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[Image: Three photos of Graham Nathaniel Slaughter, each placed in a unique, carefully decorated picture frame, surrounded by bows, heart-shaped buttons, and plastic stars.]

omgggg i’m so cringe qwq but look at my babygirl!!!!

#true crime community #gns #tcc cringe #graham nathaniel slaughter #should i mail these to his daughter do you think she’ll sign them omg

tccbabylove

was Graham a Top or a Bottom?

#I ship him with Jeffrey #and also kind of with David and Richard but idk #I think he’s a switch #he’d also probably use he they pronouns #true crime community #gns #graham nathaniel slaughter

Daniel stares at the rip in his belly like he doesn’t believe what he sees. Like this is some big prank at his expense, or an extremely good bout of practical effects.

He reaches down, trembling, and tries to press a bulge of torn intestine back into place.

“What did you—?” he wheezes.

My knuckles are white around the switchblade. I haven’t taken a breath since the knife went in.

Daniel gropes backward. Tries to find a piece of furniture to support himself. Ends up slumping against the bed and falling gracelessly to the floor. He’s whimpering. There’s so much blood all down his stomach and soaking into his shirt, his jeans. He leaves a red handprint on the cheap apartment carpet.

I hit something important again.

“No,” he mumbles, shaking hands pressing to the wound like he’s trying to keep everything plugged up. Put his insides back on the inside, where they should be. “No.” He’s repeating it. “No, no, no.”

There’s blood on my knuckles. It drips onto my sock.

If there were a video of this, it’d be tagged “Nonfiction,” “footage,” “evidence.” Daddy’s girl pt 2.MOV.

I can’t freeze. If I freeze, if I shut down right here, everything goes to hell. I get caught, I get locked up, and that’s it.

Get up. Move. Now.

I slide down off the table, throw the knife in the empty sink (thank god he keeps on top of the dishes), kick off my shoe as I open my phone and check our location. I whisper it three times to memorize it and pray that I retained Daniel’s exact apartment number when I came in.

“If you call an ambulance,” Daniel whispers from the floor, “I won’t tell the police.” He’s holding out his own phone, already unlocked, 911 already dialed. He’s shaking so bad. “I promise. I swear. I won’t.”

His phone would be better. Safer. I grab it and put it to my ear.

“911,” the woman on the other side of the line says. “What’s your emergency?”

I cradle the phone between my shoulder and my cheek as I pause, looking at the door. For a snap second, I weigh the pros and cons of bullshitting, pretending I hear a scream from a neighboring apartment, could they please send someone out for a welfare check?

But Daniel is getting paler by the second, starting to sweat.

I decide brevity is the best policy.

I rattle off the address. “You’re going to need an ambulance for apartment 607.” I strip off my sock and jam my sockless foot back into my shoe before turning on the faucet. Behind me, Daniel whimpers. He’s trying to move. We have to get through this before he says something loud enough for the dispatcher to hear. “Quickly, if you don’t mind.”

Keyboards click on the other side of the line. “Okay. What’s your name?”

“Don’t worry about that.” I wash the blood off the knife, then my hands, and dry them both on my uniform sweater. The sock goes in my bra because there’s no better place to put it. “Send the ambulance. Do you have the location?”

“Ma’am,” the dispatcher says. “Yes, but—”

“If you need details, it’s a gut wound.” I scan the apartment, pat my pockets to make sure I have all my personal effects, lean down to the table to make sure I didn’t leave any hair. Like that matters. NCIS and CSI and all those kinds of shows are bullshit. “Three-inch blade, definitely caught some internal organs. Pass that along, will you? Bye.”

I hang up and drop Daniel’s phone at his feet.