and then without a word, without a single whisper, Chloe stole a glance at his face and then turned and ran. The cab was waiting for her down the block, far enough away that he wouldn't have heard a thing, and the knife was shoved into the pockets of her jacket. She should have been shaking, should have been trembling as she slid back into the cab and quieted for the ride home. Should have been… but she wasn't.
No, she was real calm. It lasted as she stole back into the hospital, back to her room, and under the covers. Just like she promised Clem, she'd made it all better. And now she'd be dreaming sweet dreams of Neil's dead body.
Neil had come straight home after the police station. There was nowhere else to go. He’d done what he could there, figured he’d follow up with the lawyer Sam had been talking to later, and that was that. She was with Shane, apparently feeling unsafe enough that she couldn’t even tell him about it. Funnily enough, he didn’t even think to doubt it. Why would he? Sure, he didn’t actually know Shane all that well, but there was no reason for him to lie. Sam didn’t even remember the drugs; her falling back on old habits hadn’t even crossed his mind. So he went home. Home, though it didn’t feel like much of one when it was empty. He should’ve gotten a damn dog. Or hired a guard, but he wasn’t actually worried about himself. Why would he be? No one had ever gone after him directly. It was always Sam, Sam, Sam, and she was with her brother, who he was pretty sure would kill anyone who came near her. That was a small relief, at least.
It was quiet enough that the pounding on his door startled the living hell out of him. Jerked from thoughts of finding solace in booze, he was on his feet in a minute and making his way to the door. He could hear shouts of help, something about a car and calling for help, and he figured it was some tourist whose car broke down. He hadn’t seen the journals; he didn’t know about Jude. No, he was entirely oblivious, and he didn’t even check the peephole before unlocking the door and pulling it open.
“What--” He began to speak, to ask what was wrong, but then recognition clicked in and he stared. His mind told him that it was Chloe, but that didn’t make any fucking sense, Chloe was in the hospital and even if she wasn’t then why was she on his front porch? All those thoughts went through his mind in a matter of seconds, and before he could say anything, before he could even begin to formulate words, she was moving forward and he felt something, a weird sort of pressure, in his abdomen. Once, twice, three times, and he didn’t understand. There was no pain, not right away, just the strangest sensation of something sliding into him. He didn’t get it. He looked at her, surprise and confusion, and time seemed to slow as she turned and ran. He tried to call after her, to say something, he ended up coughing instead and tasted something metallic and wet on his tongue.
He looked down, then. He looked down and saw a red stain spreading across his shirt, and that was when the pain kicked in. It hit him like a battering ram, red hot agony, and he stumbled back, back, into the house, bringing his hands to his stomach in an instinctive response to stop the bleeding. Warm, wet redness made his hands slippery, and he managed to make it a few steps before his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees. He felt lightheaded, weak, and he began to panic as he realized he was going to bleed out in his own goddamn house because of Chloe. Chloe, that bitch, though part of him wanted to laugh because she’d actually fucking done it. She’d fucking stabbed him. Why, he had no idea; maybe the last strings of her sanity had finally snapped. Who knew.
But it didn’t matter. What mattered was finding the phone. Half crawling, half dragging himself, he managed to make it into the living room. Phone, phone, he needed the phone, and somehow he managed to dial 9-1-1 with shaking, bloodied fingers before he collapsed onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. The hand still on his stomach was coated with blood, and his vision was going fuzzy, but he heard the voice of the 911 operator next to him and told himself it would be okay. They could trace calls, right? They’d come. They’d fucking come. He just had to hold on until then.