I. The Murder:
There's a terror that comes after the fact. When you pant, harsh in the air, with sticky blood covering your hands, splattered on your face. You feel blank, at first, uncomprehending, simply focusing on catching your breath. But soon, you will shake, the beauty pageant trophy slipping from your grasp.
The motive doesn't matter. Not really. It could be any of the excuses you build up in your head, a multiple choice question in which any option between A to Z is liable to be correct. Why did you pick up that trophy, and bludgeon your girlfriend over the head until she stopped moving? Was it:
A. Because of the yelling. God, the yelling, she always yells at you, and it was finally, finally too much. One straw too many. You wanted to shut her up, shut up, shut up forever, shut up for good— and you find you don't, can't, regret it, now that her noisy, shrieking voice is gone.
B. Because of the cheating. With your friends, with strangers, flaunting her relationship with them in your face. Not just two timing, but three timing, at the very least, perhaps even more you do not know about. Why? You want to demand it. Why would you cheat on me, when you say you love me? But you already know the answer: Junko lies.
C. Because of the abuse. The hitting, the kissing when you pull away, the way she makes you wish you were dead—that she was dead. Well, you guess you got your wish, because here she was not moving, not breathing, not laughing, not crying, she didn't even beg, like you begged, she didn't say sorry, why isn't she sorry —
D. The plan for the fucking apocalypse. The plan to manipulate your classmates, your beloved classmates, and twist them into something they're not, people they're not. You saved them, see? You saved humanity. It's fine if you're twisted, now, if you have to bear the weight of your sins, as long as your precious classmates are safe from this devil. You saved the world; why should you be ashamed? Even if a part of you would have traded the world for her smile, it's better this way. You're a hero.
You hated her. You loved her. Does it matter the reason? There's no reason at all.
Or perhaps it was all of those reasons, in the end.
Was it premeditated? The key you gave to Mikan suggests that, whether subconscious or not, but perhaps you are just an opportunist. Perhaps you only took advantage of the chance to frame the girl you would claim as your friend, leading her life to become a media circus for years to come, never truly settling. (It will become an open secret: Mikan Tsumiki killed Junko Enoshima. It will be a lie.) Junko's body goes cold on the floor, and you are gripped with a strange terror. You cannot be blamed for this—you don't want to go to jail. You're only sixteen, you have your whole life ahead of you. You are not a bad person; you are not the type to murder someone. This was a mistake. That was all it was, a mistake. You have your whole life ahead of you—will it all be ruined with one simple mistake?
You shake; you tremble. With fumbling hands, you feel for a pulse, hoping beyond hope that it will be there, faint and fluttering under your fingers. But if it is, what will you do? You have already gone too far. Will you ask her to lie for you? Will she do so, so she does not lose her favorite toy? And then what—you go back to that, that life of fear, of yelling, of walking on eggshells and breaking glass and despair? You can't. You can't. You can't go back to that; you won't.
But who else would love you?
It's a pointless question, anyways. Junko Enoshima is dead on your floor, and your hope eats itself, relief and grief filling you in equal measures. You're not a killer; that's not who you are. Yet, here you are, having just murdered someone, anyways.
It's not your fault, you assure yourself. It was Junko's. She's the one who caused this, bent and bent and bent you until you snapped. It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault.
What do you do now? A sob breaks free, and you stifle it with your other hand. You are a little girl again, shattered glass at your feet and model ship broken. Junko's apartment feels empty, without her voice yelling at you. There is blood on the hardwood. You remove your fingers from her pulse, and brush her hair out of her face. Still beautiful, like a broken doll.
You step away from her, and call your parents. There is work to be done.
II. The Cover Up:
Your parents hold you as you cry, and cry, and cry, and Junko Enoshima's body sits in your car's trunk, in the garage bag she belongs in.
They soothe you; hush you; hold you. They tell you everything will be okay. Your hands burn from the chemicals you used to clean her wooden floor; you washed them, over and over, until they turned pink. They tell you everything will be okay, that they will make it okay.
You believe them.
They're your parents; your rock; the one thing certain in your life. They love you, even if the you they know is a lie, they have to; it's their job. They rub your back soothingly, and tell you all the lies you'll spin.
Of course you didn't live with Junko; you weren't even dating her; you've been living with them the whole time. Of course you've never been on your boat, not in many years now, what do you mean you found Enoshima there? You were innocent. You would never kill someone. You were the apple of their eye, and you would never kill someone.
And if that didn't work, a little bit of money, applied liberally, will make them all look the other way.
You gave Mikan a key; she had access to your boat. And didn't she date Enoshima? Could it be trouble in her relationship—perhaps Enoshima's habit of cheating caught up to her? You didn't even know her well, ask anyone. You weren't seen together.
You were innocent.
Lies, you've come to find, are awfully useful.
III. The Aftermath:
Do you think it's possible that Mikan Tsumiki killed Junko Enoshima? The reporter asks, in front of the school, as you flounder. They shouldn't be here, but when has that ever stopped them? They look at you with eager, disgusting eyes.
I-I don't know, you answer. You don't say that it's impossible, because how would you know? If you were certain, their eyes would turn towards you. I think- I think people never really know each other. So it's possible.
Mikan doesn't talk to you for the rest of the year.