chokingonink

[chokingonink]

Blood on the Ice

Short story I wrote about a homicidal ice skater!!! Pls give criticism and tell me if it’s worth continuing<3

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I didn’t mean to kill him.

Do I regret it? Absolutely not.

I mean, fuck—what else was I supposed to do? His fingers felt like ice against my skin. So cold it burned. I didn’t even have time to think. First his hands, then his stare—sharp enough to carve me open. The next thing I knew, those same frozen fingers were clawing at his own throat as blood pooled around our skates.

I shoved him. Hard. Right onto the ice.

If I was going to burn, so was he.

It’s not like I planned it. Not like I wanted it.

But let’s be honest—he was begging for it.

⸻

I watched him twitch for a moment—just a few spasms, like his body hadn’t realized it was already dead. Then it stopped.

The rink was so quiet, the hum of the overhead lights buzzed in my ears like bees trapped in glass.

I stepped back carefully. My blades clicked against the blood-slick ice, and for a second I thought I might slip.

But I didn’t.

I never fall.

There was a sound like a bubble popping. Then another.

Then stillness.

I crouched beside him—not out of panic. I didn’t panic. I just didn’t want the blood to stain the bottom of my tights. I tugged one of his gloves off and used it to wipe down the blade of my skate. His fingers were still curling, trying to hold on to something. I didn’t look at his face.

I pressed my lips together and thought of my routine. Triple toe loop. Double axel. Step sequence. Clean edges. Controlled turns. Keep your lines tight, Ivy. Always tight.

His blood soaked into the grooves of the ice, turning it from white to pink to red. A single drop landed on the toe of my boot. I wiped it clean with the corner of his jacket.

I used to flinch when he touched me. Not because I was scared.

He was just always clammy, he reeked of sweat and cologne and nerves.

I never liked when he called me “baby.”

I’m not sure I’ve ever been one. He liked pretending I was delicate. Like he really thought it was possible to break me.

I stood up and straightened my jacket. The air felt colder than before, but that could’ve been in my head. I left the body where it fell.

Since he liked the cold so much, he could stay with it.

⸻

I waited five minutes. Maybe ten. Long enough for the heat to leave his skin. Long enough to be sure.

Then I got to work.

First, I skated a wide circle around the body, scanning for splatter. My warm-up towel soaked up the biggest pool—press, don’t smear—and I pushed the rest toward the drain at center ice with the mop we kept behind the boards. I’d done this before. Not often. But enough.

Once the surface was mostly clean, I used the blade of my spare skate to scrape over the stained spots—pink-tinged frost chipped into slush. I scooped it into a pile and tossed it down the maintenance chute. Always double-check the corners. Always sweep twice. Rushing leads to mistakes.

I changed into dry clothes in the locker room. Black hoodie. Gloves. No logos. I pulled the zipper up to my chin.

Standard uniform for bad decisions.

Dragging the body wasn’t hard. He was lean and stupid—the kind of boy who thought being quiet made him dangerous. I rolled him up in the rubber mat from the entryway. Tight.

He fit easily. He always moved like he didn’t take up much space.

Now he really didn’t.

I loaded him into the bed of my mom’s truck. She wouldn’t notice.

She never did.

She didn’t even know where the keys were half the time.

⸻

The forest was twenty minutes away, down a road so cracked and overgrown it stopped pretending to be a road.

The trees were the tall, skeletal kind—the kind that looked like they’d grab your ankles if you turned your back. Even in daylight. Especially at night.

I’d been here before.

I don’t remember the first time.

That part’s just flashes.

Red.

Bark under my fingernails.

My father’s voice like thunder.

My mother not saying a word.

The trees whispering when the air was still.

Sometimes, when I think about it, I get a headache.

A sharp one. Right behind the eyes.

Like a needle threading backward through my skull.

I parked under the leaning pine. Killed the headlights. The sky was bruised with early morning—somewhere between night and nothing.

I hauled the body out and walked deeper into the woods, past the fading deer paths. Past where even I don’t like to go.

I never bury them.

There’s a ravine out there. If you know where to look.

Ringed in black moss. Framed by collapsed stone.

The earth swallows everything when you know the right angle.

I dropped him in.

He didn’t make a sound.

They never do.

The headache pulsed again—deep, thick, ugly. I pressed my fingers to my temple and tried not to think about it.

Whatever happened here before…

I cleaned it up, too.

⸻

At home, I started with the blade. Then the towel. Then the sink. I cleaned the faucet handles. Then the edge of the counter. Then the doorknob. Just in case.

The clock on the wall blinked 12:17.

The house was empty. Of course. My mother worked late or drank late. Whichever excuse came easier. I wandered down the hall.

The photo was still there—the one that never came down. I’m maybe five. My father’s hands on my shoulders. All of us dressed up like we’re playing house. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. I never noticed that before.

I lifted the skate I hadn’t cleaned yet and tapped the blade gently against the glass. Just a soft sound.

Then I went upstairs. And locked the door behind me