Shock Horror

                                    

                                          
Arriving back to your apartment was depressing to say the least and torturous to say the most. Despite being in your apartment the night before, you hadn't actually 'been' there. You'd previously been in a state of shock, a dazed trance. Now you could finally see clearly.
You closed the door behind you as you stepped inside. It was just as you'd left it in the morning. The floors were still littered with clothes, moving boxes that you still had yet to unpack, empty bottles and food boxes that you couldn't be bothered to throw away . If your landlord saw this, you'd definitely be fined for multiple health code violations. Good thing your landlord couldn't give two shits about his job, something you could relate to.
You made your way over to the kitchen, dodging the mess on your way. You opened the cabinet in which you hid your bloodied clothes. You peeked into the cabinet and there it was, the trash bag with your clothes.
You frowned. Part of you still wanted to believe that all the events that took place were still some fictional shit that you'd made up in your head after drinking too much. You seriously had to accept that this situation wouldn't just go away.
You stared at the bag for a few seconds, trying to think of what to do. You had no idea how to deal with this. These clothes were literal evidence of your role in someone's murder and here they were, sitting neatly next to your cereal boxes. You needed to deal with the situation but you weren't exactly sure how to do so.
'Maybe I could ask William for help?'
No. What the hell are you thinking?
You couldn't even stick to your word of avoiding him. You shook your head in annoyance and got rid of the thought, you needed to deal with the situation alone. William was no help to you and frankly something about him still felt off, it distracted you.
'I should clean the blood off of the clothes.'
You took the bloodied clothes to the bathroom and began to fill the bathtub with water before dumping any sort of cleaning product you had into the water, praying that you wouldn't accidentally create mustard gas and kill yourself and everyone else in the building. You threw the clothes into the tub and began to scrub like your life depended on it.
After about fifteen minutes of aggressively scrubbing, you picked up the shirt and examined your work. The water had turned a pale orange colour that reminded you of water left at the bottom of the bowl after eating ramen. You sighed as you looked at the shirt.
You were genuinely an idiot sometimes.
Blood doesn't just clean off of clothes, literally every horror movie and crime documentary told you this. The shirt looked slightly better but still had dark stains splattered across it. You threw it on the floor next to you in defeat as you picked up your pants from the water to examine them as well. It was the same result.
You let out a frustrated groan as you slumped down onto the floor, your back resting against the tub. The whole situation felt hopeless, you weren't built for being a killer, it wasn't who you were. You were ready to admit defeat when your eyes landed on your toilet and suddenly you had an idea. A stupid one but nonetheless an idea.
You stood up and raced to your kitchen, carelessly rustling through the drawers until you picked up exactly what you were looking for. A pair of scissors.
You walked back to the bathroom and picked up your wet shirt. This had to be the most ridiculous idea that you'd ever had but you were out of options.
You began to cut the shirt into small pieces. The process took you longer than expected but by the end you were left with a pile of cut up pieces of shirt. You moved onto the pants and did the same, the material making it slightly more difficult but nonetheless, you did it.