a fanfic for spill's Billie
400 words | Mature (18+) | F/M | Billie x The Handsome College Professor - onesided
Here's what I think went through Billie's mind when she accidentally killed that smoking hot French professor.
Title derived from a line in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.
Contains: the aftermath of violence described in a disturbing way and murderous pathologic obsession. And gratuitous use of foul language.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
He's dead. Shit, he's dead. He's freakin' dead because you didn't know it was him.
Every night, it would have been the same thing. This was something you'd do every night. A force of habit. A force of (your) nature. This shouldn't be any different. Or rather, it wasn't supposed to. You thought he wasn't home. This time, he was.
You had it all planned out. Or at least you thought you did. Since the day you met him. You just couldn't stop thinking about it. You couldn't stop thinking about him, rather. Before all of this, you thought you had nothing ahead of you. Until you've set sights on him. This man, this man. This man could have been yours. He was going to be.
You had a whole future planned out. One that involved him. And now it's laying there. Bleeding out, beyond battered and bruised, barely breathing, brain bashed to bits.
Stupid fuckin’ bat of yours. Stupid fuckin’ instincts. Stupid fuckin’ you. You thought it was a burglar and/or some bastard competing for his affections. But no, it was him. In a way, he was both. That man stole your heart and he's a bastard for having spooked you like that. Not like you wanted your heart back. You wanted him back. Alive, alluring, and all-knowing. If he somehow came back to life, he better be thankful. If he wasn't you wouldn't mind if he ends up hating you for it. You may not like it, but it's better to lose his favour than lose his life altogether. Because nothing will change the fact that he's your everything.
The blood's pooling around the soles of your sneakers. It smells of iron. Bits of pink are splayed out on the floor. And to top it off, those eyes. Those freakin' eyes...You need to do something. You have to do something. Do it for him. Him. Him. Please. For him. You can’t live without him and you can’t live knowing that you’ve killed him. What would they say when he stops showing up lectures? And god forbid it, what would your own mother think? There has to be a way to get him back up and running—whether from his problems, or from you, or you as the problem itself.
Maybe you could brush off the dust from those witchy spellbooks.