Audio Version With Intro and Outro Music

Part 8: Brodie

“Like, what the fuck is actually going on?” I said, staring at myself in the staff bathroom mirror.

Like, honestly, what in the fuck is actually going on? It makes no sense. Lisa just came in smiling, for one, looking confident and somehow even sexier than she typically did. The Sound of White Noise Anthrax shirt looked so fucking good on her, and of course, she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her tits, the absolute perfect Platonic ideal of what tits should be, were peeking out through the fabric. The smell of her perfume mixed with her natural scent just made my brain completely short-circuit and my stomach turn upside down.

I wanted to splash some water on my face, but it would ruin my already messy eyeliner. Of course I didn’t bring any with me to fix it before Lisa came to pick me up. Granted, I didn’t expect her to come in on her day off and just ask me out, so why would I bring any? I “damaged” a tube of toothpaste from the store shelves to freshen up my breath.

The staff bathroom functioned as a change room too, and it was about the size of a walk-in closet. The sink was right across from the toilet, and if you moved your legs back slightly, they would hit the bowl. The sink, if you could even call it that, was a white porcelain bowl with no place to lay anything down—like, you know, a brush or toothpaste. The mirror was slightly cracked in the left corner, and the light in here was always dim.

Honestly, when I looked in this mirror with my hands on the sink, it reminded me of James in Silent Hill 2 in its opening shot. My eyes looked dark not only because of my eyeliner, but because of the one light that shined dimly over my right shoulder.

Swishing the toothpaste around in my mouth, I brushed my teeth with my tongue, its minty flavor attacking all the coffee I had consumed earlier. I would probably keep this toothpaste with me because, before the end of the night, I would undoubtedly consume another coffee.

Then I repeated what I had said to her, in a whisper just louder than the running water:

“What are you doing here today? It’s your day off.”

Oh, jeez, Brodie, that was really smooth. The hottest girl in the entire world asks to hang out with you with no bra on, and your response is to mention it’s her day off... like, what the fuck was the matter with me? Who does that? You know who? A loser without an ounce of decisiveness in his being. How she didn’t walk away the second I asked her that, I don’t know, because that was as bad of a response as you could have given.

I slapped my forehead when I remembered what I said to her after she said she wanted to talk to me.

“About what?”

She came up to me saying she wanted to talk, and I said that.

“Fucking dummy,” I muttered, leaning over the sink and spitting out my toothpaste. Cupping my hand under the faucet, I slurped some water and swished it around to rinse my mouth.

“Ummm… sure, we can do that.”

Yes, I actually said that to Lisa after she made a sexually suggestive joke... maybe the jocks were right and I was just a sad pussy.

Lifting my head up from the sink, I looked back in the mirror. There was some leftover toothpaste at the right corner of my mouth. I wiped it off with the back of my hand and noticed that some of my black nail polish was chipped. Just another thing to add to the list of things I could be insecure about. My hair was a mess, like it always was after work.

Really, Lisa, out of all the times you could have asked me out, it had to be at work with no time to fix myself up?

Now, it’s not like Lisa was dressed up herself, but she didn’t have to put in any effort. She could roll out of bed, throw on an old shirt, and still look like a dime. Her beauty took zero effort, and when she did put in a bit, it was like icing on an already tasty cake. And “cake” was a good way to describe Lisa, just so sweet you couldn’t help but stare and let your mouth water.

I had imagined this night so many times listening to music at full blast in my room. The song “The Last of the Real Ones” by Fall Out Boy would play on repeat some nights. I knew the lyrics by heart, and I would sit in my room imagining singing them to her.

I was just an only child of the universe

And then I found you

And then I found you

You are the sun and I am just the planets

Spinning around you

Spinning around you

You were too good to be true

(Give The Song A Listen)

https://youtu.be/vV2rvrqlWL8?si=TIWleSzavHL-D6lP

My mind drifted to one of those imaginary dates I had with Lisa as I stared at myself in the mirror.

I was walking through a field of pink hydrangeas, and the grass under my feet was a mix of bright purple and baby blue. Each blade alternated colors, gently blowing in the wind along with the flowers. The ground itself was vanilla white, making the other colors pop even more against it. The sky was a deep red color that looked like the horizon of a forest fire. There were two suns in the sky, both completely different from one another.

The one on the left was a giant navy blue orb with visible white dots all over its surface. They moved around like little white discs on a smooth table. Some of them would, blow up, releasing a white dust into the distant atmosphere.

The other sun was the color of a deep, dark green with a golden ring around it. Even from this great distance, that ring shined like a freshly polished piece of gold. My guess was that if you got anywhere close to it, the glare coming off it would blind you immediately. The green sun had streams of moving gas, with each section flowing in the opposite direction. Each one of these streams was a slightly different shade of green, and the overall effect made it look like seaweed swaying in the currents of the ocean.

Were these actually suns? Probably not, because suns didn’t have golden rings or exploding white dots, and I was pretty sure suns didn’t come in green. That all being said, one thing was undeniable: they were beautiful in their own unique way.

I was on a multi-colored dream planet deep in the universe, or deep in my subconscious. The air here smelled of Lisa’s perfect mix of vanilla and her naturally salty scent. I could taste it when I breathed in, and it filled up my lungs with the cleanest air I had ever experienced. The petals from the hydrangeas would blow up into the air, covering the sky and landing in my pitch-black hair. It looked like a pink snowfall, with flower petals dancing under the blood-red sky.

I didn’t even want to walk because every step would destroy those beautiful pink petals. Wading through the baby blue and electric indigo grass, I winced at hearing the petals crush as I walked across the vanilla white soil. The field of grass and flowers spread as far as the eye could see, with the two strange planets dominating the sky above. I had no clue where I was going, but my nose was my compass. Whichever direction her intoxicating vanilla perfume got stronger, that was the direction I went.

Suddenly, the sound of my favorite Fall Out Boy song, “The Last of the Real Ones,” started to play. It began quietly but built up in intensity as I made it closer to the source of her scent. I walked up a steep hill, those beautiful words becoming crystal clear.

I am a collapsing star with tunnel vision

But only for you

But only for you

My head is stripped just like a screw that’s been tightened too many times

When I think of you

When I think of you

The hill got steeper, and I had to use my hands to help pull myself up, the vanilla white soil digging deep under my black-painted nails. I wasn’t complaining; the image of the grass against the white was stunning. The whole thing looked like something out of an emo fantasy tale.

Her scent became thicker, giving my fatigued muscles an extra burst of energy. It was like she had the ability to make me do things I didn’t believe I could do. With each new petal that touched me, it felt like a new kiss from her, each one unique in its own tenderness and love.

One petal landed on my lips, and it felt like the kiss I had been dreaming about from the moment I first saw her.

Pulling myself up the hill, my knees cracking under the strain, her scent became overwhelming in its intoxication. It carried the subtle tones of sweet vanilla along with her own unique, indescribable essence that could never be replicated in a million years. With a few grunts and the last of my energy, I pulled and pushed with my legs until I finally reached the top of the slope.

Resting my head against my knees, I took a couple of deep breaths of the crisp air on this dream-like planet. Lifting my head slowly, there she was between two trees, though these were unlike any kind of trees I had ever seen before. They looked like two giant olive trees with the gnarliest of bark. The bark on the trunks, like the rest of the planet, wasn’t its typical color; each vein was a different shade, ranging from bright yellow to deep, dark purple. Their leaves were the same, and as they drifted to the ground, it looked as though a rainbow were raining down.

The two planets, or suns, hung right at the edges of the multi-colored canopies. Yet, as beautiful as this sight was, it paled in comparison to who was standing right between those two trees.

Lisa was standing with her back turned, looking out toward the two celestial orbs. The white dots on the blue planet continued to explode, releasing plumes of pale dust the size of a million skyscrapers stacked on top of one another. The green one spun lazily with its twirling streams of emerald and jade.

Her red and black hair flowed in the breeze like wisps of silk. She was wearing a flowing white-and-red dress that fell all the way to her ankles. It was predominantly white, with a single blood-red ribbon of fabric starting at her left shoulder, spiraling down around her waist, and ending at her left ankle.

Soft purple vapors rose off her skin, giving her the appearance of a free-flowing halo. Some of that mist drifted toward me in a cloud of translucent violet. I breathed it in and caught a pure, undiluted shot of her scent, though it was more than that. It felt like I was taking in a piece of everything she was.

I fell to my knees in complete intoxication, knowing that this was the sweetest drug the universe could ever design.

As I crawled toward her, she turned around, her hair whipping behind her like the tail of a comet. It sparkled in the strange light, and multi-colored petals fell from the strands to land softly on her shoulders. I kept crawling until I reached her feet, my lips almost brushing her skin. Yellow and pink petals dusted her ankles, with vanilla-white soil gathered between her toes.

I looked up at her, my eyes following the red streak wrapped around her dress. She stood framed directly between the two suns, and yet, somehow, her gray-blue eyes were the most captivating things on this entire planet.

Silently, she held an open hand out to me. Her nails were painted a dark shade of red. I reached up with dirty hands, thick flecks of white soil packed beneath my black fingernails. Here I was, covered in dirt, granted, it was beautiful dirt, but dirt nonetheless. And here she was, looking like a literal goddess in her flowing gown, wreathed in purple mist between the most stunning trees and planets my eyes had ever seen.

She gently helped me to my feet. I had to stop myself from grasping at her dress, terrified of staining the fabric. She took my other hand in hers, and we stood face-to-face, the wind blowing strands of her hair across her cheeks. Her piercing gray-blue eyes peeked out through the locks of red and pitch-black.

Fall Out Boy’s “The Last of the Real Ones” continued to swell in the air around us. Her dark lipstick created a gorgeous contrast against her pale skin. When I parted my lips, the lyrics spilled out naturally as I sang the song directly to her.

She smiled, revealing her pearly white teeth and the cute, subtle dimples that formed on her cheeks. The purple vapor began to travel up my arms until we were wrapped in the glowing halo together.

She leaned in closer, placing her silky hand on my face and gently dragging her fingers across my cheek. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head, moving in for a kiss.

My hands clammed up and my knees went completely weak. I closed my eyes along with hers.

“For fuck’s sake, Brodie, are you almost done in there?” I heard a coworker yell, pounding on the door.

“Bro, come on, I’ve only been in here for like ten minutes!” I shouted back.

“It’s been like twenty! Are you in there thinking about Lisa?” he laughed, his footsteps dragging across the linoleum.

Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong. I was thinking about Lisa, but not in the way he was implying. I’m not going to be one of those guys who denies having those kinds of thoughts. Yeah, I had daydreams of kissing Lisa, of her taking my shirt off, of me unclipping her bra, of her moaning my name... but I never did that at work.

Well, okay, that was a lie. There was that one day she came in wearing yoga pants that hugged her ass perfectly. I could see the faint outline of her thong when she bent over, and I had to duck into this staff bathroom to take care of some business, otherwise there was no way I could’ve finished my shift.

I finished rinsing my mouth, making sure there was no leftover toothpaste on my lips.

“You’ve got this, Brodie. She should be here any minute now. Just remember what Sara said: let her take the lead, and don’t miss your opportunity,” I muttered, taking one last look at myself in the mirror.

My eyeliner and hair may have been a mess, but my shirt was on point. I had The Black Parade album shirt on under my well-worn black leather jacket. Reaching inside, I double-checked how many smokes I had left—about three-quarters of a pack, which was more than enough for tonight. I had bought some new black jeans the other day, and they looked freaking awesome on me along with my skater belt. So, as long as she focused on how I dressed, and not on how terrified I was or how messy my hair looked, I should be okay.

“Honestly, bro, get the fuck out! Lisa is out here waiting for you!” the same voice yelled from behind the door.

My heart jumped, and I felt my Adam’s apple lodge itself in my throat. With a hard swallow, I felt it painfully force its way back down, and I pressed a hand over my chest. I don’t know why I did that, or why anyone else does it, for that matter. What do you expect to happen? That somehow pressing your hand against a pounding heart will slow it down? It’s buried deep in your chest, protected by a rib cage.

“Okay... I will... be... out... in... a... second!” I stuttered.

I made my way to the door, each step feeling heavier than the last. The moment I had been waiting my entire life for was just seconds away, and it wasn’t how I had envisioned it at all. I could feel sweat building up under my armpits, and now I had to worry about body odor ruining the entire night.

Putting my hand on the brass knob, I felt how clammy and gross my palms actually were. Turning the handle, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Pushing the door open, I slowly opened my eyes one at a time. The bright fluorescent store lighting blinded me, sending a sharp ache to the back of my eyes. After blinking several times, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t the firm grip of a man, but the soft, delicate touch of a woman.

My eyes struggled to adjust to the glare, but I knew who it was the second her perfume hit my nose.

“Everything okay, Brodie? You’re blinking a ton. Did you see an angel or something?” Lisa asked.

Her voice was the perfect mix of feminine and husky, resting at a slightly lower octave, the kind of voice you felt immediately between your legs. It didn’t fail this time either, and I felt myself pressing hard against my jeans. I rubbed my eyes a few times as she gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Oh, no... well, yeah, I guess I did kind of see an angel,” I muttered, my vision finally clearing as her beauty snapped into focus.

Her left eyebrow arched, and I saw a smirk spread across her face. She bit her bottom lip for half a second, making me silently wish I were that bottom lip right now. Her hair was a controlled mess, just like earlier, and truthfully it suited her so much better. She looked like an ‘80s rocker girl with it styled that way.

As much as I felt the undeniable presence of her braless chest under that amazing Anthrax shirt, I couldn’t take my eyes off hers. That piercing gray-blue, paired with her black-and-red hair and pale porcelain skin, the combination could only be called angelic.

“Did you just say I look like an angel?” she laughed.

“Ummmmm...” I struggled to think of a response, standing there like an idiot staring into her eyes.

She leaned in and wrapped her arms around me. My face went into her neck, my nose pressing against her velvety pale skin. My arms were limp at my sides, terrified to move them. As she squeezed tighter and I felt her breasts pressing against my chest, I remembered Sara’s advice: Read her body language and don’t be afraid to make a move. I forced my arms up to wrap around her heavenly curves, giving a firm squeeze back. When we separated, I could see a bit of redness on her cheeks.

Was she just as nervous as me? That didn’t make any sense. She was literally as beautiful as an angel, and I was a skin-and-bones emo boy.

“We’ll just say that you did,” she said, leaving her hand out for me to grab.

I looked at her delicate, black-painted fingernails and didn’t hesitate, our fingers interlocking. We started to walk side-by-side out of the store with all the staff staring at us. Like I said before, my infatuation with Lisa was no secret; everyone knew it. But one thing happened that I didn’t expect. After all the jitters, second-guessing, and dry-heaving thinking about this moment, the one thing happened that I didn’t expect at all.

I felt comfortable. It felt natural, like we should have been holding hands a long time ago. Like these two sets of black-painted nails were destined to be together. My racing heartbeat calmed down, my muscles stopped twitching, and I let myself accept that Lisa actually wanted to hold my hand as much as I did hers. We walked past everyone, and I looked over my shoulder to see that they all kept staring after we passed. The crappy automatic doors squealed as we walked outside, ready to go anywhere the night would take us.

We both walked aimlessly down the street, with her thumb gently rubbing the back of my hand, tracing the veins that stuck out.

“The moon looks beautiful tonight,” I whispered, looking up at it.

It was a full moon, bright and all its craters visible to the eye, and it cast its glow over us as we walked down the street. Lisa looked up with me, the moonlight making her soft and beautiful features look like a shot from a Nicolas Winding Refn film. The yellow coming from the streetlight above us shined between us, casting the left side of her body in that color. I looked toward the marvelous profile of her face as she looked up at the moon casting its ancient glow over her. Her black and red hair moved slightly in the wind.

“It really does, Brodie.”

The way she said my name, the extra beat she took to say Bro...die. No one else said my name like that. It made me feel special, unique, and above all, handsome as all hell. From this moment on, I knew I couldn’t live the rest of my life without hearing her say my name at least once a day.

“I like the shirt, Lisa. Sound of White Noise is seriously underrated.” My eyes drifted down to her chest, where her nipples were peeking out through the fabric.

“Yeah, everyone rips on the John Bush years, but I like a ton of songs from that era, especially this album.” She brought her shoulders back, sticking out her chest more. I immediately turned my eyes back to the moon, trying to play off that I hadn’t just been staring at her tits.

“Ummmm, yeah, I really like that album. ‘Black Lodge’ is such a cool track. Did you watch that show “Twin Peaks?” I asked, my voice shaky and indecisive.

I could feel her gaze on me, and tentatively I brought my face to hers. Her head was cocked to the side with a smile on her face. Now one half of her face was in the bluish moonlight and the other half cast in the yellow of the street lamp. Her hair moved in the wind like it was underwater, and out of all the times I had seen her, she never looked more beautiful than in this moment.

“Really, did you just ask me that?” she said, cocking her hip to the side and placing her gorgeous hand on it.

Before I could respond, she answered her own question.

“Yes, of course I have seen Twin Peaks. Like, how do you think I learned to cast a spell on you? I watched Audrey Horne and copied her,” she laughed, letting out a sound I had never heard from her before.

A snort.

Lisa really snorted when she laughed too hard.

“You know what, you remind me of Dale Cooper a bit, Brodie.”

I raised my eyebrows and a smile came across my face. Being kind of like Dale Cooper wasn’t all that bad; he was a handsome guy and every girl I knew thought he was cute. This was an opportunity that Sara had mentioned, and I seized the moment. I pulled out my phone, pretending it was a recording device, and put on the absolute worst Dale Cooper impersonation.

“Diane, I am here walking randomly with a beautiful girl named Lisa. This town is both strange and beautiful... Lisa over here looks like something ripped right out of a beautifully shot movie. But not long ago a serial killer, Chad White, stalked these streets and no one had a clue... or they pretended not to have a clue...”

Lisa broke out laughing at my impersonation because it was ridiculous. I sounded and looked absolutely nothing like Dale Cooper.

“Why do you say I remind you of Dale Cooper?” I asked after she calmed down from her laughing.

She shrugged her shoulders, saying, “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Nah, it isn’t. Well, not to me at least,” I chuckled.

“You just have the same kind eyes, that’s all. The kind of kind eyes you can’t fake.”

Instinctively, my hands went up to my eyes like somehow I was going to feel the kindness she was talking about.

“That’s what I have always liked about you, Brodie. I know we haven’t talked all that much, but when I looked in your eyes...”

She took a step closer to me, grabbing both my hands.

“When I looked into your eyes, they just had something I haven’t had much of in my life... kindness.”

I felt a rock hit my stomach and my Adam’s apple rise in my throat for an entirely different reason than before. I tried to hold back tears but I couldn’t. That was honestly the most beautiful thing anyone had said to me. She didn’t say I was hot, or dreamy; she said my kind eyes said everything she needed to know about me. A black tear ran down my cheek as I looked at her, still covered in the yellow and moonlight.

That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

I quickly wiped away the tear from my cheek and rubbed my eyes, trying to stop any more from falling.

“It’s true, Brodie...”

Once again, the way she said my name made my knees go weak, and on top of what she had just said, I felt my entire body turning into mush.

“You look beautiful tonight, Lisa,” I struggled to say.

She scoffed softly before responding.

“I want you to stop doing that, and not stop doing it at the same time.” She placed a finger on my chest, gently tapping it.

“Doing what?” I asked, confused, though how I could get any more confused when my brain was already a jumbled mess, I didn’t know.

“The way you say my name. How you emphasize the last bit... it’s sexy, and I could see myself getting used to hearing it more often.”

Now my brain was a total mess of disconnected wires, all tangled up together. Did she really just say the way I said her name was sexy? I could believe that I had kind eyes, because at my core I was a kind guy, but sexy? Nothing I did was sexy.

I audibly gulped as she placed the flat of her palm against my chest. She brought her face close to mine, and I could feel her warm breath on my lips and her chest pressing against mine.

“Can you say it again?” she asked, just above a whisper.

I could practically taste how her kiss would taste just from the air leaving her lips, a mix of a mellow fruity flavor with a hint of salt, and the warmth of a blanket fresh out of the dryer on a freezing day.

“Lisa.”

Her name left my mouth, each syllable rolling off my lips, and I watched as her mouth parted slightly, as if she were swallowing the sound. Even though we didn’t kiss in that moment, it felt just as intimate, if not more so.

“Those eyes, Brodie... you’re going to make my heart melt.” She moved her lips closer to mine.

“Lisa.”

She let out a soft moan after hearing her name again. The sound was barely perceptible, and I only caught it because I was hyper-focused on her, tracking every little noise and movement she made. After a momentary distraction, I continued:

“Your eyes have already melted mine.”

She shifted an inch closer, and I could feel her stiff nipples pressing firmly against my chest through the thin fabric of her shirt. Her hair blew in the wind, gently brushing against my cheek, a few stray strands catching on our lips before drifting away.

“Can I tell you something, Brodie?” she asked, a sudden wave of vulnerability washing over her face.

“Lisa, you can tell me anything.”

I grabbed both of her hands and held them tight.

“I’m kind of homeless right now. I left home for good.”

Without hesitation, I reached over and gently cradled the back of her head, the vanilla scent of her hair hitting me like a wave. I pulled her in close to my shoulder, and she gripped my leather jacket tightly, the soft creak of leather filling the quiet night.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Lisa. You can stay at my place if you need to. Trust me, my mom and dad won’t care.”

That last part was an educated guess, but a solid one. My parents always talked about how bad they felt for Lisa on account of her mom, and the fact that her dad was completely out of the picture. Unlike hers and so many others in this town, my parents had big hearts and cared deeply about people. It probably would make them both ecstatic that I brought home a girl this gorgeous. My mom could start dreaming about grandkids again, and my dad wouldn’t have to brace himself for the day I came out of the closet. If I had to guess, there was only about a twenty percent chance they’d say no.

“It’s not just that, Brodie.”

She looked down toward her leg, and my eyes followed hers. Slowly, she took the hem of her oversized Anthrax shirt and began dragging it up her thigh. The sudden spike of arousal pressed uncomfortably hard against the zipper of my jeans.

Like, what the fuck was she doing? Did she want me to touch her out here, right in the open?

When my hand tentatively reached down toward her bare skin, she caught my wrist with her other hand.

“No, it’s not that. Even though I want you to do that... just not here. Not right now.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course,” I stammered, despite the ache between my legs pulsing with a very different answer.

My gaze dropped back to her hand, and that’s when I saw it.

The polished tip of a blade glinted under the yellow streetlight. She pulled her shirt up higher, revealing the entire knife securely holstered against her skin by a red-and-white lace garter belt. The knife was long, fitted with a bright red plastic handle, and even without inspecting it closely, I could tell how wickedly sharp it was.

As if she couldn’t get any sexier, seeing that red-and-white garter belt wrapped around her toned, pale, silky-smooth thigh took it to an entirely different level. She casually trailed her fingers across the plastic handle.

I swallowed hard before managing to ask:

“What’s the knife for...?”

Without answering, she spun around and lifted the back hem of her shirt. She was wearing tiny denim shorts that showed off the lower curve of her cheeks, a perfect, heart-shaped ass I had dreamed about holding more times than I could count.

Staring at her, it took me a second to register what was tucked into the waistband at the small of her back.

It was a hammer.

Without thinking, I reached out and ran my finger down from the metal head of the hammer to where the wooden handle disappeared into her denim. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and arched her back just slightly, a movement so subtle no one else in the world would have noticed it.

“What’s the hammer for...?”

She didn’t answer right away. She turned back around, letting the oversized shirt drop back down over her thighs.

“I told my mom if she ever talked to me, or even looked at me the wrong way again, I would kill her.”

I placed my hand on her face, and she brought hers up on top of mine. She gently caressed my fingers as I looked deep into her worried, gray-blue eyes.

Most guys would have run away at this moment. Here was the girl everyone made fun of because she was supposedly a psycho serial killer waiting to happen. Now she was admitting to me on our first date, that she had threatened to cut her mother’s head off.

I wasn’t most guys. I was the guy with the kind eyes. I was the guy who had never bought into all the bullshit rumors. I was the guy who saw just how beautiful she was, both on the outside and in.

I didn’t blame her for a second for threatening her mom or carrying weapons. She was a bloody saint for not having killed her years ago. Her mom was the type of person who, if you read about her in a book or saw her in a movie, you’d scoff that such a monster couldn’t possibly exist. She was so cartoonishly evil toward her own daughter it seemed like she was playing the role of a wicked stepmother. Fuck her mom for ever hurting this angel. As long as I was alive, there was absolutely no way she was ever going back there. If my parents said she couldn’t stay for a bit, then I would move out and we’d find a place together.

As I placed my other hand on the other side of her face, it started to rain. It began with just a few stray drops before quickly turning into a full-on downpour. My eyeliner smeared down my cheeks, and her Anthrax shirt was soaked in seconds, clinging tightly to the curves of her body. I looked down at her nipples peeking through the wet fabric; the cotton was pressed so flat against her skin that I could clearly make out the circles of her areolas. Looking back up, her hair was completely soaked, hanging over her shoulders with a few dark strands stuck to her cheeks. With my thumb, I gently brushed them aside.

I brought her face close to mine, just to the point where our noses were about to touch.

“Lisa, I don’t care about any of that. As for your mom... she’d be lucky if that’s all you ever did to her. And the rumors? I know it’s all garbage. We all have fucked-up thoughts, and you have more reasons than anyone in this shithole town to have them. I don’t care what was written in that diary, or what you daydream about doing to all the bullies. I know you wouldn’t do any of those things unless you absolutely had to. This is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? A boy with kind eyes standing in the rain, telling you what I’m telling you right now.”

Even though her face was dripping with rainwater, I could still see fresh tears welling up in her eyes. With my thumbs, I gently wiped them away and began to sing “The Last of the Real Ones” just above a whisper:

“I am a collapsing star with tunnel vision, but only for you...”

Her voice joined mine, soft and trembling:

“’Cause you’re the last of a dying breed...”

Mid-song, I slowly brought my lips to hers.

As many times as I had imagined what kissing Lisa would feel like, how soft her thick, inviting lips would be, how sweet she would taste on my tongue, how our mouths would connect like links in a chain, none of it prepared me for the reality. Her lips felt like my favorite shirt fresh out of the dryer. She tasted like my favorite meal multiplied by ten. Combined with the scent of her rain-soaked hair and the soft, quiet moan that escaped her throat while our lips were locked together, it felt like I had finally tuned into the exact frequency I was supposed to be on my whole life.

We finally pulled apart, both of us panting from the euphoria rushing through our veins.

“That was... fucking... intense,” she whispered, resting a hand flat against her chest.

Without missing a beat, I stepped closer, wrapping my arms around her waist and dipping her down to kiss her again. The rain poured over us beneath the warm yellow streetlight. Our mouths only parted for brief gasps of air before we hungrily found each other again.

After a few minutes of passionately kissing, we both straightened up.

Lisa brushed the wet hair from her forehead, her gray-blue eyes wide with pure ecstasy. She was looking at me with the exact same love and wonder that I had felt for her all these years.

“What do we do now?” she asked softly.

“Make up for lost time... and show you a life where kindness is actually possible,” I replied, holding out my hand.

As her fingers interlaced with mine, rainwater dripping from our palms, my phone suddenly began to blare a harsh, screeching emergency broadcast signal from inside my pocket.

“What’s that?” Lisa asked, hearing the alarm and seeing the screen illuminate through the fabric of my black jeans.

Without even looking, I pressed the power button through the outside of my pants to kill the noise.

“Probably just a flood warning about the storm,” I said. “Let’s get home so we can change out of these soaking wet clothes.”

“Thanks, Brodie.”

“For you, Lisa? Anything. But I will warn you... you’re probably going to have to sleep in the garage tonight. Don’t worry, though—we’ve got an air mattress.”

She laughed, playfully ruffling my soaked, messy hair.

“Brodie, if you saw the place I’ve been sleeping in... trust me, a dry garage with an air mattress and a hot shower sounds like fucking paradise.”

Squeezing her hand, I smiled.

“Life is going to get better. I promise you.”

We walked through the pouring rain, watching the silent, spider-web lightning flash across the night sky, both of us knowing without a doubt that we had just found the person we wanted to spend the rest of our lives with

Thanks again to all the people that have taken the time to read this post. Huge shoot out to all the people that have been following from the beginning! Don't worry I haven't gotten soft the gore will come back! Sometimes you need the romance to balance it all out. Hopefully I pulled on your heartstrings a bit right in the middle of a splatterpunk slasher.

Audio version with intro and outro music

Part 7: Lisa

“Can you keep it down in there, for fuck’s sake!” my mom yelled, banging on my door.

I pulled away the hand I had been using to rub myself during that sweetest dream. My entire body was sweating, and I could feel small drops rolling off my tits and down my stomach.

Had I really just had the greatest wet dream of all time?

“Yeah, sorry, I got a little carried away!” I shouted back, desperately wanting to put my hand right back exactly where it was.

“It's fucking gross! I don't want to hear you flicking your bean,” my mom shouted, followed by the heavy thud of her retreating footsteps.

Yeah, like that bitch really had any room to talk. The number of times I'd had to listen to her banging dudes in the living room, or hearing her gag on some random guy's dick. Really, she was going to chastise me for unintentionally being too loud during a solo session? I kicked the sweat-soaked sheets off my legs, and a heavy wall of sex scent hit me in the face.

Fuck, how long had I been sleeping and touching myself?

My band shirt was completely soaked through; it looked like I had just showered in it. I lifted the hem to let some cool air wash over my body, feeling a sudden spark of sensation on my hyper-sensitive nipples. They were poking hard through the damp cotton, and I couldn't remember them ever being this sensitive. Looking down at my hand, it was glistening with my own juices, heavy with my particular scent.

I had to take a few deep breaths to settle my out-of-control heart rate as aftershocks of euphoria kept washing over me. The feeling would start at the top of my head and roll all the way down my body until my toes curled in raw pleasure. I couldn't remember how many times I had gotten myself off in that dream, but judging by how sensitive and swollen I felt, it was more times than I could count.

My wet hair clung to my shoulders as my lips trembled, waiting for another wave. I had to bite my bottom lip to stop it from shaking, my eyes involuntarily rolling into the back of my head. The rush traveled down my arms, setting off a sharp, tingling sensation in the tips of my fingers. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down, but my whole body started to tremble. I felt like I was on the verge of crying.

A single tear rolled from the corner of my right eye as the intense tingling shot back down between my legs. I wasn't crying because I was in pain……well, okay, I was in a bit of pain. But it was the kind of pain where everything felt so intensely good that a gentle breeze would send your body simultaneously running from it and desperately craving more. After a few more minutes of riding the edge, it finally started to slow down, leaving me with only an involuntary twitch here and there.

The only thing that would have made this better was if that demon had actually left that gun with me. The very first thing I'd want to do with it was blow my mom's head right off her fucking shoulders.

Was that just a dream? Was any of that real? The red light? The smell? The demon? The gun?

I remembered how I had put it inside myself, and at his silent command, started to pull the trigger. It had felt so goddamn good. Hearing those clicks, not knowing if the next one would be my last, was unlike any feeling I had ever experienced. That razor's edge between death and pure orgasmic pleasure, literally at my fingertips.

I let out a heavy sigh, accepting that as of right now, it had all just been a dream. I rolled around on my sweat-soaked mattress, blindly feeling around for that silver-plated Desert Eagle of pleasure, but to no avail. The physical waves of gratification had completely faded now, and the bleak reality of my situation came crashing back in like a ship hitting an iceberg.

“Fuck!” I groaned into my pillow.

I wasn't the devil's or some demon's personal slut. I was just a fucking weirdo who stocked instant coffee with Brodie. I wiped my glistening hand off on the sheets that I'd definitely needed to take to the laundromat later.

Oh, Brodie. He was such a sweet guy, even if he was absolutely terrified to talk to me. In his defense, pretty much everyone was terrified to talk to me, just for different reasons. Most people thought I was going to stab them in the neck and bathe in their blood.

And honestly? For a couple of them, my mother being at the top of the list, they kind of deserved that. Some of her "boyfriends" definitely deserved having a plugged-in toaster thrown into their bathwater, while I stood there laughing as they bit their own tongues off.

I pulled off my soaked shirt, doing a little twirl to let the cool air run over my body. Even though I was pissed that my dream was just that, just a dream, something had changed for the better. I woke up with a smile across my face. My lungs felt full of clean air, my muscles were full of vigor, and my head was completely clear.

There would be no more bullshit, no more grinding my teeth, no more digging my nails into my palms, and no more fucked-up fantasies about different ways to kill myself! My mom, all her hookups, and every single bully could all go fuck themselves and be forgotten about. I was taking control of my life for the first time ever. No more feeling like the victim; from this day forward, I was the alpha, taking exactly what I wanted.

I grabbed a towel I had thrown on the floor the other day and wrapped it around myself. I would take one last shower in this apartment before leaving its black-mold-infested walls forever.

Opening my door, I looked at the back of my mother's head as she sat smoking a cigarette, nursing her hangover. The thought of how easy it would be to just smash a hammer into the back of her skull right now crossed my mind. I could simply go to my bedside table where I kept one, come back out, and just hammer a hole big enough to split that fucking brain of hers in half. I could watch as its fluid stained the couch even further as her body twitched uncontrollably.

The fucking dirtbag deserved it, but it wasn't worth going to prison for. One day, she would sniff a bad batch of shit and her heart would explode in her chest. Maybe I would visit her grave every once in a while and leave roadkill on it.

“Lisa...” my mom shouted between coughs and spitting.

“Fuck off, I'm going to take a shower,” I seethed. Just hearing her voice irritated me even more than it usually did. It felt like little rusty razors being dragged between the fibers of my muscle tissue.

“Whatever, bitch,” she scoffed, not even taking the time to look at me.

I ran the rest of the way to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. Like the rest of this fucking apartment, it was just as toxic as the people inside it. There was no bathtub, and the sink was practically next to the toilet. The sink was a yellowish plastic bowl with a thick streak of rust running down it. The tap itself was corroded and had handles for both hot and cold; to use them, you had to twist them so hard that on more than a couple of occasions, I felt like I was going to rip them right off.

The one mirror was cracked in multiple places, some of them my fault, and some my mother's. She had punched it a few times because she was drunk, and I had punched it a few times because she was drunk.

The toilet leaked at the bottom, so over the years, we had started putting a towel around the base to catch the shit-water. Guess whose job it was to replace said shit-water towel?

I looked down at the soaking black towel wrapped around the cracked and stained bowl, thinking:

Nope. Never again will I have to replace that towel.

The lever on the toilet didn't work either; you had to manually pull it back up after using it, otherwise the tank would run all night. Like the sink, it had rust stains running all over it, and the seat itself slid around whenever you sat down on it.

All the tiles on the floor were cracked and separating. Most of the time, I wouldn't come in here without shoes on because I had sliced my foot a few times, but today I just wanted to get the fuck out of here as fast as possible and didn't bother.

Pulling back the stained and moldy shower curtain, I was hit with that familiar smell of mildew and stagnant water. At one point, I assumed the tiles in this shower were white, because you could see little patches of it peeking out. Nowadays, it was mostly a combination of brownish-yellow rust, spreading black mold in the grout, and literal moss growing in the left corner. The showerhead had dripped for as long as I could remember and, like everything else, was coated in a thick layer of rust.

Honestly, if I hadn't been so incredibly sweaty from last night, I would have just packed some of my shit and walked out the door. But it was just one last time, and then I could say I would never use this fucking shower again.

I twisted the single plastic tap, having to force it hard. The shower groaned like it was in pain as a sputtering stream of brownish water coughed out of the rusted head. I had to wait a few minutes for the built-up rust and God knows what else to flush out of the pipes before the water reached a lukewarm temperature. Tomorrow I would have to get a gym membership or something similar so I could shower. I would be homeless for a bit, that was for sure, but I would figure it out somehow.

I watched as the brownish water gave way to at least cloudy water in the shower. Now I just had to wait for it to warm up a bit. My thoughts drifted to Brodie, the cute emo boy I went to high school with and now worked at the same big box store together. I would always catch him looking at me at school, but I was never sure if it was because of my reputation or if he thought I was hot. He never once came up to talk to me, so I just assumed it was my reputation. At work, we had exchanged a few words, shit like “hello” or “oh, this fucking job,” but that was about the extent of it. Still, just like in high school, I would catch him looking at me when I bent over, or when I was near, his eyes drifted to my chest.

It was his eyes I liked looking at the most, with or without eyeliner. They radiated a kindness you couldn't fake. I knew this because I had been around enough psychopaths that tried to act kind, and it was easier to see through than a wet white T-shirt. It was those eyes that made me attracted to Brodie, and a part of me wanted them looking at every single inch of me.

Here was the issue, though: I didn't want to drag Brodie into my bullshit. Not just with my mom, but my own problems, because trust me, I am totally aware that I am far from normal.

When Jesse started dating Sara, his own object of obsession, she and I started to hang out. She had told me that Brodie was absolutely head over heels in love with me, which I found hard to believe. He never talked to me, and on top of it, I was the town psychopath that chopped off dicks and froze them so I could masturbate with them later, according to everyone else. Like, honestly, how could that cute emo boy with those kind blue eyes actually like me? Sara insisted that she wasn't playing around and that Jesse had been bugging Brodie to make the first move. She told me that I had to initiate just like she had done with Jesse. Brodie was just too sensitive, and terrified of making the move in case I shot him down.

I put my hand under the water, feeling it had warmed up slightly, and dropped my towel. As soon as I left here, that would be the first thing I would do.

Go talk to Brodie and ask him to hang out. It would be one small step in taking back control of my life.

I stepped under the showerhead and a shiver went down my spine because it was still a bit cold. I could feel the heavy calcium deposits of the water on my skin. Reaching down for my black bottle of all-in-one body wash, I saw two silverfish wiggle their way to the drain. I couldn't wait to take a shower that was warm and not covered in fucking bugs. Squeezing a big gulp of the soap into my hand, I scrubbed furiously into my hair and around the rest of my body. Dragging my nails into my skin and scalp, I tried to get as much dirt and sweat off as I possibly could.

Taking in a deep breath, I braced myself and went back under the water. The chill went down my spine and into my muscles, and my teeth started to chatter. Scrubbing as quickly and hard as possible, I watched for the last time the soap in this fucking shower go down the drain. Turning the water off, I could already feel the itch that I got every single time I used this shower. My guess was it was a mix of the heavy calcium deposits, the rust, and the fact I never wanted to stay under it long enough to rinse the soap fully. Stepping out, I grabbed the towel I had let fall to the ground and started to dry myself off, gagging on the smell of mildew that always spread in the bathroom after a shower.

Opening the door, my mom was standing in the doorway with a cigarette in her mouth. Her robe was slightly open, exposing half of her nasty-ass right breast. I quickly wrapped the towel around me, my teeth starting to grind. I could feel my back tooth cracking, which it had started doing in the last few months.

“Yes, mother,” I rasped, making a move to get around her.

She stuck her arm out to stop me, and I wanted to chop it right off then and there. Instead, I drifted into one of my vivid daydreams about what I wanted to do to her.

I was in black leather pants with spikes dotting the knees, along with a leather jacket with spikes running down the arms. I had a My Chemical Romance shirt on and a pair of steel-toe combat boots that ran all the way up my calves.

When I looked down at my hand, I was gripping the sharp, red-handled knife from the kitchen. It shined in the light pouring over my shoulder. I gripped the handle so tightly my knuckles turned white. In my other hand was the hammer I kept in my room. I squeezed that just as tightly, hearing and feeling the wood groan under my fingers.

Her thin lips were pressed tightly like she was about to yell.

With cat-like reflexes, I stabbed the hand that was blocking my way. The knife went right through the top of her hand and stuck into the wooden doorframe. Blood leaked out from the sides like water from a punctured garden hose. Her expression instantly twisted in fright as she let out an agonizing wail. I let go of the knife, and I could tell she wanted to fall backward in pain, but the blade pinning her was keeping her up.

I looked at her hand as it slowly started to separate down the middle. Her own body weight would eventually split that hand right in half, giving her a lobster claw.

With the hammer, I swung in a vicious, downward arc toward her bare foot. Landing right on her big toe, it exploded like a ketchup packet, spraying blood against the wall and across my face. I didn't waste any time sending more blows against her foot. One swing for each of her toes, landing harder than the last. Bone and cartilage stuck out as she continued to scream.

That was like the most beautiful music in the world to me.

I started to hammer the top of her foot, feeling the muscle and bone cave in. With my free hand, I dug my fingers into her smashed and opened-up big toe, ripping out bone fragments. The feeling of her squishy flesh under my fingernails felt nice, like the warm, clean shower I had been denied for so many years.

Looking back up to her stabbed hand, I saw that any second now, it would slice completely in half. Picking up the hammer again, I flipped it to the claw side and slammed it down as hard as I could. It’s two metal prongs pierced her foot, digging deep. I yanked on the hammer like I was pulling out a stubborn nail, watching the flesh rise and the metal stretch her now-purple skin.

One yank.

Two yanks.

Three yanks.

On the fourth, the hammer came loose, bringing a chunk of flesh and bone with it. I let out a soft breath, mimicking like I was blowing her over, and started to count.

One.

Two.

Three.

Looking up at her hand, I saw it slice totally in half, spraying blood like it was from a water gun. She went crashing down, a loud thud echoing from the back of her head. Hearing her skull crack was like hearing the best breakdown from my favorite metalcore band. Uncontrollable laughter left my lips as the blood that had sprayed onto my face touched my mouth. It tasted coppery, mixed with something I couldn't quite identify, but my guess was it was all the shit she had pumped into her body.

I looked at her toes, now flattened like blood- and bone-filled pancakes. A part of me thought about grabbing the knife and digging into her heel, but I decided against it.

Getting back to my feet, I pulled the knife free from the wood and stood over her. Blood pooled around the back of her hair, making it dark and wet. She waved her arm around, the two halves of her split hand flopping through the air like rubber bands. Leaning down, I straddled her, pressing myself deep into her bony hips. Dropping the hammer and knife to my sides, I grabbed her sliced-in-half hand.

Gripping both sides, I started to pull lightly at first. She let out a gurgled cry of pain as blood bubbled out of her mouth, spreading across her face. I started to pull hard, feeling her whole body shake in agony. Listening to the flesh rip was like hearing a sick-ass guitar solo. Her knuckles were exposed, and I could see her veins pulsing with that sick, tainted blood she carried. Pulling harder, I watched as her hand tore apart like a piece of paper, ripping right down to where her wrist started.

Just like an out-of-control garden hose, her wrist sprayed blood everywhere, and I made sure to close my mouth so I wouldn't ingest any of more her sickness. I could see she was ready to pass out from the pain, so I grabbed her by the chin, digging my nails deep into her skin. Looking into her wide-open eyes, I brought my face right next to hers, pressing our noses together.

“We aren't done here, you fucking piece of shit.”

Grabbing the knife I had put down beside me, I placed the tip of its blood-soaked blade against her eyeball.

“When I am done with you, you're going to wish you never lived,” I laughed.

Lifting myself back up, I held the knife between two fingers, swinging it back and forth like a pendulum, giggling. It was going to land on her face, that was for sure, but exactly where it landed would be the surprise. Slowly, the knife started to slip from my blood-soaked fingers as anticipation built up in my chest. The blade slipped and fell, and I couldn't hold back my laughter any longer.

The knife landed in her right cheek, going through like a hot knife into butter.

The best part was, she tried to reach up for it with her new lobster claw.

Punching her in the chest, I laughed like I never had before. Guess the bitch was getting the Black Dahlia treatment. I gripped the handle and began to drag the blade upwards toward her ear. Once hitting her jawbone, I turned the blade around, cutting in the opposite direction, severing her cheek from her face. The flap of flesh fell to the floor, making the sound of a raw hamburger patty. All her disfigured and disgusting teeth were on full display. The blackened, rotten ones in the back were probably full of cum from dudes she had sucked off that week. You could see the redness of the gingivitis that lined her gums. I bet if I just touched it with the tip of my knife, greenish pus would pop out like from an ingrown toenail. Her one incisor tooth dangled like it was going to fall out.

Then, a brilliant idea hit me.

My eyes scanned down to the hammer in my other hand. It was dripping blood with pieces of her foot still on it. The claw would be a brilliant way to rip all those teeth out! Bringing the hammer up, I glided it across her Chiclets, enjoying the sound of metal against enamel. Her eyes drifted between being terrifyingly awake and passing out from the pain. She wasn't screaming anymore; she just whimpered and let out wet, blood-filled coughs.

“See, this won't do at all, Mother. These teeth are all rotted from smoking, bad habits like not brushing your teeth, bitch, and, oh, what was that other thing? Oh yeah, sucking dick in the living room when I was fucking ten, trying to watch a movie!” I roared with a ferocity that even surprised me.

I placed her blackened, rotten back teeth between the prongs of the claw. All it would take was a slight twist, and the tooth would come out as easily as a nail in wood. With a slight tug, her tooth came loose, ripping some of her jaw with it. Blood pulsed out and, like I suspected, greenish-yellow, foul-smelling pus came along with it. I had to cover my mouth from the stench. It was a mix of shit, death, and the vinegary smell of rotten fruit.

“Fucking gross, bitch! When was the last time you actually brushed your teeth?!” I yelled, lifting the hammer high in the air.

With all my force, I sent it crashing down on her teeth, causing a few more to crack off in jagged edges. She started to choke on them along with the blood gushing down her throat. I twisted more off, ripping out larger pieces of her jaw along with them, making sure none of that foul green pus got on my skin. Her eyes were still opening and closing, but staying closed longer than they were open. This fucking useless flesh bag with a fading pulse was doing everyone a favor and finally dying. She deserved one last thing in her final moments, I thought.

Dropping the hammer, I brought the knife back to her mouth. I forced her jaw open with the blade, making sure to dig it deep between her bottom two front teeth. She wasn't going to be putting up a fight; she didn't have any left in her. All the pus and poison that kept her alive was leaving her body now. Her tongue laid in her mouth lazily. She gagged on her own vile liquid as I pressed the knife into her mouth. Maybe her nervous system on pure instinct clamped down on the blade, causing her two bottom teeth to split and fall out.

I put two hands on the red handle and pressed down forcefully but slowly. The blade dragged across her jaw, severing it as the tip split her tongue. I leaned up to put some of my weight on the blade, watching as it went down her throat.

She had put so many gross things in her mouth, but I doubted she ever thought the kitchen knife she never used would be one of those things. I watched as the blade went between her tonsils, which were, of course, covered in built-up food.

Then I heard it.

The blade digging into the floor behind her neck. I pressed all my weight down, wanting only the handle visible from her mouth. I knew that wasn't possible, but fuck, I was going to try. With some pressing and heaving, I felt the blade dig a little deeper, but I knew it wasn't going to go any further. I looked at her face with the knife sticking out, her cheek cut off, and half of her teeth and jawline utterly destroyed, and smiled. Yet there was one part missing: her eyes were closed. I wanted to look into her eyes one last time.

With two fingers, I lifted the lids up. They stared blankly into the distance, and I muttered with blood dripping down from my chin:

“If you ever touch me again, talk to me again, or even look at me, I will stab you. I will cut your fucking head off and shove that knife up your pussy.”

I wasn't in my daydream anymore.

I was back in my towel, with my mother blocking me in front of the door. I could tell from her wide eyes and the way her hand on the doorframe slightly trembled that she knew I wasn't fucking around. Once I was out of this house, that was it. If she ever tried to contact me again, I would fucking kill her.

Now she had the warning.

Without me even having to touch her, she moved her arm slowly, letting it sit limply by her side. As I walked by, she scoffed, her thick, hot smoker's breath hitting the back of my neck. I turned my head quickly, my eyes lowered and my lips tense with anger.

“One fucking word, bitch,” I seethed.

She turned her head away as I made my way to the kitchen, rifling through the drawers and tossing the few forks and butter knives we had onto the ground. I grabbed the red-handled kitchen knife I had fantasized about killing people with so many times. I calmly walked by my mom, the knife swinging by my side, making sure she saw it. As I made my way to my bedroom, I dropped my towel, exposing my bare ass to her. The fucking bitch could bend over and kiss it for all I cared.

Once in my room, I put the knife on the bed. I had zero concern that my mother was going to do anything. Kicking around the clothes I had on the floor, one flipped in the air, and it immediately caught my attention.

It was an Anthrax shirt. The design was the cover of Sound of White Noise. I remembered finding this shirt in the trash a few years ago, thinking, why would anyone throw this out? Yeah, maybe the John Bush years weren't the most popular with some of the fans, but like, fuck off, Sound of White Noise is a great album, and so was We've Come for You All. The shirt was way too big for me, and I could basically wear it as a dress because the bottom hem stopped a couple of fingers' length above my knees.

I placed the shirt beside the knife, contemplating if I should just throw on a pair of underwear with it and call it a day. Looking back at the clothes scattered across the floor, a pair of blue jean short-shorts caught my eye, but what lay right beside them seemed like some divine power had placed it there.

The garter belt I had been looking for for months just happened to be there. It was red with white lace trimming.

A smirk spread across my face because it was the perfect place to keep my knife. I could tuck my hammer into the back of my shorts, and the Anthrax shirt was baggy enough to cover them both up. It was also a bonus that when I wore this shirt with no bra, I looked sexy as fuck in a slightly trashy way.

Rifling through my clothes, I pulled out a lacy red thong. Slipping it on one foot at a time, I looked at myself in the one mirror I had in my room. My tits were perky, and when I turned around to look at my ass, it was high and round without a single spot of cellulite on it. Yeah, the people around this town could spread rumors about what a psychopath I was, and maybe that was true. But I was also a hot-as-fuck psychopath who, even rocking an oversized metal shirt, had the best body in this town not named Sara.

Slipping on my shorts next, I skipped over to my bedside table, grabbing the hammer I kept inside. I stuck the hammer down my pants, its cool steel pressing against the small of my back. Going back to the edge of the bed, I grabbed the garter belt and slipped it up my smooth leg. I pulled it high up so it was nice and tight against my skin. Grabbing the knife, I slid it into the garter belt, its cool blade feeling soothing against my bare thigh.

I didn't bother with a bra because, fuck it, I looked better without one anyway. I slid the shirt over my head, its soft fabric gently rubbing my nipples, causing a tingling sensation to rush down my body. It was both a blessing and a curse having nipples as sensitive as mine. When they were touched, it felt incredible, and I swear I could probably orgasm from that alone, even though it hasn't happened yet. Despite the shirt being way too big for me, my ample chest still showed, and my nipples were peeking through the fabric. When I went to go talk to Brodie wearing this, he would have a raging hard-on at the word 'hi'.

I did a little twirl in the room, my shirt rising just enough to expose my trusty little knife. I had to give it a nickname, and a few went through my head.

Matricide?

Sharpie?

Flesh Remover?

Then the perfect name hit me:

Little Red.

With Little Red by my side and Mr. Hammer in my back pocket, I wasn't afraid of anyone or anything. The last thing to grab was my phone off my bed, sliding it into my back pocket. The stickers I had put on it over the years had worn off, and eventually, I would have to replace them. They were bands I liked, ranging from Metallica to My Chemical Romance.

I could feel my strength and confidence vibrating throughout my body. It could have been just mental, but my posture felt straighter and stronger. My shoulders weren't slouched over; they were straight and pulled back, and the arch in my back made my ass stick out even more. This new me was a sexy, confident badass who wasn't going to take shit from anyone.

I opened the door to see my mom back on the living room couch, the undeniable sound of her snorting a line of coke the only sound in the air. I started to strut toward the door, my arms confidently swinging by my sides. Once at the door, I took a deep breath in anticipation of what my new life would bring.

“You'll come back,” my mom snarled. I guess she didn't care about her life all that much.

I lifted my shirt slightly and pulled the knife from my garter belt, its blade shining in the light from the doorway.

“If I were you, I'd hope that never happens, because I wasn't kidding. I will cut your head off.”

She just scoffed, leaning back down to do more coke. I laughed at how pathetic she really was and how I used to be terrified of this woman. Now, there wasn't an ounce of fear, just justified rage at a creature who caused so much pain to the people around her.

Still laughing, I walked out the door, slamming it behind me. Of course, the dumb coward bitch waited until there was a thick piece of wood between us before she let out a string of profanities. Standing outside, I listened to her muffled rant.

“Dumb fucking psycho bitch! You won't amount to anything other than some guy's gutter-punk slut! You better learn how to suck dick real good, because that's the only way you're going to be able to eat!”

She pounded on the inside of the door a few times with her fists. I just continued to giggle as I walked away, on my way to the boy with the kindest eyes in the universe.

Please, Brodie, don't say no or get scared. I just want a cute boy to hold my hand tonight.

Thanks again to all the people for reading this and double thanks to all the people that have read all the previous chapters!. Now the stage is set Lisa and Brodie are about to go on a date. Chad is out of prison and heading towards Jesse and Sara! What's going to happen next? To find out make sure to subscribe and share the story around with all your friends!

Previous Instalment

Audio Version with intro and outro music

One year after High School…..

Part 6: Jesse

"Last night was pretty intense," Sara said with a sly smile.

I chuckled quietly, feeling a half-chub coming on just thinking about what we had done last night. I had to be the luckiest guy in the world, honestly. My high school obsession had asked me out, she was smoking hot, and on top of it all, she was a total freak in bed.

Before dating her, I never would have expected any of the stuff she was into. Listening to black metal when we were fucking was a must. Last night we banged in my car, the one I had saved every cent I had for. It was a rusty Honda Civic, but the thing ran pretty well—and probably always would, because it was a Honda. We had Emperor blasting out of the speakers so loud I thought they were going to break. The thing was, though, despite the relentless blast beats and Ihsahn's shrieking vocals, she was louder.

“Oh, Jesse, you feel so good inside me."

“Oh, suck on my tits."

“I can feel you in my stomach."

“Call me a slut. Call me your slut."

That was just the tip of the iceberg of the stuff she said. She liked it when I pinned her arms behind her back, when I gently placed my hand around her throat, when I slapped her ass and tits. She would drag her nails across my back, which I never stopped in the moment, but afterwards, I would always get looks from people. Most of the time, I just wanted to say to them:

What can I say? My dick is just that good.

Last night, she was talking about wanting me to tie her up and call her my little toy. She was a certifiable freak, and I loved every second of it, because I was a freak, too.

"Yeah, it kind of was," I replied, pulling myself out of my daydream.

We were sitting in my Civic in an empty parking lot, just staring at the moon and the stars through the windshield. When we weren't watching horror movies, listening to black metal, or blasting emo music, we did this. Or we fucked and it was a simple life, that I always wanted.

Over the year we had been dating, Sara had changed up her look a fair amount. It wasn't because she started dating me; it was because she had finally started being herself. Gone was the wholesome cheerleader aesthetic, replaced by a gritty, late-80s, early-90s rocker look.

She wore a bandana all the time now, along with a custom leather-and-denim jacket. The sleeves were denim, and she had sewed patches all over them. They ranged from Aerosmith, Mötley Crüe, and Guns N' Roses, to Emperor and Abigail Williams, all the way to emo bands like Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance. The torso of the jacket was dark black leather, webbed with well-worn cracks.

Nowadays, she typically wore semi-tight jeans with rips at the knees, though sometimes the rips would be right below her ass. Once in a while, she wore super-short skirts with torn fishnet stockings. Whenever she wore those, all I wanted to do was just rip them off and go to town. We had done exactly that a few times in this car.

A smile spread across my face as I thought about the first time we did it, and what I had said to her.

“I need to make you cum."

“Oh, Jesse, you're the only one who can make my legs shake."

When she whispered that into my ear, biting my earlobe right after, it was like something possessed me. A raw, animalistic hunger took over. I started to rip at her fishnets, sliding my hand up her legs before diving down.

How no one heard us that night, I will never understand. She screamed and yelled fuck so loud I thought my shitty car windows were going to shatter. She pressed my head so hard into her thighs that I had to sneak in breaths during the brief seconds her grip loosened.

When she did climax, her soft, beautiful legs squeezed my head so tight I thought she was going to pop my eardrums. A few seconds later, her whole body was shaking, and her breathing became erratic. I had rested my head on her chest, right between her tits, holding her hand and helping her calm down from the euphoria rushing through her body.

We stayed in the car that entire night as sporadic shivers of pleasure ran down her body. She played with my hair as we listened to a Fall Out Boy greatest hits album.

Sara put her hand on my upper thigh and squeezed. She knew exactly how much I liked that; a spike of adrenaline shot up my spine, and I closed my eyes. That was the thing with Sara, she could effortlessly be sexy at all times. A simple brush of her hair behind her right ear was loaded with sexual energy. The glitter in her emerald eyes on a moonlit night was heavy with innuendo. Her laugh, depending on the pitch, could leave me unable to stand up for a while. Even though I had seen every single inch of her naked so many times I had lost count, that hand on my thigh got me just as excited as the first time I saw her.

Honestly, the only way I could describe it was magic. My beautiful punk-rock princess had the ability to do a simple twirl, and just like that, I was melted butter. I couldn't have been the only guy she had this effect on. I had seen how other pretty girls could walk into a room and, without saying a word, have every single guy waiting on them hand and foot. But Sara's power was on another level. She had cast her spell hard on me, not that I was complaining.

“What do you want to watch tonight?” she asked, rubbing her hand up and down my leg.

I could feel myself pressing hard against my jeans, and I saw her looking down between my legs. I don't think I could ever get used to it, if I'm being honest. The way she looked at me, the pure desire in her eyes, and knowing that just being near me was enough to get her underwear wet... if she was even wearing any.

Neither of us had much money, so going to the theater was strictly for special occasions. "Movie night" for us usually meant one of us bringing a tablet and propping it up on the dashboard. Yeah, it was a bit corny, but these were the moments I looked forward to all week. Our movie choices usually revolved around finding the most extreme horror films possible. Last week we watched A Serbian Film, and let's just say, for as fucked in the head as Sara and I are, that was pushing it. The week before that, it was Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom. This week, we were going back and forth about what to put on.

Sara wanted to watch Megan Is Missing, but I wanted to watch Suitable Flesh. All the reviews I had read about Megan Is Missing weren't great; apparently, it’s really only the last twenty minutes where it hits hard. Suitable Flesh was this campy, erotic horror flick that was a total throwback to the 80s. I just wanted something a bit lighter tonight that still had all the gore we loved.

She brushed her golden blonde hair behind her right ear, having taken off the black bandana she was wearing earlier. Fuck, the way she brushed those strands over that ear, I just loved it so much. Her fingernails were painted alternating black and red, which somehow made it even sexier.

“You have got to stop doing that,” I muttered, adjusting myself through my jeans.

She looked at me, smiling with her thick, full lips and perfectly white teeth. The way the moonlight hit her moss-green eyes made them sparkle like morning dew.

“Stop what, Jess...?”

She let my name linger a few beats longer, dropping into a lower, huskier pitch than her normal voice. Sara could act like she didn't know what she was doing, but we both knew she did. I gave up adjusting my pants because, really, what was the point? Just the intoxicating mix of her vanilla perfume and her natural, salty scent was enough to put me in the exact situation I was in now.

“You know exactly what you're doing, Sara,” I muttered, my gaze drifting down to her chest.

She was wearing a Guns N' Roses shirt from the Chinese Democracy era. She, of course, wasn't wearing a bra, and I could clearly see her nipples pressing hard against the thin cotton.

“Nah, Jess... I don't know what I'm doing. I'm just asking what movie we're going to watch tonight.”

She spoke in that perfect, erotic octave as she gave my upper thigh another firm squeeze. My brain started to short-circuit as I watched her bite her bottom lip.

Dear fucking God, is there anything sexier in the world than Sara biting her bottom lip?

I adjusted in my seat, trying my best to fight off her spell, but I knew I couldn't. She leaned across the center console and rested her head on my shoulder. Her hair smelled exactly how it looked: like a beautiful summer morning with flowers blooming and the energy of life springing up all over. I put my hand on top of hers where it rested on my thigh, marveling at how beautiful and delicate her fingers were.

“So, are we watching Megan Is Missing*l?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

How could I possibly put up a fight against such beauty, especially with her? She knew exactly how to wield it against me—not that I was complaining.

“Yeah, sure we can,” I replied, playing with her hair that felt like strings of golden silk.

“Lisa said it's not the greatest, but the ending is nuts,” she noted, her voice returning to its normal pitch.

Oh, Sara, you know exactly how to play me like a fiddle.

“Oh, Lisa... fuck, I hope she gets away from her mother soon,” I muttered, feeling a sudden pang of depression hit.

Lisa was a weirdo like me, Sara, and my buddy Brodie. She had it worse than us, though, by a fair amount. Our parents weren't total fucking garbage, whereas Lisa's were. Well, I should say parent; she never knew who her dad was. Her mom was a drunk, drug-abusing, all-around selfish psychopath, in my opinion.

Way back in grade six, I guess some kid found a diary she kept that had some fucked-up shit written in it. So, of course, that spread across the entire school, and she was labeled the “serial killer in the making.” She was picked on horribly during middle school all the way up to grade eleven. By grade twelve, it finally started to calm down.

If I'm being honest, I wouldn't have blamed her if she actually started killing some of those kids who picked on her. They were all fucking hypocrites because, unlike Lisa, they had normal upbringings. If you ripped all their fucking brains open, I am sure you'd find just as many fucked-up thoughts. Lisa would wake up in the morning with her mom passed out naked on the couch with some dude's dick on full display, coke on the table, booze, and other drug paraphernalia scattered everywhere.

This is all to say that I had a soft spot for Lisa. She and Sara started talking once we started dating, and over the last year, they had become friends. Lisa had told Sara some of the stuff her mother had put her through. I still remember that night because Sara came practically running to me. I held her as tightly as I could on a park bench as she cried into my shoulder. Sara just couldn't understand how someone could do that to a human being let alone her own daughter.

“I hope Brodie one day works up the courage to ask her out,” I muttered.

Sara and I would bug Brodie all the time to ask Lisa out because they were literally perfect for each other. Brodie had the same kind of love for Lisa that I had for Sara, so I already knew what that meant. He wasn't ever going to ask her out, just like I hadn't been able to ask Sara out. Lisa had to be the one to do it. Brodie and I were both pathetic like that, or just too sensitive, but what's the difference?

If I had asked Sara out and she had said no, I don't know what the fuck I would have done. I probably would have written the best broken-hearted album ever, or I would have drowned for years in booze and drugs. Brodie was even more sensitive than me, so if Lisa said no, I know I wouldn't let him leave my sight for weeks at a bare minimum.

“I don't know why he doesn't do it. Lisa thinks he's cute,” Sara said, sliding my hand higher up her thigh.

I could already feel the heat radiating off her. That was the thing with Sara, as much as I couldn't control myself around her, she was exactly the same way with me.

She leaned over and placed her silky hand on my cheek. Her legs parted slightly, and my hand crawled right up to the space between them. The heat coming off her thighs warmed my palm, and my own legs started to go weak as all my blood rushed southward. She brought her face closer to mine. I thought she was going in for a kiss, but instead, she bypassed my lips and pressed her mouth close to my ear.

In her special, breathy, sexy voice, she whispered.

“I have been wet all day just thinking about you, Jess. I've had to get myself off a few times already because I couldn't hold it in.”

My brain completely short-circuited, and all the strength in my body vanished at the speed of light. My mind and muscles turned to absolute mush. How I was even sitting upright I didn't understand, because there was no way I could have stood up right now.

My hand moved between her legs, rubbing her firmly over the denim of her jeans. She let out a soft, ecstasy-filled moan directly into my ear. Her face buried into my shoulder as I pressed harder against her, wanting her to beg me to unbutton her pants. My thumb twirled around the metal button of her jeans as she arched her hips into my hand. She started to pull on my shirt, lifting the hem and slipping her warm hand against my stomach. My breath hitched as she glided her fingers up and down, tracing my abs. No, I didn't work out, but being that skinny did have some advantages, like having a six-pack by default.

Her fingers traced down my happy trail, making the ache between my legs pulse even harder. At this point, I was fairly convinced that all the blood had left my brain and gone straight to my other head. Her hand slid higher up my chest, squeezing my pecs before her fingers delicately teased my nipples. Oh, Sara knew exactly how to drive me absolutely fucking nuts.

She grabbed my free hand from between her legs and slid it up under her Guns N' Roses shirt. Her entire body was hot and eager for my touch. Despite all the other edgy changes she had made to her appearance, she had kept her cute, pink-heart belly button ring. I twirled it between my fingers for a second, wanting to drive her crazy with anticipation.

"You're driving me crazy, Jess," she whispered passionately into my shoulder.

My hand drifted further up her soft, velvety skin, feeling her stomach sink and rise with her heavy breathing. The only time I ever felt like I was in control around her was in these moments. My touch had her brain short-circuiting just as much as mine, and her breaths were coming fast and deep.

“Does my slut want me to touch her all over?" I whispered.

“Yes, I'm your slut. Touch me everywhere, I need it so fucking bad," she whimpered.

My hand crawled up her ribs, cupping the warm underside of her right breast. I squeezed it gently, letting my fingers brush the skin right below her areola. Her chest was heaving so hard it looked like she had just finished running a marathon. My thumb grazed the raised goosebumps of her areola, causing her to bite my shoulder and dig her nails into my chest. I winced in pain initially, but the sting quickly morphed into pure pleasure.

My index finger glided across her stiff nipple, barely even brushing it. Her legs clamped together, and if my hand had still been between them, it would have been crushed in a vise of flesh. With my other hand, I started to pull her shirt up.

“Take my clothes off. Make me your slut. I want to be your slut, Jess," she whispered, lost in pure pleasure.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

Fucking really?

My phone started vibrating in the cup holder. I paused momentarily, causing Sara to groan.

“Just ignore it and come make me cum."

I would have gladly followed her advice, but my stupid eyes instinctively drifted to the glowing screen to see who was calling.

Brodie.

Anyone else, I would have ignored. I would have had Sara's top off and my mouth all over her in seconds. But it was Brodie, and he was at work. He *never* called me while he was on shift. It had to be important, maybe even an emergency.

"It's Brodie. I have to answer it," I whispered.

She sighed in heavy frustration, lifting her head from my shoulder and slumping back into the passenger seat.

“Alright, but the second you're done, my hands are going straight down those skinny jeans," she said with a wicked smile.

I grabbed my phone off the dash, seeing that he had hung up and immediately sent a text instead.

Brodie: Holy fucking shit, Lisa actually asked me out!

I laughed out loud and slapped the steering wheel hard.

“What's up?" Sara asked, intrigued and slightly confused.

I turned to her, her beautiful face still flushed red from a few moments earlier.

“Lisa just asked Brodie out!"

Sara jumped up in her seat, her head just barely missing the low roof of the car.

“Fuck off, really?! When are they supposed to meet up?" she asked, instantly matching my excitement.

"Not sure, I haven't responded yet."

I started to type out a reply, but Sara reached over and snatched the phone right out of my hands.

“I'm taking care of this one, Jess. Let's be honest, I'm going to give way better advice."

There was nothing I could say because she was absolutely right, so I just nodded in approval.

“Plus, after this, I can check what kind of porn you watch on this thing," she added with a dirty wink.

My Adam's apple bobbed in my throat, and my face immediately turned just as red as hers in pure embarrassment.

“Oh, bondage, threesomes, and backdoor stuff, very interesting,” she said, putting a finger to her lips. I felt a pit in my stomach, and I turned away, completely mortified.

“See, bondage for sure. Threesomes are a no-go because that dick is all mine, and backdoor stuff is definitely a no-go,” she laughed.

I stayed completely still, unable to even look at her, feeling an embarrassment like I never had before. She tossed her bandana, and it landed directly in my lap.

“You can tie me up with that later, perv,” she laughed. When I looked back up at her, she was smiling.

“The backdoor stuff... I don't want to actually do that... it's just sometimes the girls...” I stuttered, struggling to find my words.

“If you're going to say ‘because the girls are hot,’ Jess, I am going to be pissed, because I'm supposed to be the only girl you have eyes for.”

It felt like she reached down my throat and ripped the words right out, holding their bloody remains in her hand.

“Fuck, Jess, I am just playing around. You don't need to look like you just saw Chad,” she laughed.

She went back to typing out her advice for Brodie, the glow of my phone somehow making her skin look more angelic than it already was.

“Look at what I told him,” she said, tossing the phone to me. I tried to catch it but failed. It fell on the floor mats near the pedal, and I reached down to pick it up. What can I say? I don't think I participated in gym class once, which drove all my teachers nuts.

Me: When are you guys meeting up?

Brodie: She is coming back to work to pick me up once my shift is over.

Me: That's awesome, let her take the lead tonight. Let her decide where you guys go and such. One thing I will say though is read her body language. If it seems like she wants to hold hands, hold her hand! If she wants you to kiss her, don't wait, just kiss her! She has the hots for you, I swear to God! Keep it all low pressure because Lisa is one of those types of girls, low maintenance and easygoing.

Oh, and by the way, this is Sara giving you advice. Jess is over here looking like he just saw Chad because I looked at his porn history.

Brodie: Thanks Sara, and I didn't need to know that about Jess watching porn, for the record.

Me: I will tell you the details about that later lol.

“Really, you had to tell him about the porn thing, Sara?” I scoffed.

She just broke out laughing, loving the fact that she was embarrassing me so much. It didn't take much, on account of me being shy and sensitive, and she knew it.

“So, where were we?” she asked, leaning over the console.

She didn't waste any time and immediately put her hand on the bulge between my legs. Her other arm wrapped around my neck, and she brought my face to her lips. Her lips had the texture of a soft, warm blanket on a cold winter day. She pressed herself against me firmly, opening her mouth slightly to slip her tongue against mine.

As much as I loved touching her ass, tits, and everywhere else, kissing her was still my favorite thing to do. There was nothing like being totally lost in a moment of passion with her, her begging me to call her a slut, and leaning in to kiss her after I granted her request.

Our faces tilted back and forth, only separating for the briefest of moments to take in air. Her hand reached for the button on my pants as my hand went back up under her top, caressing her chest. She moaned into our kiss, and I could feel the vibration go down my throat and into my body. Her lips left mine, hovering less than a millimeter apart. In a low, sultry whisper, with her hand resting gently on my face, she said:

“Make me feel like a slut. I want to be your slut so bad right now.”

I grabbed a handful of her golden hair and pulled it back with enough force to cause a bit of pain. She immediately sighed in pleasure, and I raised myself in my seat to look down at her. Her mouth was slightly open, and her emerald-green eyes were wild with an animalistic desire.

“What do you want me to do?” I said firmly, giving her hair a gentle tug.

“I want you to make me a slut, Jess,” she whispered.

It took all my willpower to stay in dominant mode, because that last bit where she said my name made my legs go limp, and I pressed hard enough against my pants to burst the zipper. Submitting to me, she put her hands behind her back as I started to lift her top up, exposing her tits. Looking down, they were already hard, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek looking at them. Her tits were absolute perfection like the rest of her. They were big but didn't sag; they were perfectly round in shape. Her areolas and nipples were a soft pink and the perfect size for her breasts. Even though I had seen them so many times now, I would never get used to looking at them. Sara liked when I took control, but when I looked at her chest, it was so hard not to fall to my knees thanking her for letting me see and touch them.

I dragged my thumb across her bottom lip, and she opened her mouth, kissing it gently.

“Play with your tits,” I whispered.

In less than a second, she was pinching and pulling on her nipples. Other than being inside her, my favorite thing to do with Sara was to watch her play with herself. Playing with her tits like she was now, or watching her touch the other part of her. My mind would drift to the time we listened to Abigail Williams while she used her black toy in front of me. Her moans, the little tweaks of her body, the way she just pretended I wasn't right there watching her, just getting lost in the moment.

I leaned directly into her face, with only the thickness of a piece of paper between us.

“Touch yourself,” I whispered, low and forcefully.

Her right hand drifted down her body, and I watched as she unbuttoned her jeans while I rubbed her tits.

Then my phone went off again, snapping all the pent-up sexual energy that we had going. I let out a loud groan of frustration.

Sara shouted, “Fucking bullshit!”

It wasn't a simple text message sound, which we both would have ignored. The emergency message and its unmistakable, loud noise blared throughout the car. The energy of sexual frustration was thick enough to cut with a knife. I grabbed my phone, and looking at the message, I immediately went soft and my heart started to pound. My fingers shook, and I couldn't believe it was staying steady in my hands.

Sara immediately saw my reaction and reached over to grab my hand to steady me.

“Jess, what's the matter?” Her voice was laced with concern.

“It's... it's... it's Chad... he is out of prison,” I struggled to say, feeling like razor blades were in my throat.

Sara scoffed, not believing me because why should she? Chad was in prison, he was on death row, there was no way he was getting out unless he broke out...

I tried to hand Sara my phone, dropping it twice before she picked it up herself. I could see the color leave her face as her hands started to tremble just like mine. Reality hit like a sledgehammer: Chad was out. We both knew exactly who he was heading to and what he was capable of.

I turned the radio to the news station, and we both listened to what they were saying.

Breaking news: notorious serial killer Chad White has escaped prison. Every single available resource to the proper authorities is being used by apprehend Chad White as quickly as possible. The chief of police is requesting the general public immediately head home and lock all your doors as a precaution. Rest assured that everything possible is being used to get Chad White back behind bars. Now let's hear a paid advertisement from Tony's Landscaping.

I shut off the radio before the ad could play and looked over to Sara, who kept staring at the phone.

“We are going to have to kill him,” she whispered.

I didn't respond because we both knew she was right. Chad had to die, otherwise he would follow us our entire lives and eventually catch us. I reached over, gripping her hand tightly, feeling a mix of dread and anticipation at finally confronting Chad head-on.

A weird smell of burnt meat and smoky electrical discharge entered through the vents of the car, and it caused both of us to cough and gag.

“What the fuck is that smell?” Sara said between coughs.

“I don't know,” I responded, pinching my nose.

Even though it was faint and muffled, I could hear the unmistakable beats of "Victorious" by Panic! At The Disco in the distance. I tried turning the car on, but the battery was completely dead, which made no sense. I just had a brand-new put in two days ago.

“Battery is fucking dead,” I said with frustration, smacking the wheel.

The smell intensified, and the song became clearer. I could now hear the words.

Fifty words for murder and I am every one of them.

“Do we still have the sledgehammer and machete in the trunk?” Sara asked, her eyes darting to the side and rearview mirrors.

“Yeah,” I muttered.

“Good, I think we're going to need them.”

She put her hand on my thigh and gave it a squeeze, a small smile spreading across her lips.

“No more fantasies, it's going to be the real deal soon,” she whispered, leaning over to give me a kiss.

“I just hope this doesn't ruin Brodie's date.”

Sara started to laugh as I pulled the lever for the trunk. If Chad wanted to come and kill us, he would have to earn it.

Thanks for reading this streamy encounter between Jesse and Sara. Sorry to the people looking for the gore in this section but rest assured it hasn't gone anywhere and will come rolling back with a vengeance. I am glad so many people are enjoying this adventure and I am having a blast creating it for you! Don't be afraid to leave comments send DMs or share around to any horror fans you know!

Audio Version With Intro and Outro Music

Warning extreme violence

Part 5: Chad

Fucking emo kids. With their fucking hair, the eyeliner, skinny jeans, and fucking painted nails. Seriously, what fucking dude paints his nails? Fucking weirdos that shouldn’t exist, that’s who. And don’t even get me started on the music, like, what the fuck is that all about? Is it pop, punk, rock, or metal? Just make up your mind, just like your fashion sense.

Really, those fucking pussies, Jesse and Brodie, would take the time to get their hair styled and put eyeliner on, and still show up with fucking rips in their pants. The whole thing didn’t make sense, and it needed to be wiped off the face of the earth. I should have killed that Jesse kid when I had the chance. Why did I let a fucking emo take my girl? I should have killed Sara, sticking a fucking chainsaw up the place she wouldn’t let me get in.

Just thinking about that Jesse kid balls-deep in Sara when she wouldn’t give it up to me! I had the six-pack. I had the biceps. I was the coolest kid in school, and she denied me seeing her fucking pussy!

Ultimately, it’s all their fault that I’m stuck in this cell. If Sara hadn’t broken up with me to go with Jesse, I wouldn’t have started dating Ashley. She wouldn’t have gone sneaking around my house while I was in the middle of killing some fucking trailer trash. I didn’t want to kill Ashley. Honestly, I didn’t, because she was too good for that. People like Lisa were the ones who deserved a knife between the ribs. She and her mother were a fucking stain on all of humanity, on the exact same level as emo kids. Lisa is lucky I got caught because, she was going to be next. That Brodie kid would actually know what it’s like to be really emo after I stripped the flesh off his little angel.

Brodie’s love for Lisa was the worst-kept secret in that shithole town, and my football buddies and I used to joke about them all the time. Would Lisa’s mom try to bang Brodie if they ever actually dated? My guess with that dried-up fucking meat curtain is yes, she would. I should have killed her mom, too. I would have been doing everyone a favor.

_________________________________________

My days are spent in this padded cell, isolated from the general population. Apparently, they thought I was going to kill myself, or that someone else was going to kill me. I guess the run-of-the-mill criminals had an issue with cutting the heads off of teenage girls.

They slide my meals under a flap in my metal door, and half the time I don’t even eat them. There are no windows in my cell, and the only light I get is from a fluorescent bulb on the ceiling, which is comically high up. They put me in a straitjacket and shoot me up with morphine whenever they have to change the bulb. My days are spent doing push-ups and crunches and running around in circles in my room. Why I continue to work out, I don’t know, because there’s no way I’m getting out. I’m either going to die in this cell or get a lethal injection.

I constantly ask for the electric chair, but I always get the same answer:

“We don’t do that anymore. It’s not humane.”

My response is always the same:

“Was it humane when I used Ashley’s severed head as a fleshlight?”

That usually leads to them either ignoring me or, depending on the guards, beating me with a billy club.

_________________________________________

Ashley wasn’t special in that regard, every single girl I killed, her head was used as a fleshlight. What made Ashley special was that she wasn’t trash, and a part of me actually had feelings for her. Unlike the other girls’ heads, where I finished inside or on their faces, I didn’t do that with Ashley. I came on the wall instead, which is what ultimately got me caught. They found my semen mixed with her blood on that basement wall, and it was an easy case from there on out.

Fucking love is what always destroys everything. I could have kept going, killing Lisa, her mom, and more trash, but I had to fall in love with Ashley. I know where I put her head and the rest of her body, but I’m not saying shit to the cops.

Fuck them.

Her parents can act all upset about what happened, but they didn’t care about her.

I still remember the look she gave me when it hit her that I was killing her. That look of utter panic gave way to acceptance, an acceptance that she was giving me the one thing she could only give once.

Her life.

What’s more romantic than that? She gave me her body and soul completely. Sara and Jesse didn’t have that, but Ashley and I did. I literally had pieces of her inside me, a part of her breast and forearm, to be exact. I had never held off taking a shit for so long in my life because I wanted her inside me for as long as possible. If I had planned it out, maybe I could have frozen some bits of her, taking parts out only on our anniversary or birthdays. That just wasn’t in the cards, and the whole affair had to be done quickly.

That’s what bothers me the most: Ashley deserved a better death than the one she got. It was all so rushed, like a quickie with a drunk bitch at a party. Fuck, I took more time with that ghetto-ass bitch Sonja than Ashley. Sonja at least got a few pumps before I started to beat her with a hammer. She was pretty, even though Black girls weren’t really my type. She had these beautiful long legs, dense with muscle. My guess was she was a dancer or a gymnast.

I tied her up to a chair and smashed her kneecaps with a hammer, using the claw to rip them right off. It was fun to watch her crawl on the cement, listening to those smashed-up kneecaps drag across the concrete. Streaks of blood followed her as she painstakingly made her way to the only door. I dragged the metal chair I had tied her to, while smashing and ripping her kneecaps following behind her. The grinding of metal across the concrete, her cries of agony, and her scratching filled the basement.

I placed the chair right behind her and sat down, watching as her fingernails peeled off from clawing at the door. I kept those fingernails in a Ziploc bag and I had to use tweezers to pull some of them out of the wood. Blood pooled around her legs, and I wondered how much skin she’d ripped off dragging herself to that door.

I sat in the chair, listening to her wails of pain and cries for help with a smile on my face and a hand between my legs. When her cries turned to wet coughing and her legs started to shake involuntarily, I sighed in frustration. Guess it was time to end it. I flipped the hammer in my hand a few times, like I was twirling a gun. I stood over her, listening to her wet coughing and appreciating her nail-less fingers. I gripped the wood tightly enough to feel like I was going to shatter it. My muscles tightened as I raised the hammer high in the air. The claw side landed in the back of her head and got stuck. It was funny to see her raise her head a few times with the hammer stuck in it.

I sat back down in my chair, knowing it would only be a few minutes until she took her last breath. She got the usual treatment: the chainsaw, a bit of cannibalism, and the rest of her going back to the trash she came from.

This is all to say that Ashley deserved more time; she deserved something I hadn’t done with anyone before.

That fucking bitch Sara took that away from me! If I ever fucking see her again, the things I am going to do to her would make the devil himself blush. A hot poker up her you-know-what, force-feeding her glass... how about cutting her tummy open and forcing that emo fuck Jesse to eat her guts? Life’s so sad and hard, Jesse. Just wait until you see me cut the cheeks off your beautiful little Sara!

_________________________________________

The flap on my door opened, and dinner was pushed through. The food was separated into different sections: the top corner was smashed-up carrots, the bottom smashed-up peas, because apparently they thought I needed two things that looked like baby shit. My protein was unseasoned ground beef that I was expected to eat with my hands because they didn’t trust me with a plastic spoon.

“Just give me the fucking chair! What is the matter with you guys? I want to fry!”

“Already told you, Chad, they don’t do that anymore,” yelled Leroy from behind the door.

At this point, Leroy was pretty much my only friend, but I use that term loosely. If by friend you mean him talking about how I pissed all my potential away, or telling me to shut the fuck up when I asked him about his kids. Eventually, we settled on a middle ground of discussing sports that I couldn’t watch. Leroy would give me the rundown of what happened in the NFL that week, and I would pretend to care. If I ever got sick of the conversation, I’d just start asking him about his kids again.

I remember the day I told him his daughter must be hot as fuck because he had such a sexy voice. In the silence I got from Leroy after that, I thought about ripping his daughter’s vocal cords out. Maybe I’d make his son eat them and tell him it’s all his dad’s fault because he stopped talking to me.

Ashley was my only other friend, well actually just her head. I knew her head wasn’t actually there; I wasn’t fucking crazy like that. Her head didn’t talk back or anything, but she would show up when I needed some alone time. As I took care of myself, I imagined I was using her head. The best part was that her head decayed a bit each time it appeared.

The last time I saw her was yesterday. Her skin had turned a greenish yellow and started to rot, exposing her right cheekbone. All her teeth but one at the top had fallen out. “My little snaggletooth” was my nickname for her now. All her hair had fallen out, with only a few strands flowing in the back. Her left eye was falling out of its socket, and I was waiting for the day it would drop out completely. I’d never fucked an eye socket before, even if it was a fantasy, it’d be practice if I ever get my hands on Sara.

Overall, her face looked like something out of an Evil Dead movie. Oh, I forgot the smell: that perfect combination of compost-bag juice left in the sun mixed with a freshly opened container of rotting meat. Probably another reason Leroy wasn’t really my friend. I would make as much noise as possible when I imagined using her head for alone time. Grunting, groaning, and shouting her name happened every time, and I made sure to be as theatrical as possible. Leroy would bang on the door with the force of a sledgehammer, telling me to shut the fuck up. It never worked, and most of the time, it just made me want to be louder.

“I literally think about fucking the head of a girl I killed when I jerk off… like, you guys can make an exception!” I shouted, pressing my face against the steel door.

Leroy sent a fist flying against the door, and I felt its ripple effects. I pulled my face back and started to rub my cheek. While I had never personally seen Leroy, I knew from his banging and his voice that he was a powerful man.

“Here’s the deal: if you guys give me the chair, I promise not to haunt your family in the afterlife… deal?” I said in an exaggerated, pleading voice.

“Boy, where you’re going, there is no coming back,” he shouted dismissively.

Maybe he was right, maybe he wasn’t. Either way, I wanted to feel my skin melt and my eyes pop out of their sockets.

“Just so you know, Leroy, buddy, old pal, all that stuff about your family is just for shits and giggles. If I do come back, I have a few people on my list, just some unfinished business.”

“Oh, that’s so kind of you, Chad. Now can you kindly fuck off, and please, for the love of God, no loud masturbating tonight? Roll the dice for all I care, I just don’t want to hear it,” shouted Leroy.

“Can’t promise that, buddy. Ashley is just too good at choking on the chicken. I’m sure you know all about that, or are you one of those pathetic guys whose wife doesn’t suck his dick?”

He didn’t have a response to that jab, which meant it hit home. I kind of felt bad for him if that was the case. This guy had to watch over the absolute dregs of society while listening to me talk about a headless corpse getting me off. The least his wife could do was give him a bit of skull once in a while.

_________________________________________

I lay down on my back, staring up at the one light I had in the room. I would do this once in a while, and it had become a bit of a game, how long could I stare at the light before I started to feel pain? As of right now, I could make it five minutes before my eyes would force themselves shut. I didn’t care if it damaged my eyesight because I was going to die anyway. Listening to my breathing and heartbeat, I stared into the white, seeing little dots.

This time was different, though. The dots multiplied faster, and they descended down toward me. Within a few seconds, thousands of little flashing balls of light were gliding across my skin. The electricity coming off them made the hair all over my body rise. My nerves started to throb, and my teeth felt like they were shaking. The balls of light started to emit static electricity, sending thousands of small shocks to my skin.

Did some dark lord hear my prayers about being electrocuted?

The shocks turned to lightning flashes, and I could feel my heart starting to pound in my ribcage.

Thump, thump, thump.

I could feel my heart expanding from the inside out. Then came the smell I knew all too well from using a blowtorch on a girl’s hand. The heavenly scent of searing flesh drifted up to my nose. When I looked down, I could see the flesh on my arms bubbling into third-degree burns. The skin peeled away, looking as though my flesh was turning itself inside out.

All I wanted was to see my own face right now, to watch the thin skin around my skull melt away and my eyes pop out.

I watched as the lightning striking my skin intensified, my hands blackening and charring before my eyes. My ring and pinky fingers were nothing but exposed bone. The flesh on my right forearm was burnt down to the marrow, yet the remaining muscle tissue flexed.

My thoughts turned to my dick and whether it remained, but I found I didn’t care. If I was dying, so be it. And if somehow I survived this, so be it. I never really cared about the actual fucking part anyway; I just wanted the control, that was all.

When I tried to close my eyes, I found that I couldn’t. My eyelids had burned off.

The balls of light began to dim, no longer emitting their lightning. They floated like bubbles back up toward the ceiling fixture, and just as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.

I lay limp, breathing in the smoke rising from my own skin. That smoke, that exquisite smell, it was the food of the gods. My stomach rumbled, hungry for more, and I took in a deeper breath. Then it hit me with the force of the hammer I’d used to kill so many girls.

I was alive.

I wiggled my toes, feeling the charred flesh crack between them. I closed my hand into a fist. The blackened, crusty skin on my knuckles split open, and I felt the exposed bone of my ring and pinky fingers pierce the meat of my own palm. I looked at my right forearm; the flesh had burned right through to the other side. I flexed, watching the exposed muscle twitch and writhe like putting salt on freshly cut beef.

Fuck yeah.

I was alive, and my body was still working.

My entire body was a twisted landscape of blackened and weeping red flesh. I looked like a melted crayon, my skin pulled back and ruined. My eyes drifted down between my legs. If I had eyelids, I would have shut them in anticipation.

It wasn’t there. My cock had completely burned off, melted away like butter in a frying pan.

Good. Fewer distractions now. I didn’t have time for sex or jerking off anyway.

I stood up, feeling my skin tearing at the joints, my knees, my elbows, under my arms. The worst part about this was that I wouldn’t get to smell my own seared flesh anymore once it cooled. I took in as much as I could, cherishing the last vapors. I guess now I’d just have to burn a few people alive. I had to see if each person smelled different as they cooked, the same way each pussy had its own unique scent.

I stepped in front of the metal door and looked at my hazy reflection. Every square inch of me was burned, my right ribs completely exposed. My flesh was a horrifying mosaic of black, red, and orange, with a few sickening spots of green. A smile spread across my face, though with one of my cheeks burned off entirely, I wasn’t sure how much of a smile it actually looked like.

I guess I really was some kind of horror character now, the kind those emo fucks always talked about.

If I had my phone, I knew exactly what song I would put on to match the mood. “Victorious” by Panic! At The Disco. I had to settle for playing it in my head from memory. I started to move my legs, shaking my hips, and let out a twirl.

(The Song I Suggest Giving It A Listen)

https://youtu.be/E7wUPGQYRso?si=HOlABWfgs_SiI3Fw

“Tonight we are victorious!” I shouted at the top of my lungs.

“What the fuck is that smell, Chad?!” Leroy shouted through the door, breaking my concentration.

“I got the chair! Or I guess balls of white light gave me the chair!” I shouted back, doing another spin on my charred heel.

I could hear him calling for backup on his radio, his keys jingling.

“Fuck, Chad, it’s my anniversary and I’m at work dealing with this shit!” he yelled. Over his voice, I could hear the heavy boots of other guards approaching.

“Fifty words for murder, and I am every one of them!” I laughed.

The heavy door swung open, letting the remaining smoke escape into the hall with a whoosh. The guards immediately covered their mouths against the stench. Leroy and two others were gripping their billy clubs tight.

The looks on their faces were priceless. Eyes wide, hands shaking. The guard behind Leroy actually dropped his club. They looked like they had just seen a demon or some shit. I mean, they weren’t wrong. Somehow, I was breathing, but I felt faster and stronger after being burned alive.

“My touch is black and poisonous,” I chuckled.

Before their very eyes, the exposed bones of my ring and pinky fingers extended, sharpening into razor-like points. The guards made no sound, their mouths hanging open in pure shock.

“Sorry, Leroy,” I said, tilting my head. “I really didn’t want to kill you, but I just hate those emo kids so much more, and Sara... well, you’ve heard all about her.”

In a split second, I lunged forward, driving my sharpened bone-fingers straight into Leroy’s neck. The other guards snapped out of their stupor, raining blows down on me with their clubs. I just started to laugh. I didn’t feel a thing. Not only did I have cat-like reflexes now, but I was fucking Jason Voorhees, and I didn’t feel any pain.

I left my fingers lodged in his neck for a second, digging as deep as I could. Only two trickles of blood leaked out around the bone. But the second I yanked them free, two streams erupted with the power of a high-pressure hose. Blood sprayed against the white padding of my cell. There was no way they were getting those stains out.

When I let go, Leroy fell face-first into the floor with a sickening crunch. His jaw shifted violently to the left, totally dislocated from the impact.

The two holes in his neck continued to pulse thick jets of blood as I spun around like a tornado, reaching out to grab the billy club mid-swing from one of the other guards. I squeezed the solid wood in my ruined hand, instantly realizing that if I wanted to, I could crush it into a thousand splinters.

“I would say run, but what would be the point? I’d catch you anyway, sorry, guys,” I muttered.

I gripped the bat and swung it down in a brutal, high arc. It smashed across the white guard’s face. His jaw ripped right off and went flying down the hall like a frisbee, his bloody teeth scattering across the floor like loose change. I grabbed him by his blond hair before he could collapse, bringing his jawless face up to mine. Watching his tongue wiggle around in the open cavity was amusing; I thought about how I should have done something like that before. I could feel his hair starting to rip out of his scalp under my grip, so I let go. Gravity did its job, and the jawless guard slumped forward, his ruined face landing right against Leroy’s ass, looking like he was digging in for a meal.

The other guard, who looked Korean, though he could have been any Asian, they all look the same to me, just stood there frozen in shock. I dragged my sharpened bone-fingers gently across his cheek, leaving two small, precise cuts.

“Unfortunately, you’re probably going to get it the worst,” I whispered.

The guard started to cry. “Please. I have a family.”

I pressed my pinky-bone against his lips and made a quiet shhhh sound.

“The thing is, you will be remembered for a long time. Yeah, sure, your kids will be upset, but look on the bright side, everyone will know who their dad is.”

Before he could answer, I curled my bone-fingers into a fist. Slowly, I shoved it into his mouth, listening to his teeth dragging and scraping across my charred knuckles. I felt his teeth snapping out of his gums as I continued to force my fist down deeper. His neck bulged outward, looking like he was deep-throating the largest burnt dick in existence. Within seconds, I was elbow-deep down his throat, my fingers wiggling around inside, touching his internal organs.

His body started to shake violently, which, from my past experience, was the universal sign that someone was about to die.

Electrical charges began to fire off from my shoulder, sparking their way down my arm. Soon enough, I could see a faint blue electrical discharge illuminating through his brown uniform. Smoke started to billow out of his ears, and his black hair caught on fire.

I quickly realized I could control the intensity of the current just by tightening my muscles. I let out a hard grunt, like I was pulling a heavy deadlift. My entire arm burned a brilliant blue, as bright as the sun on a hot summer day. His shirt incinerated, and I watched his skin bubble like foam on a boiling pot of meat. I grunted again, sending an even higher voltage of electricity surging down my arm. His stomach began to distend rapidly as the gases inside him expanded. It reminded me of a plastic garbage bag filled with rotten food, ready to burst from the pressure.

As the latest electrical charge hit his core, his stomach exploded.

His bladder, intestines, kidneys, and whatever else was inside him sprayed all over me. Loops of his large and small intestines hung over my shoulder, while the rest splattered into a wet puddle at my feet. I pulled my arm out, watching his boiling hot blood and internal fluids coat me all the way up to my elbow. His ruined body dropped to my feet, landing squarely on what was left of his bladder. I guess, in a way, he ended up face-first in his own piss.

I reached down into the thick pool of blood to grab the keys Leroy had dropped. Reaching into Leroy’s pocket, I pulled out his phone. I flipped his heavy body over, the two holes in his neck were still lazily pumping blood, and held the phone in front of his dead face to unlock it with FaceID. I immediately opened his Spotify account and queued up the song I had been thinking about this entire time.

”Victorious” by Panic! At The Disco started blasting.

I looked around my padded cell. It was completely covered in streaks of blood, scorch marks, and chunks of flesh. It looked like a modern art masterpiece.

I guess I really was a slasher character now, complete with the ability to make people explode with electricity. I’d have to figure out exactly how all this worked later, but I already knew the learning curve was going to be a lot of fun.

I stripped off Leroy’s blood-soaked brown uniform and pulled it on over my charred body. It was way too baggy, but it would have to do. With a quick snap of the belt clip, I was out the door.

On my way out of the prison, I had to kill a few more guards, learning along the way that I could take gunshots with ease. Yeah, the impacts knocked me back a bit, and I probably wouldn’t want to take on a couple of fully automatic weapons all at once, but my body quickly expelled the lead, simply pushing the bullets right back out of my burnt muscle tissue. With a couple more ripped-off heads, a few stomachs torn open, and some casual neck stabbings with my trusty bone-fingers, I simply walked out of the prison.

With the sounds of sirens wailing and the other inmates yelling and cheering behind me, I stood out front for a moment. The moonlight shone directly above me, catching the electrical discharge sparking across my skin. Blood dripped heavily from every inch of my body, and I started to laugh.

“Sara, I am going inside you, and you’re going to explode. Jesse, I am going to make you watch before I poke out your eyes. Oh, and Brodie... I am going to make you watch while I rip Lisa’s tits off and pull her intestines out through her white-trash pussy.”

I started to walk, listening to the wet, squishy sounds of my blood-logged shoes on the pavement. I hummed along to “Victorious” as it played on repeat from Leroy’s phone, looking forward to killing emo and all of its groupies.

Thanks for reading this latest part of what I am now tentatively calling Emo Horror Saga ( I know lame but it's only temporary). Now that Chad is out on the hunt for Lisa, Sara, Jesse and Brodie what do you think will happen next!

Previous Instalments

Part one

Part 2

Part 3

Audio Version with Intro and Outro Music

Part 4: Brodie

“What a beautiful wedding

What a beautiful wedding”, says a bridesmaid to a waiter

“And, yes, but what a shame

What a shame the poor groom’s bride is a whore”

I chime in with a

“Haven’t you people ever heard of closing the goddamn door?”

No, it’s much better to face these kinds of things

With a sense of poise and rationality

Panic At The Disco

I Write Sins Not Tragedies

I was at work stocking shelves, singing along to some Panic! At The Disco. I worked the night shift, which ran from four in the afternoon to whenever the job was done. Sometimes that meant eleven, sometimes twelve, and during the Christmas season, it was even later. I had just finished high school, and this was my first real job, if you could even call it that. The place was a joke, run by an owner who was just as cheap as he was an asshole.

The people who worked here ranged from nineteen-year-olds like me, to divorced dads, single moms with lower-back tattoos, and straight-up weirdos. I didn’t plan on being here long, but I wasn’t doing much to stop that from happening, either. Truthfully, I was in a rut. And I know exactly what you’re doing right now. You’re rolling your eyes at a nineteen-year-old saying he’s in a rut. I just didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, and apparently, I was supposed to have all this figured out when I was fifteen in career studies class.

My dad was a plumber, but I didn’t want to do that crap. Plus, I wasn’t built for that type of work. I weighed a hundred and twenty pounds after a large meal. My dad, on the other hand, was built like a lumberjack, with forearms larger than most kids’ biceps. My mom was a stay-at-home mom, so I obviously couldn’t follow her career choice. Truthfully, I wanted to make music for a living, but as my dad put it, “I had to man up and stop being a pussy.”

If I had to pick, Fall Out Boy was probably my favorite band. I knew all the lyrics by heart, and I dressed the part, too. I dyed my hair pitch-black and kept it long enough that it completely covered my right eye. It caused my dad a fair amount of grief that his only son would dye his hair. My jeans were always super-tight, with a heavy chain hanging by my side to hold my Velcro wallet. The only color I ever left the house in was black, complete with matching eyeliner. Today, I was wearing a My Chemical Romance shirt that had definitely seen better days. The album logo was fading, and there was a massive hole in the left armpit.

Honestly, my dad wasn’t that bad. He didn’t hit me or yell at me all the time. He just didn’t understand me, which, if I’m being honest, isn’t that surprising. My dad was a man’s man. He’d grown up in that environment. And here I was, his son who didn’t care about sports, lifting heavy things, cars, or masculinity in general. I painted my nails and would occasionally put on black lipstick. I know that’s not how most fathers expect their sons to turn out.

I knew he loved me. He’d occasionally try to listen to the music I liked. I knew he didn’t care for it, but it was nice to see him try. If I had to guess, his greatest fear was that I was gay. It used to bother me when I was younger, that unspoken landmine in our house. There had been a few occasions when my mom sat me down and had “the talk.”

The talk was always the same. She’d look at my eyeliner and painted nails and, in a roundabout way, ask if I liked cock. It wasn’t coming from a place of anger. I think she just wanted me to be happy and be myself. It always ended with me telling her I wasn’t gay and her assuring me I could tell her anything.

I wasn’t gay at all. I just liked the whole emo look, and I loved the music. Would I grow out of it? I didn’t know, but I didn’t see it happening anytime soon. The thing about being one of two emo weirdos in this shithole town is that you’re not exactly attracting a lot of girls. I had crushes growing up. I’d even asked a girl out two years ago, and that went about as well as you’d expect. Fucking bitch actually said yes, but you know what she did? She left me waiting at the park we were supposed to meet at. I stood there in the rain with a dozen red roses that fell apart in my hands. I’d even put on a bowtie for that girl. The next couple of weeks at school were rough, people snickering behind my back.

“I wonder what Lisa is doing…”

Over the last couple of years that thought would unexpectedly intrude. Maybe “intrude” wasn’t the right word, because I liked it when my thoughts randomly turned to her. Truthfully, I’d been in love with Lisa from the moment I saw her at school. It was grade nine, and it happened as quickly as the thoughts of her entered my stream of consciousness. She was wearing a Bullet for My Valentine T-shirt from the Scream Aim Fire album.

That was their best album by far, and somehow it looked better when it hugged the curves of her chest. Her hair was pitch black with streaks of bright red. That made her stand out. Every other girl seemed to dye their hair that dark shade of red; here was Lisa rocking bright red against her natural pitch-black hair. She had dark eyeliner on just like me, and it looked better than mine. Her eyes were a blue-gray I’d only ever seen on one other person…

Megan Fox.

Her lipstick was two different colors that day here top lip black, and the bottom a dark red. She was wearing a tight black mini skirt with fishnet leggings, ripped at the knees and upper thighs. Her skin was pale like fresh, untouched snow, the kind that would sparkle under sunlight before immediately burning. Her teeth were perfectly white and straight. She had a resting bitch face, but I loved that about her. Everyone else just smiled for no reason. Lisa, on the other hand, wasn’t looking to please anyone.

Oh my God, her curves, though. She was so fucking hot. She had these perfect tits that didn’t sag at all and a round ass that all her pants and skirts seemed to struggle to hold onto. Because of her curves and her short height, she looked like a thicker girl, and that’s what I liked. She had the attitude, the style, and the curves that made my motor run. Honestly, the first time I saw her that day I got a hard-on and had to put a book in front of me.

Yet that was all that ever happened. I would look at her from a distance and never have the balls to actually talk to her. The other kids were never nice to her, at school or outside of it. Lisa was considered, for lack of a better word, white trash. Everyone knew what a town slut, drunk, and drug addict her mom was. The fact that she didn’t know who her dad was didn’t help either. The kids would pick on her, which only made her go deeper into her shell. You’d think then, why didn’t I try to make a move? To show her not everyone was an asshole?

I wish I had a better answer than that I was a pussy, like my dad said. I couldn’t even get close to her before my chest would tighten and the feeling of lava entered my stomach. Why would the most beautiful girl in the world, with a face like Megan Fox’s, want anything to do with a guy like me?

As pathetic as it sounds, one of the reasons I got a job here was because I knew she worked here. I thought if we weren’t in school, it would be easier to talk to her. We did exchange a few words here and there, which was more than what happened in school, but it was pretty much just the same. Just me, watching her stock shelves from a distance, trying not to get caught looking at her ass. Whenever she actually did speak to me face-to-face, all I could do was look away. In my attempts to cover up the fact that I’d stare too long into her gray-blue eyes, I made things even more awkward.

In some ways, my dad was right: I was a pussy. Here was a girl I was totally in love with, she was into all the same stuff as me, and I couldn’t even work up the courage to talk to her. No, I would just steal glances of her at work, burn them into my memory, and take care of myself later that night. That was my life, stocking instant coffee on a shelf while I dreamed about a life with a girl I wouldn’t even talk to.

Honestly, though, I did wonder what she was doing on her day off. Did she dream about wearing a black wedding dress? Or decorating with roses that were already dying? Would the black wedding dress be cut way too high? Was she just listening to music right now? Did she feel the same way I did, but was too nervous to say anything because everyone had always been so mean to her?

It was possible that we could get together. Look at my buddy Jesse; he was dating Sara right now, and his obsession with her was even deeper than mine was for Lisa. He used to follow her around and shit. I never did that. What I did instead was sit in my room by myself and think about our life together. Taking her to badass concerts, kissing under the moonlight, and, yes, of course, the crazy sex we would have. If I’m being honest, it was all I ever thought about. Sure, I’d think about other stuff, but if there was an app that measured your internal thought usage, it would probably be seventy-five percent Lisa.

Ironically, it took a serial killer to get Sara and Jesse together in a roundabout way. That was fucking nuts when it turned out that Chad was a serial killer. The dude had killed a bunch of girls, and there were probably more they would never find because, as of right now, he wasn’t speaking to anyone. I felt bad for Ashley and her family. Yeah, I wasn’t her biggest fan, she was pretty mean to me, and her voice, don’t even get me started, but she didn’t deserve what happened to her. Chad had cut her up with a fucking chainsaw and scattered her body parts. The cops never found her head; all they had to identify her with was a hand. Chad wasn’t saying where the rest of her was. There were at least six confirmed kills, but from what I heard through the rumor mill, the cops suspected more.

Jesse was lucky that Sara didn’t turn up like those other girls. Even though she wasn’t my type at all, the thought of someone cutting the head off such a beautiful girl made my stomach flip. Sara and Jesse would always bother me to ask Lisa out, saying we were literally perfect for one another. Jesse understood what I was going through better than anyone, because, as he put it, if Sara hadn’t been the one to ask him out, he never would have done it.

Then I heard the front doors open with their signature squeaky noise because the owner was too cheap to fix them. If the automatic sliding doors weren’t working, they were squeaking. I already knew it was Lisa coming in because of the scent of her vanilla perfume. She was the only girl in town who understood that perfume should be a subtle smell, not an overpowering one.

I didn’t know why she was coming in today because this was her day off. I turned my head to look at her, and holy fuck, she had a presence about her, way more than she usually did. It’s not like she was wearing anything different. She had an Anthrax shirt on that went well past her hips. It looked like she wasn’t wearing shorts or a skirt underneath. Her hair was a mess and looked like she had just rolled out of bed. The only thing that looked different about her, and it wasn’t a small thing, was her smile. She was smiling from ear to ear, with her pearly white teeth on full display. Her hips moved with a swagger. A part of me wished I was walking behind her right now. Each one of her steps caused her beautiful tits to jiggle slightly, and it was clear as day she wasn’t wearing a bra. Lisa would do that sometimes, but not very often, and seeing her headlights poking through, I certainly wasn’t complaining. As much as I loved her resting bitch face, seeing her smiling and walking with such confidence was nice, and I could definitely see myself getting used to it.

The closer she got, I realized exactly what direction she was walking in. Her eyes locked with mine, and she walked with determination right toward me. My eyes scanned up and down her body, from her beautiful gray-blue eyes, to her chest, and down to the authoritative sway of her hips.

Why was she coming right up to me? She had never done this before; she usually avoided me as much as I avoided her. I wasn’t ready for this. I hadn’t put on enough deodorant, I’d just had a coffee so my breath stunk, and my eyeliner was a mess. Leave it to the universe to pick this exact day for the most beautiful girl in the world to finally come talk to me. I frantically reached into my pocket, grabbed a piece of gum, and chewed quickly, swishing the minty taste around in my mouth.

She walked right up to me while I was still down on one knee, my hand frozen on a jar of instant coffee. I looked up at her standing over me. I could see up her shirt a bit, but it was too dark to confirm if she actually had anything on underneath.

“Hey, Brodie,” she said, her voice sounding like it belonged in an emo love ballad.

My eyes immediately darted away from her, just like they always did. At this point, it was involuntary, like how your body shivers in cold water. She dropped down to one knee right next to me.

“You know it’s okay to look at me when I’m looking at you, right, Brodie?” Her voice was soft and low.

I continued to stare at the red packaging of the instant coffee.

“What are you doing here today? It’s your day off,” I muttered.

“I wanted to talk to you, dummy. Notice how I walked right toward you?” she laughed.

My brain short-circuited, because what the fuck was actually going on right now? In all the years I’d known Lisa, she had never once just come up and started talking to me. Now she just walks in smiling, something she never did, on her day off, wanting to talk to me? This didn’t make any sense.

“About what?”

“Well, you could stop staring at that jar of coffee and look at me first.”

I turned my head, moving so slowly I felt like my neck needed a few shots of WD-40. She looked at me, her smile just as bright as when she came in. Her gray-blue eyes were hypnotic as she brushed a strand of her charcoal-black hair behind her ear.

“Okay, now that’s better. I wanted to ask you what you were doing after work?”

My lips quivered, but no sound left my mouth.

“Well, it’s not doing me… well, not yet. Let’s just hang out and smoke some cigarettes, have a joint or something,” she said, playfully putting her hand on my leg.

I looked down at her black-painted nails and then back up to her.

“Ummm… sure, we can do that.” The words leaving my mouth didn’t even sound like they were coming from me. *Did she just ask me to hang out with her and make a sex joke? Like, honestly, what the fuck is going on? *

“Great, give me your phone.”

I handed her my phone, and she started to type her number into my contact list. When I looked at what she put herself in as, I laughed.

Lisa Freddy Krueger

“Just text me when you’re almost done, and I will come back here to pick you up. Sounds good, Brodie?”

I could get used to hearing her say my name, that’s for sure. The second it left her lips, I could feel myself getting excited. So many times I had imagined her moaning my name in my ear. If she actually did that in real life, I would explode from the inside out.

“Yeah, sure, Lisa. That sounds good.”

She leaned over and gave me a hug, the smell of her perfume and hair making me feel completely intoxicated. Her tits pressed against my chest, and I could tell that she made sure I felt them. My arms stayed ramrod straight by my sides while hers wrapped around my neck.

“It’s going to be fun tonight. It’s so dumb we haven’t hung out before…” she whispered in my ear, her hot breath trailing down my neck.

“It should be fun,” I muttered as she stood up.

“Hopefully, it’s as fun as the dream I had yesterday,” she said, giving me a wink before she started to walk away.

I stared at her butt as it swung and jiggled back and forth down the aisle. Right before she left the store, she looked over her shoulder and mouthed, with a dark, sexy look in her eyes:

I caught you.

Explicit violence and sexual content

Audio Version With Intro and Outro

Oh, hi. My name is Lisa, and I’m nineteen. I work at a big-box store stocking shelves. I’m not very normal, but we can get into that later.

I’m sitting on the white living-room couch watching a DVD of Megan Is Missing. Don’t watch that movie if you’re a halfway decent person. It’s not particularly well made, but it does what it sets out to do. My mom is passed out at the other end of the couch. She was an alcoholic, not a particularly bad one, but on Fridays and Saturdays she would drink herself into a stupor. She didn’t like me watching horror films because, as she pointed out, “that’s where all my bad thoughts come from.” Yeah, right. It’s the fact that I like horror that’s why I have crazy fantasies, not the fact that she was a functional drunk and a slut who brought in a string of different guys when I was young. She doesn’t do that as much anymore, but that’s mainly because her looks have started to fade. She was forty-five, and the years of drinking, drugs, and a terrible diet had taken their toll. She looked like every dick-drunk chick does at that age. Once in a while she would secure a guy named Buck, or guys with nicknames like Fridge or Jack Daniels. You can fill in the image of what those guys looked and smelled like. Despite me being nineteen, that didn’t stop their eyes from lingering. I wonder sometimes if they thought about me when my mom was bent over taking Buck’s large log, or whatever those types of guys called their dicks. I didn’t know who my dad was, but judging by the men my mom brought around, he probably would have ended up touching me anyway.

Despite my experience with the men my mom brought home, I didn’t hate them. My mom was shit, so she attracted flies. It was as simple as that. Most of the time I tried to spend as little time in this apartment as I could. The landlord should probably be in prison for renting this place out, but I guess you get what you pay for. The foundation was cracked, so when it rained heavily the walls would leak. The entire place was infected with black mold and had probably already taken a few years off my life. I say our couch is white, but that’s being generous. Between my mom’s spilled liquor, the food stuck to it, and the various other bodily fluids, it was more of an off-white. The coffee table in front was wood with a glass top. My mom didn’t do coke all that much anymore, but growing up I remember there always being leftover coke on the table. I never touched the stuff because I associated it with her and the men she brought around. My room was about the size of a large walk-in closet, with posters of heavy-metal bands and horror films covering every inch. My mom didn’t like that I listened to heavy metal either, saying crap about demons or the devil.

It’s really fascinating how people can just seem to ignore reality. She truly believed that heavy metal music was bad for me, and not, you know, the way she acted. Like if I listened to god-awful country music the way she did, would I be better? That’s the thing that bothered me about her. Before she started dick-riding guys named Buck, she didn’t listen to country music. When she was banging higher-quality guys, she listened to whatever they listened to. My mom was completely defined by outside factors and didn’t have a single authentic aspect about her. I wasn’t some kind of special flower. I know record companies sell heavy metal, and I bought it. The difference is I would never change what I listened to or who I was at my core for some dick.

By this time you’re probably sick of hearing about my mother, but it’s not going to stop. This dumb bitch worked at a grocery store stocking shelves. They didn’t trust her to count the change at the checkout lane, was my guess. She would come home complaining about how stressed she was and needing a drink, which would lead to her yelling at me. Now don’t get me wrong, stocking shelves all day is tiring on your feet and back, but stress? Doing brain surgery is stressful. Driving a transport truck where you could kill someone in an instant is stressful. Putting Gatorade in the right spot on the shelf isn’t stressful. I did the same fucking shit at my job, and most of the time I was bored out of my skull. While working I listened to extreme horror books and thought about all the different ways I could kill the annoying customers.

Boredom and I don’t go well together… that’s when the fantasies come. I personally didn’t see the issue with my fantasies, because that’s all they were. Other people thought it was a massive issue, and it’s given me a complex ever since. In grade six one of the kids at school stole my diary, read some of it, and immediately took it to the principal. I was taken to the office and asked to explain myself.

“Do you remember writing this?” the principal asked.

I refused to answer, looking at my shoes and digging into the fabric of the armrests until I thought I was going to rip them open.

“Well, Lisa, you said you wanted to kill your neighbor, but not just kill them. You said you wanted to kill them, chop them up, and bake them into a meat pie. Then you would come back to the house with the meat pie as a gift to his wife. You guys would sit and eat the pie together, talking about the weather as you encouraged her to eat more because her ass was getting a bit flat.”

Still I stared at my shoes as the anger built up in me. I remember wanting to rip the arm off the wooden chair and stab her in the throat.

“Okay, do you remember writing this a few days later?”

My teeth started to grind, and this is where I can pinpoint the start of that nervous tic. Anytime I was in an uncomfortable situation I would involuntarily start grinding my teeth. The dentists said that eventually I would start cracking them if I didn’t stop. I would joke with them that it would make them sharper and make eating raw steak easier.

“Well, you wrote about how you wanted to enter people’s dreams like Freddy Krueger… and torture them. How your teeth in this dream world would be replaced with razor wire so when you ate people you could get down to the bone easily… I won’t even go into the details of what you describe doing to that poor girl.”

After that day I was forced to talk to a therapist, and they tried to push all kinds of drugs on me. I will give my mother this: she was one of those weird people who would do everything you’re not supposed to do regarding health, but she didn’t trust doctor-prescribed drugs. She only trusted the drugs she got off guys like Henry, who lived in a trailer with an altar to Baphomet in the kitchen. The therapy sessions didn’t do fuck all, and I kept writing in my diary all the crazy thoughts that came into my head.

I didn’t like going to school after that incident because the label of psychopath followed me around. Kids would pick on me, write shit on my locker, leave dead animals at my front door. I always found that very funny, because if they really believed I was a sociopath, did they really think it was a good idea to poke the bear? I enjoyed my solitude with my thoughts. In my daydreams I could make any world I wanted, and who knows, maybe I could actually start publishing this crazy shit on Substack.

Lisa, Substack-famous. I liked the ring of that.

Even now I thought about how easy it would be to kill my mom. I had crushed up some melatonin pills and slipped them into her drink when she went to the bathroom. She was passed out in a red bathrobe that was, of course, open. Her saggy tits hung out, her gross nipples hard as ice because our apartment was freezing. Her mouth was open, exposing her yellowish, nicotine-stained teeth, and she was drooling on the filthy couch. I could easily go to the kitchen and grab the large kitchen knife with the red plastic handle. That thing was sharp as hell, because, as you probably guessed, my mom didn’t cook, so we never used it. There were a couple different ways I could do it. Creep close to her and spend a couple minutes “snuggling” before I gently slid the blade across her throat. I could do it fast and just stab her between the ribs; she wouldn’t wake up before it was too late. Maybe I could grab my Bluetooth speaker from my room and blast Mayhem right beside her ear. When she woke up I could quickly jump out from behind the couch and stab her in the neck or heart. There were tons of ways I could do it, and if I were to actually follow through with it, you know what? I would probably be doing the world a favor.

As soon as I stopped thinking about ways to kill my mother, a strange noise started to come from my room. It was the grinding of claws against metal, followed by a click. I ignored it a few times, but after the fourth time I couldn’t chalk it up to the apartment making noise. I pulled the blanket off me and chucked it over my mom so I didn’t have to look at her fucking tits anymore.

Grinding, followed by another click.

I was wearing an extra-long Slayer shirt with no shorts or underwear underneath. Now, see, if I was a normal person, this would be the moment where I woke my mom up and ran with her out of the house. Me, on the other hand, found the clawing, grinding, clicking sound interesting. This was something different in an otherwise predictable week. Looking toward my room, a bright red light was escaping from under the doorway. Every couple of seconds the sound repeated.

Grinding, followed by a click.

The click was hard to identify, but if I had to guess, maybe it was a gun.

I started to walk toward my room as the red light beamed out more intensely. The grinding and clicking became faster now, less than a second between each repetition. My mom always said if I kept playing heavy metal and horror films in the house I would invite the devil in. Maybe she was right. How fucking awesome would that be if that was what was happening.

The devil in my fucking room!

Was he going through my underwear drawer? Did he find my little toy? I wondered if he had been watching me in my room the entire time. Watching as I got myself off. Did he notice how my toes curled, or how I would bite my pillow, or how I liked to drag my fingernails across my thighs?

More grinding, followed by a click that at this point I was convinced was a gun.

The red light pulsed now, emitting its neon glow from all sides of the door. A smell wafted toward me that was a mix of sex, cooked meat, and gasoline. It hit the back of my throat, causing it to dry out, but all I could think was how I wanted this smell as perfume.

More grinding, followed by another click.

The room started to get cold, causing my already hard nipples to get harder. I quietly wished that it would get so cold it would kill my mom. Maybe she would freeze bone-deep and I could shatter her body parts like icicles on the ground. Little pieces of her icy flesh littering the apartment floor sent a smile across my face. I was standing in front of the door now, the red neon light covering me. I took a huge inhale of the sex-meat-gasoline smell and turned around, placing my back against the door. It was ice cold, the type of cold that made your skin numb instantly, but I didn’t care. My hand went down between my legs, slightly raising my shirt. The cold in the apartment was making my fingers numb, but it didn’t bother me. The smell, the lights, the grinding and clicking were an aphrodisiac like I had never felt before. My trembling fingers touched the outside of myself, which caused me to jump. The shock of the cold passed quickly, and I started to open myself up gently, using my middle finger to rub. The red light flashed behind me as my breath froze in the air. My nipples were as hard as the ice forming in my nostrils. The only thing keeping warm was my pussy and lower stomach as I started to rub faster.

“Please be the devil… I want you so bad…” I moaned. My legs clenched against my hand when I said it.

“I am here to serve you.”

I placed two fingers inside myself now, moving them in and out while taking big inhales of that intoxicating smell. My knees started to go weak, and I slid down the door slightly, knowing I was about to orgasm. Seriously, if the devil stood right in front of me right now, I would have done whatever he told me to do. Eat my own arm off, no problem. Rip out one of my own eyeballs, sure. Bite one of my own nipples off, child’s play. Using my thumb to rub my clit as I moved my fingers in and out, I rubbed my nipples through my Slayer shirt with my other hand. Just a few more seconds and I would be in a greater heaven than I was in now.

Then I felt the door handle turn because my elbow was sitting on it. For a split second I thought about finishing myself off because I was so close, but that quickly went away. What I hoped was the devil was summoning me. I turned around, pulling my shirt down a bit and adjusting my hair. Why I did this, who knows, because why would the devil give a shit. Placing a hand on the ice-cold wood that felt brittle now under my fingers, I slowly pushed the door open. It always groaned, but now in the icebox temperatures it groaned louder. My nerves were rattled from the cold and the fact that I had the equivalent of female blue balls. Why did they have to open the door right when I was about to finish, for fuck’s sake? I couldn’t think straight in this kind of state. I could feel the wetness that dripped down my legs starting to freeze. The red light was blinding as the door opened a quarter of the way. The smell increased, but the grinding and clicking stopped. Then I saw him standing at the end of my bed.

The room was bathed in that oppressive red neon light, but I could tell he was wearing a blue three-piece suit with a white shirt and red tie. The grinding was coming from him dragging his long, black, sharp fingernails across the metal frame of my bed. My suspicion was confirmed that the clicking was coming from a gun. He had a platinum-plated Desert Eagle in his other hand, held next to his temple. He must have been pulling the trigger the entire time. His face was covered in deep scars, some of which were the thickness of pencils. His hair was black, greasy, pulled back, and shoulder-length. He looked at me and smiled, exposing what looked like shark teeth with multiple rows. Blood dripped down his cut-up and cracked thin lips. His eyes reminded me of a black hole. He silently scanned up and down my body, lingering on my chest for half a second. All the boys that looked at me did that. Can’t say I blame them, that was one thing my mother gave me: a nice set of tits. They were C-cups and sat nice and high on my chest. Hopefully they would age better than hers. He moved the gun from his head and handed it toward me. I looked at his long, sharp black fingernails lightly gripping the handle of the Desert Eagle. I thought about how I wanted fingernails like that because it would make ripping people apart so much easier. How many people had this ancient demon killed in his life? I reached out and grabbed the gun by the barrel, and if my hands weren’t so numb from the cold I probably wouldn’t have been able to hold it. His grip released, those long sharp nails gliding across the handle. I didn’t notice it at first, but along the handle were upside-down crosses along with mini pentagrams. Gripping the gun firmly, I looked back up at him, and two little black horns started to protrude from his forehead. Was he actually the devil or just some kind of demon? Did it really matter?

I raised the gun to my head and pressed the muzzle hard against my temple. He wasn’t giving me instructions, so I just guessed he wanted me to do the same thing he was doing. A slight smile spread across his face, and he licked his lips with a tongue just as mangled as his face. Slowly he shook his head no.

What did he want me to do with it?

With his scarred-up hand he extended his finger slowly and pointed to my bed. It was how I had always left it, covered in a mix of dirty and clean clothes with ash from my cigarettes. I wanted to say, *Your wish is my command, Dark Lord*, but no words would leave my mouth. I moved slowly, feeling like ice was cracking between my joints. The gun hung by my side, touching my exposed leg. Did he want to fuck me? Is that why he was directing me toward the bed? If that was the case I wouldn’t have stopped him. He could ravage me any which way he wanted. Tear me up with those claws, please do. Rip me up and eat me, double please. Put his demon seed inside me, just tell me what I needed to do.

I laid down on the bed, my black blanket and clothes stiff from the cold, and heard them crunch underneath me. My legs were squeezed tight, knees knocking against each other as I shivered. My head lifted slightly. I looked at him, and he turned to look at me on the bed. With both hands he made a spreading motion and pointed to my legs.

So even demons weren’t above wanting to see the goods. I gladly obliged, spreading my legs open and exposing myself fully. Despite the deathly cold, showing myself to him started to at least warm that one spot up. He pointed to the gun in my hand and scanned his finger down between my legs.

Did he want to watch me fuck myself with the gun? I didn’t care that he did, and as I lowered it I started to get incredibly turned on. I had never let anyone watch me get myself off, let alone with a gun and the devil watching at the same time. I hiked up my shirt over my ass and slid the barrel up and down my inner thigh. I looked into his black eyes and gave him a smile. If I had been able to speak I would have said:

“Want to watch me play with myself, Satan? Want to watch me cum all over this big gun of yours?”

I touched the tip of the gun to my privates and felt a jolt of shock from its coldness. It immediately passed as I started to rub myself, making sure to keep eye contact with my scarred-up pervert. It didn’t take long to warm myself, considering I had been interrupted a few minutes ago right on the verge of releasing my own little death. With the muzzle I rubbed my little ball of nerves, biting my bottom lip. After a few seconds of that I couldn’t take it anymore and slid the gun inside me, feeling myself open up. The coldness of the barrel made my skin crawl in the best way possible. At first I moved the gun back and forth slowly, going deeper each time. Looking at him, he started making a pull-the-trigger motion. I pressed the barrel in deeper until I was at the handle. Without any hesitation I pressed the trigger.

Click.

The sound caused my pussy to clench, squeezing the barrel tightly. My mouth opened wide, and if I could have made any sound I would have been moaning like I never had before. I looked at him and he smiled, making another trigger-pull motion with his finger.

Click.

I bit my bottom lip hard enough to crack the skin. The taste of copper filled my mouth as my legs opened and closed rapidly. If he had been inside me my legs would have been wrapped around him tighter than a vise. There would have been absolutely no way he could get out of me. I pulled the trigger again, feeling my entire body tighten. Any moment now and I would be climaxing as my pervert demon watched on. My finger on the trigger started to shake, not because of nervousness, but because of the pleasure running through my body. I pulled slowly, wanting to savor every moment before I finished. Cold sweat ran down my forehead as my lungs filled with that beautiful smell of meat and gasoline. My finger pulled the trigger.

Bang.

The gun went off.

I woke up in my bed with my hand on my private parts and the sound of my mom banging on my door, screaming.

“Can you keep it down in there, for fuck’s sake!”

A smile spread across my face, knowing that whatever had happened last night, things had changed for the better.

Thanks for reading this twisted introduction to my new horror serial. As of right now I don't know how long this will go on for but I know I will have fun making it and you will have fun reading it! This is going to be a good old fashioned splatterpunk story so buckle up people!

Audio Version with Intro and Outro Music

Disclaimer: I am not an astrophysicist all I have done is personal research but I am far from any kind of authority. I think it's fairly clear in my short story where the hard science is and where I take artistic liberties. I didn't want to hold anyone's hand because I know you guys are all smart cookies.

Often, I find myself looking up at the night sky and wondering about life. I am not special in that regard, but I feel like I do it more than most. Every Friday and Saturday night, I walk up to the top of this hill in town and just stare.

Most of the time, I don't exactly know what I'm looking at. Sure, I know a few constellations, and sometimes I’ll read an article about how Mars or the other planets will be visible. Growing up, I was fascinated by space, especially when I saw shooting stars, and marvelled at how fast they would fly across the sky, never to be seen again.

I had read about the planets in our solar system, and I’d even read about exoplanets. From my research, there are over 6,300 confirmed to exist. Yet, when I sit up here on this rock after changing tires all day, I see more stars in the sky than that.

We have these fancy telescopes now where you can actually listen to gravity; we call them gravitational-wave detectors. It happens when giant cosmic events, like black holes colliding, create gravitational ripples across space. I remember when I was younger, listening to a guy on TV talking about how we should view space more like an ocean. Something clicked in my head with that image, and it has stuck with me ever since.

How many exoplanets are there, actually? God knows. Millions, billions, your guess is as good as mine. Kepler-37d is one of these exoplanets, and it's about twice the size of Earth. But you don't even have to go that far to have your mind blown away. Neptune has the fastest wind speed in our neighborhood, with winds reaching up to 1,300 miles per hour. To put that into perspective, that's ten times the speed of the fastest recorded hurricane. Then there’s WASP-17b, an exoplanet about twice the size of Jupiter. Sit and try to wrap your mind around that. You can't. I personally can't, and I don't think anyone really can either.

This is my Friday and Saturday night routine: a beer on my left side, a pack of smokes on my right. Drinking beer, smoking a dart, and thinking about just how much we don't know.

I wish I didn't think this way, but I just can't stop. Some doctor would probably tell me it’s unhealthy, but maybe not everyone is supposed to live a "healthy" life. Why do I care so much about WASP-17b when most people just care about what they're going to have for dinner? How could the universe be expanding at a faster clip than the speed of light?

Just stop and think about that for a moment. There are parts of the universe that, no matter how advanced we become as a species,nwe simply won't ever see, because they have already vanished from our horizon.

Most people would have an “Oh, that's interesting” moment and continue on with the rest of their day. Not me. When I found out about dark energy, and how it makes up roughly 68 percent of the total energy in the universe, I went into a deep depression. I called out of work, and when I did finally show up, I wasn't really present. All I wanted to do was get back up to this spot, sit on my rock, and cry. I did that for two weeks, every single day.

How could we not know what this so-called dark energy is? How could it make up the vast majority of the energy all around us, expanding the universe, and no one seemed to care? Yeah, the scientists cared, but that was about it. Most people just threw their hands up in the air and went back to thinking about how they were going to hook up with some girl.

Me, on the other hand? I just couldn't do that. The more I learned, the more it ate away at me. But that Will, that drive, whatever word you’d like to use, kept pulling harder. Every single moment, whether I am waving my hand through the empty air or taking my first morning breath, I think about how we have absolutely no idea what most of it actually is.

Then there is dark matter, which apparently makes up about 27 percent of the universe. It's undetectable because it doesn't emit, reflect, or absorb light. We only know it exists because of the gravitational pull it exerts on stars and galaxies. It's essentially the glue that keeps the whole universe together. Yet we can't observe it, measure it, or begin to truly understand it.

Just look at all the different kinds of stars we know about. There are blue stars that are astronomically hotter than our own sun. So really, the old poetry is wrong, we should be saying, "My heart burns a blue flame of desire for you."

There are white stars that burn brighter than our sun but burn out quickly. If you look up and see Sirius, you're looking at a white star.

Then you have hypergiants, which are these massive stars, and it sounds like I am repeating myself here, but it's important to stress this fact: they are so large we literally cannot wrap our minds around their immensity. They burn through their fuel quickly and end their lives in massive supernova events.

And there are neutron stars that pack the density of a massive star into a sphere about the size of a modern city. If you were to take one single teaspoon of matter from a neutron star, it would weigh about 4 billion tons on Earth. The gravity on the surface of one of these things is roughly 200 billion times stronger than Earth's.

I finished off my bottle of beer, chucking it down the hill in front of me and listening to the glass break. How many of my broken beer bottles were down there? I had lost count. Reaching into my leather jacket, I pulled out my pack of smokes and lit one up. These were the things I thought about as I looked up at the night sky. How utterly insignificant we are in the grand scheme of things. Think about all that power, all that mystery in the universe, and here we are, down in the dirt, wondering what's going to happen on the next episode of reality TV.

Letting out a cloud of smoke, I watched as it floated up toward the sky under the glow of the moon. Have you ever thought about how crazy the human eye is? Even with how far away the moon is, just by capturing light, I can stand on this hill and see its craters. How many times has the moon saved us from floating rocks in space, taking the hit for us? Once in a while, when the moon was especially full and bright, I would look up and thank it for all the life it has saved. Cracking open another beer, I listened to the hiss, squeezing the green bottle at the neck.

That's another thing people don't realize. Just how quickly this could all end.

Anyone who has passed high school knows about extinction-level events, but they just shrug and go about their day. It wasn't even that long ago we saw what a comet could do to a large planet like Jupiter. Comet Shoemaker-Levy 9 hit Jupiter in July 1994. Jupiter's gravity broke up the comet into small fragments before it hit the surface, but it still left massive black scars that were more visible than its famous Great Red Spot for months. If that had hit Earth, everything would be dead. And I mean literally everything. Maybe that's what Jupiter does in our solar system, help clean up the cosmic debris that would otherwise wipe us out.

This is all to say: how can we be fighting over this or that trivial thing on Earth, when we know for a fact that eventually, one of these rocks will hit us? When it does, whatever we were fighting over won't matter, because none of us will be alive to care.

Taking a gulp of beer and letting out a loud burp, the thing that terrified me the most entered my mind. What if, in all that great expanse, there is just silence? What if we are the only self-conscious, aware creatures out there? What happens to the universe when it doesn't have a conscious entity observing it? I have often wondered if that's our whole purpose... to be the eyes the universe uses to see itself. We started on this planet, but we weren't supposed to stay here.

How could we be? We know our sun will eventually run through its fuel, radically changing and eventually dying like all stars. Just a shift of a couple degrees, and life as we know it won't be able to survive on what we call home. So even if we get our shit together in time to deal with a comet or an asteroid, our sun is the ultimate ticking time bomb.

Would we even have the ability to understand that fact if it wasn't the universe's way of telling us, "Hey, you aren't supposed to stay here"? Why else would we have the capacity to reach these objective truths, if for no other reason than to come to the conclusion that our mission is to expand? To push out into the dark, as far as we possibly can.

Stop and think about why, out of all the creatures we are aware of, we are the only ones who can reach objective truths. Why can we master abstract concepts like advanced algebra? Or figure out *E = mc²*? Or know for an absolute certainty that our lives are finite? Why on earth did we develop brains capable of this? It doesn't make any logical sense to me, and philosophers like Thomas Nagel tend to agree.

It's just one of the many things that keeps me up at night. Yet we can't know it all; we can only hope to figure out a fraction of these truths. There seems to be some cruel joke being played on humanity since the moment we became self-aware. Why in the fuck do we know we will die? Sure, danger avoidance makes evolutionary sense, but from a very young age, we are left with a ticking clock. The agonizing knowledge that, yes, you will die, and everything you want to know, you never will.

The smartest people who have ever lived only obtained a fraction of a fraction of these objective truths. So what chance does a guy like me, drinking beer on a rock, have at figuring out anything?

The answer is: I won't.

Even if I live to a ripe old age and spend it sitting on this rock looking up at the infinite, I won't understand any more than I do now. And yet, I won't stop trying.

Why?

Why in the fuck are we like this? Why would the universe, in all its cosmic beauty, create a joke so cruel that even in our darkest imaginations, we couldn't conceive it?

Why did she have to die?

I looked up at the sky again, lost in all the visible light, focusing on everything and nothing at the same time.

"Cancer? Really? She was nineteen and she was just taken away from this world like some ant squashed on the bottom of a shoe, and you don't even give an explanation?" I muttered into my empty beer bottle.

Tears started to roll down my cheeks as I watched a shooting star streak across the night sky. That's how short her existence was in this universe. Just a brief flash that most of the world never saw, gone unnoticed. Vera was the light of my life. She was the cosmic energy that gave meaning to all this empty space, and now, she had become a black hole. I was a planet without its star, just getting colder and colder.

"Fucking brain cancer! Really?!" I shouted, standing up and chucking my beer bottle toward the stars.

Chucking that glass into the void was exactly how I felt the moment I heard her heart monitor flatline. Utterly unable to do anything. Unable to understand. And the more I tried, the colder my planet got. Where had she gone? Did all her thoughts, her feelings, her smile, did it all just go into the dirt along with her?

Behind me, I heard twigs snapping. I quickly wiped my eyes and rubbed my nose. I didn't like anyone seeing me cry, especially about her. No one gives a shit anyway; they all just wish I had moved on by now. My grief was an inconvenience to them, a walking reminder of what can happen. You can die multiple times in this life, and I died holding her hand in that hospital room.

So many times I have stood up here looking at these stars, begging the universe to just let me turn back into the stardust I used to be.

More twigs broke, the footsteps crunching closer. I looked over my shoulder, watching the brush rustle in the shadows, and then her voice cut through the darkness.

"Hey, Marc. Is that you?"

It was Jesse. A friend from high school and now a coworker at the shop. Me, her, and Vera used to hang out all the time. In fact, the three of us used to come up to this exact spot to smoke pot and look at the stars. I don't smoke pot anymore. I stopped after Vera died. For whatever reason, I just associated it too heavily with my favorite nights with her. Laying down on a blanket, holding each other in the cold as we made up names for the stars. She liked naming them after the kids we thought we would have together.

Michael. Olivia. Sophia. Theodore. Jessica.

So many names. So many dreams, ground into dust. How was I expected to hold on to all of this? No one else was going to carry these memories, and if I let them go, there wouldn't be anything left of her. The universe didn't care about Vera. And as for God? What fucking God would allow a nineteen-year-old girl, who brought nothing but happiness to His creation, to die from brain cancer?

"Yeah, Jess. It's me," I replied, turning back to the stars.

"Mind if I sit with you for a bit?"

I didn't reply. I just kept looking up into the infinite void.

I could hear her brushing away leaves, dirt, and debris before sitting down on the cold ground next to me. If it had been anyone else, I would have told them to fuck off. But for Jesse, this was a sacred place, too. Vera was her best friend. And despite Jesse's best efforts to help me over the years, we had drifted apart. The answer was always the same.

Same old, same old.

It wasn't entirely a lie. It really was the same old, same old. The same routine of waking up knowing I wouldn't hear Vera talk, hear her laugh, or feel her skin on mine. That's the cruelest joke of all. I can stand here and look at objects in space that are as old as the beginning of time itself, and yet what hurts the most is that I’ll never feel her soft lips against mine again.

"How are things going?" she asked timidly.

Looking up at another shooting star, I muttered the same response to that question that I always did:

"Same old, same old."

Cracking open another beer, I took a sip, feeling bad that I wasn't being more receptive to Jesse. She didn't deserve my coldness. She didn't give Vera cancer. She didn't make me watch the chemo that we all knew wouldn't work. She didn't kill her. She just wanted to hold my hand.

But that's the thing: when you sit and think about the questions I do, you don't want a fucking hand. You want some kind of answer as to why.

Jesse couldn't give me any of that. Back in the day, she used to laugh along with Vera when I went on a rant about the universe. Those were good memories, me talking about how difficult it is to prove human consciousness, and them either making a smart-ass comment at the end or just laughing at me. It's been five years since I had a moment like that.

Nowadays, everyone just stays away from me, and I don't blame them. Who would want to be around me? I carry a weight with me that can only be described as a black hole. The only person who tried to go anywhere near my event horizon was Jesse.

Why did she do it? Every single atom in my body was screaming for everyone to stay away, because if you got too close, you would get sucked into the crushing gravity of what I was carrying. Yet she never stopped. She never stopped asking how I was doing. She never stopped giving me a head nod, a smile, or a kind acknowledgment with her eyes, just letting me know she was trying to understand.

"I figured you would be up here," she said. I could hear her shifting, moving over to get closer. Most of the time, I would instinctively pull away, but for whatever reason, I didn't tonight. My eyes didn't leave the stars. I started to count them, even though I knew it was pointless.

"Rough day today?" she asked, her voice just a mutter.

I finally turned my head to look at her. One thing I liked about Jesse was that she never changed. She still wore the same heavy metal getup she did in high school. Skin-tight black jeans with the knees torn out. Tonight, she was wearing an In Flames shirt, which was one of Vera's favorite bands. She had a leather jacket on like mine, but the shoulders were lined with thick metal spikes that were no joke; hit those hard enough and you would absolutely feel it. Her black hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, showing off the eyebrow ring and the stud in her nose.

Jesse was, and always will be, a beautiful girl from the inside out. Her skin was pale, which made her black lipstick pop even more. Seeing her under the moonlight tonight, though, she looked different, and I couldn't exactly explain it. It was like that dark energy I was talking about earlier had suddenly become real. Like I was seeing it just by looking at her.

"Yeah, it was, It's always a rough day, it seems." I said quietly

I cracked open another beer and handed it to her, watching as her black-painted fingernails squeezed the green bottle.

"I get that. I just saw you taking moments at work more often today."

What Jesse meant by "moments" was either me staring blankly at a wall of tires, or going to the bathroom an unusual number of times just to be alone.

"It is what it is, right? Not much I can do about it."

I looked into her brown eyes as she nodded in agreement. What else could she say, really? It was an objective truth. A fact as hard and heavy as the matter on a neutron star.

Vera was dead, and she wasn't coming back.

"Do you ever think she's up there?" Jesse asked, in a voice so quiet that if we were anywhere else, I wouldn't have heard it.

She moved closer now, her shoulder pressing up against mine. I liked the feeling of her close to me, the radiant heat coming off her body in the cold night air. She had this perfume on that reminded me of the smell of kiwis.

"It's why I come up here."

A cluster of shooting stars streaked across the sky, and I felt her head come to rest on my shoulder. It had been so long since I had let anyone physically get this close to me. Whenever anyone tried to hug me, I felt like antimatter touching matter—like I was going to violently explode. Why I didn't feel that way with Jesse in this moment, I couldn't explain.

Maybe it was just the randomness of quantum particles. A sudden, inexplicable shift. Albert Einstein found that aspect of quantum mechanics difficult to accept; as he famously put it:

"God does not play dice with the universe."

Instinctively, that makes sense to us. We as humans want things to be predictable. We want them to make sense, because it proves we can understand them.

"Do you think the universe feels?" Jesse asked.

I flicked my cigarette away and turned to her, the moonlight illuminating her face.

"I don't think photons, gravity, or atoms feel, if that's what you're asking."

She took a small sip of her beer, then slowly moved her hand to mine. She placed it gently over my knuckles. Her radiant heat started to warm up a part of my body I thought would be forever cold.

Was what I was feeling right now just the randomness of quantum mechanics I had thought about moments ago?

"You ever think that we are the way the universe feels?" Jesse asked softly.

She started tracing a circle on the back of my callused hand. A circle. The shape that all planets form into because gravity pulls uniformly in every direction. As I watched her thumb trace that sacred shape, I thought about what she had just asked. Was she just being sentimental? Was she just trying to cheer me up?

Or did she actually have a point?

Our emotions are a form of energy, just like any other kind. And once they are out there, you can't bring them back. One of the scariest and most beautiful laws of physics is that information in the universe is never actually destroyed; it just changes form. She was taking a physical law and applying it to human emotion.

As much as I could say the universe doesn't feel, I could just as easily say it does, couldn't I? Was I just grasping for a lifeline? Anything to hold onto so the black hole in my chest wouldn't grow?

Then something else hit me. The most obvious truth that I had somehow forgotten in all my time staring up at the dark.

The universe wants life. That's the one constant. No matter how much is wiped out, just as much seems to be born. Jesse was gripping my hand now, and I watched the vapor from her breath float in the freezing air.

"I think you just stumbled onto something I had forgotten about," I said.

My eyes were wide, and my voice carried a frantic, higher pitch that I hadn't heard in years. I turned fully toward her, grabbing her other hand, pulling her full attention. I took a deep, trembling breath.

"All those moments with Vera, the hugs, the kisses, the laughs... they aren't gone." Tears began to roll down my cheeks. With a gentle, deliberate touch, Jesse lifted a hand and wiped them away.

"You asked if we are the way the universe feels itself," I continued, the words spilling out of me. "Earlier tonight, I was thinking that maybe the universe uses us to see itself. But why stop there? It wants to be able to feel its own creation. The love, the anger, the pain, all of it. Why wouldn't it? That was its gift to us. Consciousness isn't some cruel joke or a burden like I thought. It’s the most wonderful, complex mystery in the cosmos."

I squeezed her hands, the pieces finally snapping together in my mind.

"We want to understand the mechanics of why things work the way they do, and I'm not saying that isn't important! But it's only one part of our mission! The love Vera and I had, actually, the love we have, won't ever die. Just like information, it can't be destroyed. Even though our time was short, we burned with the intensity of a blue star!"

As quickly as the excitement of my revelation came, the crushing reality that she was gone in a real, tangible sense rushed back in.

"I loved her so much, Jesse. She was the one who kept me from spiraling."

My tears erupted like the water volcanoes on Europa. Just as cold as its icy surface, they ran down my cheeks, and instinctively, I raised a hand to wipe them away. Crying in front of anyone, even Jesse, felt like being scorched by the lethal radiation of Jupiter. But gently, she reached up and lowered my hand. And like gravity, a force so weak yet so undeniably strong, I stopped resisting it.

I cried.

I cried out all the tears I had held back for five years. I cried for the smile I would never see again, the lips I would never touch, her heat and her skin pressed against mine. I cried for the wedding we had mapped out, for the dreams we had built together that were now just dust.

Jesse wrapped her arms around me in a fierce embrace, and I buried my face into the crook of her neck. Her dark hair fell across my face, blotting out the moonlight and pulling me into a warm, safe darkness.

"I just want to hold her again. I want to tell her how much I love her. It's not fucking fair, Jesse," I muttered into her skin.

Jesse squeezed me tighter, the scent of her perfume having an immediate, anchoring effect on me.

"I miss the funny face she would make when I went on a rant. I miss the way I could always make her laugh. I miss how one touch from her would immediately put me at ease..."

As I choked out those words between my tears, I began to realize what I was actually feeling. Jesse’s silky hair, the smell of her perfume, the radiant warmth of her skin against mine. How had I lived without this feeling for so long? I had spent so much time trying to figure out the massive, unanswerable questions of the universe that I completely missed what was right in front of me.

To understand what's actually going on, you need to pull back from the infinite. You have to step away from the abstract, Platonic ideals and bring it all back down to Earth. The ultimate answer about Vera’s fate, and my love for her, wasn't hidden in the origins of the universe. Well, it was and it wasn't, but we humans would never understand the complete mathematical process anyway.

My love for Vera survived right here, in this exact moment: my body pressed against Jesse's, her letting me release the most shattered, painful parts of myself without an ounce of judgment.

All this time, the universe had been throwing me a lifeline, and I had kept swatting it away. Jesse had been patient, kind, and understanding, and above all, she knew I needed space. For five years she waited, until some random, unexplainable quantum event happened where I was finally ready to see her.

I lifted my face from her neck and looked into her eyes. With the glow of the giant moon illuminating the space between our faces, I could feel a quiet, electric energy pulling us together.

The deep brown of her eyes reminded me of a brown dwarf star, quietly twirling in the vastness of space. The moonlight reflected in her pupils, and the starlight caught her black lipstick, making it shine. The metal of her nose and eyebrow rings glinted in the dark, reminding me of pulsars releasing steady beams of light.

Some scientists think that's how humanity will eventually navigate the deep cosmos, giving directions to where we are, or where we're going, by mapping out the pulsars nearby.

That's exactly what the universe was doing for me right now. It was beaming an unbelievably beautiful, powerful light to guide me home. Her hand gently rubbing the tears away from my cheek. The slight smile formed on her lips, because she knew it was finally clicking for me.

At fourteen, Vera and I had our first kiss under the moonlight on this very spot.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, and in shame, I turned my face away from her moonlit beauty.

"Marc."

Her voice rippled like gravity across the same night sky I constantly stared at. She touched my chin, gently turning my head to bring my eyes back to hers. I watched the reflection of a shooting star streak across her dark pupils. She put both her hands on my cheeks, her touch just as soft and calming as Vera's.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. Grief is random, just like that quantum mechanics stuff you talk about. The best we can hope for is to make educated guesses about what something is going to do..." She paused, her thumbs brushing my skin. "I would have waited another five years, or another five after that. I may not understand all the science you talk about, but I feel it. Right here."

She grabbed my hand and placed it flat over her heart. I could feel it pulsing beneath her ribs, beating with the steady rhythm of a star emitting radiation into the dark.

"I love you, Marc. Not just as a friend, but in the way our planet needs the sun. I know I don't have the fancy language you have, but you're the type of person who deserves happiness. You're the type of person I am proud to be in love with. I'd show that love off to the entire universe if I could…"

Before she could finish, I pressed my lips against hers.

They were soft and inviting, like the feel of rose petals. I could tell she froze for a split second, not because she didn't want the kiss, but because she was surprised it had happened so quickly. But like the shooting stars I had watched countless times, I had simply seized the moment before it could burn out.

Just as quickly, she wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing her lips tightly against mine. The taste of her on my tongue matched the sweet kiwi of her perfume, and I could feel the oil from her black lipstick smudging onto my lips. This passion, the sudden life and light of this moment, was blinding. It was like looking directly at Sirius.

We exchanged turns, her taking the lead and me following her rhythm. My hands rubbed up and down her back, and hers slid under my jacket, gripping my shirt. We must have continued to kiss for several minutes without taking a single breath. I knew that wasn't physically possible, and we must have been taking desperate bits of air between our passions.

When we finally pulled apart, we were both taking fast, heavy breaths. My heart raced and my knees felt weak, but an undeniable gravity still pulled me toward her. By the look of her smeared lipstick, the wildness in her eyes, and the hand she held flat against her heaving chest, I knew she felt the exact same way.

"Sorry," she whispered, pulling away and turning her back to me.

Sorry?

Sorry for what? I was the one who had kissed her. She was the one who had unintentionally given me the framework to finally see what was right in front of me. I placed my hand on her shoulder, feeling the sharp metal spikes of her leather jacket pressing into my palm.

"Sorry for what, Jess?" I asked, my voice quiet and calm.

She took a deep sigh, her head tilting up toward the night sky I so often stared at.

"I have loved you for years now, Marc," she said, her voice thick with a painful, suffocating guilt.

Why did she feel that? Why was that shame so heavy in her voice? She had no reason to feel any of it, because truthfully, I had felt the exact same way. It was one of the many reasons why I had been so distant with her. I had been terrified of betraying Vera, and with her best friend, of all people. Yet, I couldn't deny how my eyes lingered a second longer when she looked at me, how I would turn my head to watch her when she walked away, or how seeing her smile was the only thing that kept me from losing my mind entirely.

I gripped her shoulder and gently turned her around. Her tears had made her mascara run, but to me, she was just as beautiful.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of. I've felt the same way myself, Jess."

She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed tight.

"What about her, Marc?" her voice came muffled against my jacket.

"Wouldn't she want her best friend and the person she loved the most being there for each other?" I asked, placing my hand on the back of her head. "You asked me earlier if she was up there, Jess. I do think she is. But right now, she is here with us."

Jesse lifted her head off my shoulder, and I gently wiped the smeared mascara from her cheeks. She looked at me deeply, her lips quivering as she silently begged me to finish what I was saying. I placed my hands on her cheeks, making sure she was looking directly at me before I spoke.

"It's love. That's how she continues, I think. All that love she had in her heart, Jess... it's out there, and it's down here. It’s spreading its energy just like stardust, light, and radiation traveling across the universe. It's here right now, with us."

I took her hand and placed it flat against my own chest.

"Vera wanted us happy more than anything in the world. Right up until the moment she died, she was worried about both of us. I may sit up here and try to understand the universe and the meaning of life..." I gripped the hand she rested against my heart, intertwining our fingers together. "But right here, right now, I understand one thing. It's love."

I squeezed her hand.

"That's what Vera wanted. That's what the universe, in all its supposed cold indifference, actually wants... for us to be here right now, living, and saying what we should have said a long time ago." I took a breath, letting it all go.

"I love you, Jesse."

"I love you, Marc.” She quickly responded

We kissed again, her hands moving over my back while my hands slipped into her back pockets. Both of us were feeling more alive than we had since Vera's death.

I may never understand what the majority of the universe is actually made of. I may never be able to wrap my mind around black holes, neutron stars, or the sheer size of WASP-17b. But what I understood in this moment was how precious love was. It might flash by as quickly as a shooting star, but I was going to make sure I savored every single millisecond of it.

We pulled apart, and looking over Jesse's shoulder, I saw a star I didn't remember ever seeing before. It was bright like a white dwarf, but the color was pink. There is no such thing as a pink star, and the only planet I know about that's supposed to be pink is Gliese 504 b. There was no way I was actually seeing that, it was 57 light-years away from us.

Was that Vera looking at us, giving us her approval?

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, the pink light was gone. Jesse lifted her head off my shoulder and looked up at me, smiling.

"Looking at the stars again?"

"I... I just saw something. It was pink," I responded, my eyes locked on the spot where the light had just been.

Jesse turned around to look at it with me, leaning her back against my chest as she placed my arms around her.

"It's a mysterious place out there," she said, placing a cigarette in her mouth and handing me one.

"I won't ever stop trying to understand it, Jesse. But having you here with me helps remind me the universe is talking back."

She lit her smoke and lifted her lighter to my lips so I could light mine.

"In all those trillions of miles, we somehow found each other in the ashes of our broken hearts," she said. "The universe may be random, but somehow it always finds a way to work."

In all the hours of reading, listening to scientists, watching videos, and staring up at the sky, Jesse had just nailed it.

"Yeah, you're right. It always finds a way to work."

We kissed again and spent the rest of our night in each other's embrace, silently thinking about our future together.

Thanks to everyone for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this mix of hard science and romance. Hopefully, some people reading this who are struggling with the loss of a loved one will find that it helps them process their loss. Nothing ever dies; even the largest black holes release radiation (Hawking radiation). The ones you loved the most are just on to the next stage in the mystery we call the universe

Audio Version with intro and outro music

I have been coming to this same coffee shop for years, and the reason for that may either freak people out or pull on their heartstrings.

One day, I was rushing home from work, but I could barely keep my eyes open, so I stopped by this little coffee shop nearby. I wasn't much of a coffee drinker. Truthfully, the people at my job avoided this place because, as they put it:

The coffee was shit.

I still remember that day like it was yesterday. There was no particular reason why I had to run home, other than maybe to catch the hockey game, but I always had those set to record anyway. The place was called 24 Hour Blend. It wasn't a horrible name, considering the place was, in fact, open 24 hours.

The inside was exactly what you would expect from a 24-hour joint. The white tile floor was cracked and stained, and the grout probably had years of dirt built up in it. The customers, much like the floor, were just as worn down: blue-collar types sneaking booze into their coffee, drug addicts waiting to use the bathroom, and single moms with terrible lower-back tattoos. The green tables and chairs were bolted to the floor, which I suspect was a later addition to prevent gutter punks from stealing them.

I snaked my way through the riff-raff, keeping my head down and my grip firm on my laptop bag. I didn't want some punk running off with it; even if it was company property, it was just the principle of the matter.

I had to wait in line for a while because, of course, they were understaffed. It made sense, who in the flying fuck would actually want to work here for minimum wage?

The guy in front of me had to be 300 pounds, with enough hair on his shoulders to make a gorilla think he was one of them. His thinning hair was dripping with greasy sweat. His body odor was a mix of vinegar, rotting fruit, and another scent I couldn't identify other than that it stuck in the back of my throat. I coughed a few times in an attempt to clear the taste, but it was useless. I settled for breathing through my mouth as little as possible.

For whatever reason, the coffee shop didn't have AC. It was as if the owner thought we were in Europe. I have always been a heavy sweater, and beads of sweat rolled down my forehead, stinging my eyes. My pits dripped, and my skin started to chafe. Through the collar of my shirt, I could smell that my deodorant was no match for this heat. At least it didn't smell like the guy in front of me, who looked like Meat Loaf from Fight Club. All I wanted to do was chug a coffee, go home, watch the game, and pass out.

It’s funny looking back at this and remembering how badly I wanted to go home. I had nothing to go home to. I still have nothing to go home to. I could work 16-hour days and nothing would change.

Finally, the line started to move, and the smelling gorilla in the stained tank top was placing his order. Just talking was causing him to lose his breath, and at that moment, I felt a bit of pity for him. I already knew he was going to order a dozen donuts and the most sugar-packed drink imaginable.

He had issues, just like all of us.

I pretended that mine were better than his, and sure, for my physical health, they were. But our mental health? They probably weren't far off. As I already mentioned, I was lonely, and I couldn't explain exactly why. Yes, I had never really had a long-term relationship, but I had dated plenty. Don't get mixed up, because I know what you're thinking, these were legitimate attempts at forming relationships. Yet, no matter who I dated, younger, older, intelligent, sweet, hot, or cute, I always ran into the same wall.

I couldn't connect with them. I always felt like a fraud, acting the way a boyfriend should.

They were all wonderful, honestly. I dated a girl for a year when I was 25, and I genuinely thought she was the one for a while. Then, around the eight-month mark, I ran into that familiar wall again. I just didn't feel that connection—the one where you hold hands and the electrical currents running through you join together on the same frequency.

When I held her hand, it was, and still is, hard to describe. It was like holding the hand of someone from another dream. A dream that wasn't mine or hers, and you couldn't force a dream to conform to what you wanted. Sure, plenty of these spiritual gurus will say you can do wacky stuff like that, but when you stop and think about it seriously for a minute, the truth becomes clear. If whatever we call life is a dream, and we are all having our own little version within a larger dream, how much control do we actually have over it?

People would probably call me a selfish asshole, but waiting in that line, that's how I had felt my whole life. I felt like I was drifting through a dream where I was either in the wrong one, or I simply hadn't found someone who matched my frequency.

People call it soulmates, destiny, fate.

There are a thousand different words to describe what every single conscious entity has felt at different points in their lives. I sometimes felt like I had it worse than others, this weird feeling of knowing you're alive, but at the same time, feeling that nothing around you is actually real.

I would eat an apple or, say, drink my coffee, and it felt like I wasn't really eating or drinking either. Sure, the coffee always tasted a bit bitter, and the apple was sour and sweet, but those were just words used to describe them. They could never capture what an apple or coffee actually is.

That's how it was with people for me.

Don't get me wrong, I felt empathy, friendship, anger, and sometimes even love toward others. Yet, just like with the food and drink, I never felt like I knew who anyone really was. They were all just a set of words and emotions in relation to my own perception.

Then you stop and think about how this is the case for every single individual who has ever existed. We use words to describe sensations that are utterly separated from the actual things they are describing. Yet, out of all the words I had ever used or heard, there was one that seemed so vastly important you could discard all the others and everything would still be fine.

It's not that I didn't want love. It's that love… real love, had to be placed so high that no human could ever reach it.

The large, sweaty man in front of me finally took his order. Just as I had predicted, it was a dozen donuts and a cup of liquid sugar with some coffee. When he finally moved his hairy gorilla back, that's when I saw her.

Throughout history, people have used words like muse, angel, or celestial to describe what I saw at the counter that day. Time slowed to a stop as I stared in stunned astonishment.

She was wearing her diner uniform: a white button-up shirt with a lime-green apron tied around her waist. Small coffee and chocolate stains spotted the fabric. Her hair was brown, but once again, that's just a word we use to describe something that is impossible to fully capture. It was so much more than brown. The multitude of different shades within her hair, which fell well past her shoulders, was more infinite than the microorganisms in the oceans. Near her roots, it was dark, and as you moved further down, the brown grew lighter and lighter. I wish I were a painter so I could describe the shades better, but I can't.

The way the light hit her hair shone like the sun on a calm lake, conjuring that same quiet emotional state. She didn't notice it, but on the right side of her head, near the crown, was a tiny dusting of powdered sugar.

All I wanted to do was run my fingers through her hair, imagining it would feel the same as running your hands through clouds. Her scent was an intoxicating mix of lavender, mint, and fresh morning dew. It entered my nose, clearing my airways, and suddenly I was breathing like I never had before.

The taste it left in the back of my throat was the most nourishment I had ever had in my life. I wished the air could smell of her at all times, a scent that told me life was real, and tangible.

On the right side of her thin neck were two small birthmarks. She raised her hands in slow motion and brushed her hair behind her small ears, inadvertently brushing away the sprinkling of powdered sugar.

Her left ear had multiple rings lining the cartilage from the lobe to the top: a small gold loop at the bottom, followed by silver, red, black, green, and back to gold at the peak. The back of her right hand bore a tattoo—an upside-down, black-and-white rose bush with roots that spread and wrapped around her index and middle fingers. Tiny pink and red rose blossoms bloomed along the roots. The contrast between the black ink and her pale skin was striking, more so than any other tattoo I had ever seen. Her nails were painted pink, with different colored roses detailed on each one.

As her slender fingers brushed her hair back, my eyes locked onto the most beautiful face I had ever seen, or would ever see again.

Beautiful, breathtaking, gorgeous, radiant... you could use all of these words, and they would still only capture a fraction of a percent of her beauty.

The only word I could think of that got even close to one percent was ethereal. Her beauty moved like the air, like gentle waves on a lake, the kind of sight that makes you catch a glimpse of heaven and want to both smile and cry at the same time.

Looking into her eyes, they were the shade of Neptune. It was that deep, infinite blue that has made humanity wonder since the moment we first looked up at the night sky. Her eyes did the same for me, confirming one thing: there was no way a set of eyes that made me wonder about the creation of the universe could be just like all the others.

It was impossible. Her eyes were the kind that sent people out on journeys across the galaxy in search of meaning, seeking the origin point, the source of power that could create something so perfect.

Within her irises, you could see sparkles of dust that reminded me of the tail of a comet. If I were ever to get a glimpse into the prime matter of the entire universe, it would be through those sparkles in her Neptune-blue eyes. She wore a light, barely noticeable pink lipstick on her full lips. Without even touching them, I knew they were as soft as silk—that kissing them would feel like resting your head on your favorite pillow after a long, exhausting day. A slight crease ran down the middle of her bottom lip, and right above her upper lip on the right side was a small beauty mark. Two dimples framed her smile, showing off teeth as white as pearls. Looking at all of this together, I can't possibly put the sight into words, but I can describe how my body reacted.

My heart began to pound, my fingers shook, and simultaneously, my blood flowed both faster and slower. I never used to believe in a soul, but in that moment, I couldn't deny it anymore. Looking at her smile, those sparkles in her eyes, and the waves of different browns in her hair, there was an unspoken connection. Both of our pure lights, our frequencies, what makes us, us, intertwined, forever becoming a part of one another. Just looking at her made me want to cry with joy, and deep in my chest, I knew she felt the exact same way. Somehow, someway, we had found each other in a dingy, 24-hour coffee shop.

Yet, I couldn't shake a strange sensation between my shoulders, like some unseen force was pulling on me. We weren't supposed to have seen each other. It was as if she or I had walked into a dream that wasn't ours. She placed her tattooed hand on the counter next to the packets of sugar that were all stuck together. I reached out to place my hand over hers.

Then, it happened.

Some eighteen-year-old kid ran between us, knocking my hand away and sending me spinning around. When my eyes snapped back to the counter, she was gone.

Time slammed back to normal, flooded with the noise of people sipping coffee, eating donuts, and talking about nonsense. My heart panicked, fluttering as if I were on the verge of a heart attack. My muscles tightened, my hands balling into fists. Where the hell had she gone?

I ran around the coffee shop, grabbing people by the shoulders. “Where did the brunette girl with the blue eyes go? She was just at the counter?” My breathing was erratic, and my hands shook uncontrollably. I asked the heavy man where she was, and his only response was to grunt and go back to eating his donuts. I asked the gutter punks, and they just asked me to sell them whatever drugs they thought I was on. After asking everyone in the joint, with a couple of people threatening to call the cops, I ran out onto the street, stopping strangers in their tracks. Most just brushed past me, but the few who were nice enough to give me a second said they had never seen her in that shop, or anywhere else.

Weeks passed, with me coming to the same coffee shop every day, asking the staff the same question: Have you heard from her? Have you seen her? At first, they got annoyed and threatened to ban me from the premises. But as the weeks went on, their attitude changed. I became less frantic in my questioning, and it eventually dwindled down to asking just once whenever I walked in. I would order the same coffee, at the exact same time, and sit in the exact same spot. Waiting for her to come back.

The staff's annoyance gradually softened into a melancholy that matched my own. After a few months of this, I started writing notes to leave with them, just in case she ever walked back in. I wrote the same love letter to a girl that may have never actually existed every single day.

Dear Neptune Blue

I saw you at the counter on February 18, 2008, at 4:30 PM. You served a sugary drink and a dozen donuts to a large man right before me. The second our eyes met, time slowed down and all the noise in the coffee shop faded away. You had the most striking blue eyes, the kind that reminded me of Neptune. Your hair contained all the shades of brown that are impossible to fully describe. Your smile, with its two little dimples, made you look like an angel. The tattoo on your hand, with the rosebuds, perfectly describes who you are. You are the roots that eventually lead to life, to beauty, and to air.

I have been at this spot looking for you for years. I come to this same coffee shop every day at the exact same time, hoping for just one more second with you. The sparkle of dust in your irises, your scent of mint, lavender, and early morning, and your ear with its multiple rings, I just need to see and smell it all for one more second. There is a feeling in my chest that is hard to describe. Since the moment I saw you and you vanished, I have had this feeling where my heart, my soul, my daimon, I don't know what the right word is, just keeps pulling toward what it wants, but it is no longer there.

I go home at night, and though you were all I could think about at first, as time passed, you didn't consume my thoughts 24/7. Yet, the feeling never left. That longing, that desire, that passion, that undeniable source of life and light., still occupied my thoughts when I was at this coffee shop, before I went to sleep, and during my lunches. It changed how I saw things, opening my eyes to what most people don't even think about. It was love, but not love the way most people use the word. It was the kind of love that creates life, that turns nothing into something. It was the Will that keeps yearning for more, no matter what. In that single second, I learned what every sage, philosopher, and scientist who has ever pondered the origins of life and its purpose has been trying to find. It is love, the kind of love we shared in that brief moment. Even if I never see you again, I lay my head down to sleep knowing that when I looked into your eyes and saw your smile, I was the luckiest man in the world.

Love, Mike.

P.S. I don't know what happens after we die, but wherever we go, I am going to search the universe until we find each other again.

In some ways, writing this note became a form of prayer. It was my way of trying to experience the divine and give it the reverence it deserved. It didn't happen immediately, but over the next few years, I just stopped doing certain things. It wasn't a conscious effort on my part; it just kind of happened. I used to drink during the week, but then it became just weekends, and eventually, never. After that came pot; I simply threw all my edibles out one day and never bought them again.

Porn was the only thing I actually had to put effort into quitting. It started slowly, watching only at night before bed, then just on the weekends, until eventually, I stopped wanting to watch it altogether. It has been a few years now since I have watched any of it.

I still go home at night alone. I haven't really tried dating anyone since that day, but how could I? No matter who I dated, in time, I would inevitably compare them to her, and they could never live up to that standard. It wasn't fair to them, especially since there was nothing they could do about it. Sure, I carried around a deep melancholy in my chest, but we are led to believe that sadness is something that needs to be cured or removed.

That is a lie, and it is worse than a lie.

That melancholy in my chest, that coldness I would temporarily feel running through my veins, the way I would cry privately when I saw couples hopelessly in love. That feeling we were all told to escape as quickly as possible was actually a testament, a reminder of how precious love really is. In my sadness, I inwardly and outwardly expressed what couldn't be expressed in words or sounds. Once in a while, I would see couples walk into the coffee shop, and I just knew from her smile or the wonder in his eyes that they had found some of what I had found in that split second. I would meditate as I sipped my coffee, trying to remember those faces.

Eighteen years later, I am still sitting here in my exact same spot, sipping on my bitter coffee. Over time, I got used to the unique blend this place had and would even recommend it to friends who were fans of bitter coffee. For the last three years, the same girl had been working the counter during the hour I usually came in. She was around my age, with long blonde hair that she periodically put red streaks in. The bags under her eyes and the lines on her face told a story of a hard life, a life shaped by a combination of bad mistakes, bad luck, and bad people.

She was unique among all the people who had taken my letters over the years. Over the last three years, she had never once gotten annoyed. After my first explanation of why I was leaving the note, she had never questioned it again. She would just smile, say hello, and take my note along with my order.

The same thing happened today, but I could tell something was off. The way her green eyes avoided mine, and the way the usual pep in her voice was a few octaves off. When you spend years contemplating a single second, you gain a unique ability to pick up on the smallest details that most people miss.

“Everything okay, Alexis? You seem down"

“I can't get anything past you,” she nervously chuckled as she handed me my coffee.

I placed the note on the counter, and she silently took it like she always did.

“Well, you know where I will be, Alexis, if you need to talk.”

I placed my hand on hers and noticed she had painted her nails pink recently. As I turned to walk away, she shouted my name.

“Mike!”

I turned around, and in her pink-nailed hands, she held a note for me. It was in a baby blue envelope. I assumed this note had nothing to do with what I had been waiting eighteen years for.

“Yeah, Alexis, what's up?”

She placed the baby blue envelope on the counter, her hand slightly shaking.

“I don't know how to explain this without sounding crazy,” her voice was choppy.

“I have been leaving a note here for a girl who will never come back for eighteen years, so trust me, you can't be any crazier than me,” I smiled, trying to lighten her mood.

“Yeah, true. It's just... this note.” Her eyes glanced down to it on the counter. “I don't know how I got it. I went to sleep, and it wasn't on my bedside table, but when I woke up,” She took a quick, shallow breath. “it was there. It doesn't say it's for you, but I can't explain it. I just know it's the response you have been waiting for.”

My reaction surprised me.

I didn't panic, I wasn't excited, and I didn't feel relief. Instead, I felt a kind of resigned acceptance. After all these years, I finally had the response I thought I needed for so long. Now that it was actually here, I didn't even know if I wanted to open it. Whatever her response was, it wouldn't have mattered, because I was never going to change back to the man I had been before seeing her.

I placed my hand on the envelope, and Alexis put her hand on top of mine.

“Are you going to keep coming back... if it's from her?”

Looking at her fingers intertwined with mine, I looked up at her. The green of her eyes was dimmed, her lips were tight, and I could see tears welling up along her eyelids. Even though her hand wasn't shaking, I could feel her frequency coming through.

“I won't ever stop coming back here, Alexis. Don't you worry about that.”

I rubbed the back of her hand with my thumb, and I could feel her calming down.

“It's just... I am so used to you coming here and leaving me notes. It would feel wrong if it stopped.” She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath after saying that.

“I don't think the universe wants me to stop coming here,” I whispered.

I slowly walked back to my spot in the café, sat down, and placed the note in the center of the table. I wasn't in a rush to open it. Instead, I took a sip of my coffee. The air was thick with the smell of donuts, brewing beans, and the body odor of a customer a few tables away. I glanced at Alexis, giving her a small smile and a tip of my styrofoam cup.

Holding the note in my hand, I ran my fingers along the edges, thinking about how these were the final breaths I would take before opening what I had waited eighteen years for. I took out my car key and carefully sliced open the baby blue envelope. As I pulled out the note, I was hit with that scent again. That precise mix of lavender, mint, and morning possibilities. It was written on a slightly yellowed piece of paper. Without looking up, I knew Alexis was watching me, probably feeling more nervous than I was in that moment. I took one last deep breath, unfolded the paper, and started to read.

To: The Man I Saw On February 18 at 4:30

I don't know if you will ever get this note. I never saw that coffee shop again. I don't even know how I was there that day. I placed this note on a bedside table while someone was sleeping, not knowing how I got there, but knowing this would be the only chance I had to reach you. My name is Rachel, by the way, in case you were wondering.

But who am I kidding? I know you have been wondering what my name is just as much as I have wondered yours since that moment. I felt it too, whoever you are. That frequency, that electrical charge, that fleeting moment of my magnet finally finding the metal it was supposed to touch. In that split second, my soul, my inner light, my will, whatever you want to call it, found exactly what it was always missing. I know that sounds crazy. We only saw each other for that one second, but the sensation in that moment is what every philosopher and artist has tried to describe as the defining element of life. It was you smiling back at me. That's what it is. That's what everything is about, and it's impossible to put into words.

The truth is, I don't think we were ever supposed to see each other that day. It's like we both wandered into a dream we weren't supposed to be part of. I wonder if you believe that about us, or about life more generally. Do you believe we live inside of dreams? Dreams that aren't supposed to intersect with one another? If it was an accident that we saw each other at that coffee shop, it was the greatest accident that has ever happened.

I have spent eighteen years trying to find that coffee shop in every way possible, and I haven't gotten any closer. I know deep in my chest that you have been looking for me just as hard. It's the main reason I think something happened against the laws of the universe that day. For whatever reason, that connection we felt was so powerful that the laws made an exception, or we did the impossible and broke them ourselves. I may feel a bit crazy saying this, but I feel no shame at all. I could never feel ashamed of speaking the truth. I love you, and I know we will be spending all of eternity trying to find a way to be together. I know you feel the same, and I know deep down it will happen. We may have to wait until the universe sinks back to its starting point, but you will get a chance to hold my hand, and I will get a chance to savor every second of that.

I have bad news, depending on how you look at it. For the last three years, I have been battling cancer, but it's not a battle I am going to win. There wasn't much I could do to stop it; it's one of those types that runs in the family. By the time you read this note, I will be dead. I was on my last few days when I wrote this, and I had a dream where I left it on that girl's bedside table. I am not saying this to make you upset; I just want to be honest with you. I never tried dating anyone else, and I know it's the same for you.

People often ask me how, at my age, I can be so at peace knowing I am going to die. I couldn't explain it to them even if I wanted to. I can take that final sleep knowing it's not the final sleep. I know that, someway, somehow, I will get to see your smile again. I like to think your name is Michael, so I am going to call you that.

I will be gone for a very long time, and all I want is for you to have love. We both know it won't ever be on the same level we shared in that moment. But that smile, some special girl should get to come home to that. She should get to wake up in the morning to it. As I turn back to stardust, just know that eventually you will too, and just maybe, our dust will mix together in the distant universe. It's moments like the one we had that build life, light, and meaning out of nothing.

I love you, and I always will, Michael, from stardust and back.

P.S. Just so you know, you had a stain on the left side of your shirt that day. It looked like it was coffee from the morning xoxo

I folded the paper back up and placed it into the envelope. Her P.S. note brought a smile to my face as I looked down at my shirt. I guess during one of my sips, I had spilled coffee on myself again, just like I had eighteen years earlier.

Staring at the envelope in my hands, I started to cry. They weren't tears of sadness or loss; they were tears of joy. I wasn't crazy. My leap of faith was justified. She loved me as much as I loved her. We would find one another again, and even if it were only for two seconds next time, it would be worth the wait.

“I love you, Rachel, and I always will. I wish I could be by your bedside as you get ready for what comes next,” I muttered, looking down at the small puddle of tears forming on the table.

As I continued to cry, I felt a gentle hand on my back, right between my shoulders. I already knew who it was.

“Thanks, Alexis.”

She gently rubbed my back as I cried for several more minutes. With my eyes puffy and red, I gave them a quick rub and looked up at her.

“I will see you here tomorrow, Alexis. And the day after that, and the day after that.”

She gently brushed away a tear that was rolling down my cheek. Looking into my eyes, she smiled, revealing a glimpse of her teeth.

“I will be here when you're ready, Michael.”

Thanks to everyone for reading and hopefully this piece showed that I am not just a one trick phony. Hopefully you guys resonate with my commentary on love, depression and my observations on the meaning of life. Make sure to hug the people more often that you love.

Audio Version

It was so funny seeing how pissed Chad was when he saw me and Jesse holding hands in the hallway. His face turned so red I thought steam was going to burst out of his ears. His biceps flexed so hard that veins I hadn't seen before popped out, and a giant one protruded right down the center of his forehead, cutting it in two.

Like I told Jesse: Chad was a goof without a single thought in his head.

Sure, his body was nice to touch, and he had a handsome face, but what he was packing downstairs didn't match the muscles. He went around telling everyone what a freak I was in the sack, but we never actually fucked. Sure, he groped my tits, and I had let him touch me outside my panties a few times, but that was it. I had jerked him off once or twice, but that was the extent of it.

He went around telling everyone how I had deep-throated his cock, which never happened. But honestly? If I had, it wouldn't have been hard. I bet I wouldn't have even gagged. Chad was going to have to find some other poor girl who didn't have her priorities straight. I was done with him. Between the empty skull, the bad rumors, and the fact that I wasn't even rewarded with a good dick, I was over it.

Fuck Chad, and fuck the jocks.

I had known Jesse for as long as I could remember. He was always awkward around everyone, but especially me. I knew he loved me, and that he had for his entire life. He probably didn't think I caught him staring at me all the time at lunch or in class. He didn't realize I knew he would wait for me to leave school just so he could walk a block behind me.

He was the sensitive, artsy type who wrote poetry, watched obscure movies no one knew about, and actually read books. I didn't know a single person other than myself and him who actually read. It's a sad state of affairs; there are so many stories to be told, and people just walk right by them or scroll past them.

He had that whole emo look going for him, with the dark hair covering one eye that he constantly had to shake away. The tight jeans he wore did nothing to hide how skinny he was. Chad's arms were thicker than Jesse's thighs, and I often wondered how Jesse got those jeans off without peeling off a layer of skin. He always had some band shirt on, usually bands no one had ever heard of, but I always loved it when he wore his Abigail Williams tee.

All my friends thought I only listened to pop, but privately, I rocked out to metal. This might be too much information, but fuck it: when I was alone in bed, I put my headphones on and listened to black metal while I touched myself. No one knew that about me. The little princess of the school listened to satanic music while she got herself off.

I didn't even try to put it on when Chad and I made out, because he would have just said the same old shit basic people say: "What's that noise? Why is he screaming? This isn't music, it's just noise." Jesse, on the other hand, would totally be down to make out while we listened to Mayhem or Emperor.

So, back to Jesse. He couldn't have been more than 120 pounds soaking wet with two bricks in his pockets. I always felt bad about his acne problem. I had seen worse, there was a girl at school, and people used to rumor that all the marks on her face were from her mom hitting her with a clothes hanger trying to abort her. But Jesse just had regular outbreaks. Some weeks his face was as clear as mine, and others his cheeks would be completely covered. It must be hard to have something that affects your appearance so much and have absolutely no control over it.

But Jesse was always so sweet to me, and I can't lie: sometimes I took advantage of that. The dude was the smartest guy I knew, and I struggled with math. All I had to do was spray a few squirts of my vanilla perfume, wear a tank top that showed just a bit of cleavage, and Jesse would do anything for me. That's how I was passing math despite understanding very little of it.

For most of my life, I didn't find Jesse attractive. But over the last few months, that started to change. I don't know what it was. He dressed the same emo way, he didn't gain any muscle, and he was the exact same awkward guy I had always known. Maybe it was just because I was getting older. I just didn't care as much about what everyone else thought. I used to care about hanging out with the popular kids and being seen as one of them, which is exactly why I was dating Chad in the first place.

Then, one day, it just hit me.

In a year, I wouldn't be around any of these people anymore. They would all forget me faster than a passing Lambo. I would do the same to them. I wasn't special or different in that regard. That's just what happens when high school is over, and it happens to everyone.

Maybe that's what changed how I felt about Jesse. Here was a guy who loved me in that romantic, obsessive way you only see in movies. The way he looked at me. How his eyes lingered on my face and my body. The way his mouth slightly opened when I was near. How his breathing would hitch when I gave him a quick hug or a kiss on the cheek. It was all so sweet and cute. He made me feel like an angel, the most beautiful angel in the heavens. I could imagine him writing some kind of song lyrics, saying that the sky ripped open just so I could come down to him.

Some girls would be turned off or scared by his intensity, but me? Over the last few months, it actually turned me on. Jesse didn't mind wearing his emotions on his sleeve, whereas everyone else in this school, including myself, put on masks so no one ever saw how we truly felt or who we really were. His hands were soft as they gripped mine. He had the hands of an artist, and I bet in this very moment, he was thinking of all the artistic ways he could express how he felt about me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ashley, one of the popular girls who was supposed to be in my friend group. I always secretly hated her. She would copy the way I dressed, and trust me, everyone noticed and made fun of her behind her back because of it. While I was dating Chad, she would get drunk at parties and always have her hands all over him. I didn't care so much about her touching Chad, but it was a respect issue, combined with the fact that she was totally obsessed with me. I guarantee that in time, Ashley would suddenly start finding skinny emo guys attractive just because Jesse and I were dating.

There were days walking down the stairwell behind her where I imagined what would happen if I pushed her. I wouldn't make it obvious, just a light tap, or sticking my foot out. The stairs at school were made of solid concrete, so a fall wouldn't be fun. Would her legs break? Would she crack her ribs? What if the broken ribs punctured her lungs? What if her neck snapped and she died instantly? There were so many possible outcomes if Ashley accidentally fell down the stairs. I knew these weren't thoughts I was supposed to have, but everyone had them, right? Especially about people they hated.

Ashley looked at Jesse and me walking down the hallway, giving us a smile that was hard to read. Was she actually happy? Or was she just putting on the mask again? She started walking toward us with a skip in her step, and all I wanted to do was scream as loud as possible in the middle of the hallway:

GET AWAY FROM ME, CUM DUMPSTER.

Instead, I just kept my head down, staring at my shoes, anticipating her squeaky voice. That was another thing about Ashley: her fucking voice was pitched at an octave specifically designed to attack the human nervous system. I turned to look at Jesse, who looked just as pissed off as I was that she was coming over here.

“Hey, Sara!” Her squeaky voice made the teeth in the back of my mouth vibrate. I forced a smile onto my face, a fake one that anyone with an ounce of perception would see right through, but Ashley had none of that.

“What's up, Ashley.”

“Oh, hey Jesse,” Ashley said, waving at him.

Like the badass he was, he just completely ignored her. Ashley pretended that didn't happen and turned back to me.

“So, did you and Chad break up?”

She couldn't whisper. Her squeaky voice was loud enough for the entire hall to hear. I don't know what changed in me. In any other circumstance, I would have purposely raised my voice and put on the whole dizzy, cute, blonde girl act. But I wasn't having any of that right now. I brought my face close to hers, deliberately brushing my hair behind my right ear so she had a clear view of my eyes.

“Yeah. Now you can fuck Chad, if you haven't already,” I seethed quietly.

Her face bunched up into a mixture of concern and fear.

“Oh, you didn't hear me? I said you can go suck his dick. Let him drop a load in you. Have him finish on your face. Have him put it in your ass. I don't give a flying fuck if he takes a video of you fucking and shows it to the whole school! Is that clear enough for you, Ashley? I am fucking done with you, done with that group, and done with all you phony-ass bitches!”

The whole hallway went dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop. Ashley's face was stuck in that pathetic, trembling expression right before you know someone is going to cry, and I took deep satisfaction in how ugly she looked right now.

Then, the silence broke. Not from her tears, but with the most beautiful sound in the world.

Jesse started to chuckle. At first, it was quiet, but within a second he burst into a full-on, Joker-style manic laugh that he couldn't stop. He dropped down to one knee, letting go of my hand in a vain attempt to cover his mouth.

Everyone else in the hall just stared at us, mouths ajar, absolutely speechless.

Listening to Jesse laugh like this made my cheeks flush. It sent a warm, tingling sensation straight down to my lower stomach. When I got home, the very first thing I was going to do was blast black metal and pull out my black wand vibrator. Jesse and his high-pitched, sad, angry laugh had my hormones doing things they had never done before.

Then it happened. That bitch had to cry and ruin it for me. Her crying was so ugly it overpowered Jesse’s laugh just enough to kill the tingling sensation running all over my body. All I wanted to do was wrap my hands around her throat to make her shut the fuck up. But it was already ruined. The warm vibrations were gone, and all the sexual energy was sucked down her throat with every deep, heaving breath she took. The fucking bitch even ruined Jesse’s laugh as he stood up and I reached for his hand again.

“No one ever liked you anyways, Sara,” Ashley said between her sobs.

Like a scene from some badass action movie, Jesse and I kept walking down the hall, ignoring her crying and all the shocked faces staring at us.

Fuck them all and the fake-ass boring masks they wear.

As we pushed through the school doors, the rusty metal hinges groaned like they always did. A blast of sunlight hit me square in the eyes, temporarily blinding me.

“You didn’t have to be such a bitch to Ashley.”

The unmistakable rasp of Chad’s voice cut through as my eyes adjusted to the light.

“Fuck off, Chad,” I said, shoving his shoulder while Jesse held onto my hand.

“Oh, I see your new boyfriend can’t stand up for himself,” he sneered, his voice thick with contempt.

Jesse turned around. His black hair shone in the sun as he brushed the strands away from his right eye.

“See you at the party,” he whispered in a tone that sounded like a threat.

Chad’s reaction was priceless. His usual shit-eating grin vanished. The steadfast alpha energy was replaced by a weakness I’d never seen before. This 120-pound emo kid had just put the king of the school on the defensive.

“Yeah, see you at the party, Chad,” I repeated.

Jesse and I walked away as Chad shouted nonsense behind us. Neither of us bothered to listen. I looked at Jesse and smiled. The bags under his eyes sent a warm rush between my legs. His laugh replayed in my head as a small smile spread across his face—one I’d only seen a few times in all the years I’d known him.

This should have been the moment in a cheesy teen romance where sappy music swelled and everything slowed down. None of that happened. Instead, black metal roared in my head while I tried to remember if I’d charged my favorite toy.

Jesse, the gentleman I knew he was, walked me home. We didn’t say much. We just enjoyed each other’s company, and for the first time ever with a boy, it felt right. Every other guy I’d dated carried this lingering tension, like they were just tolerating me until they could awkwardly grope my tits or get their hands down my pants.

Contrary to all the rumors about me, many of them started by Chad, I’m a virgin. I’ve done other stuff, but a dick inside me? Never. With Jesse, I didn’t feel that pressure. He seemed genuinely happy just holding my hand. This is what having a good boyfriend was supposed to feel like, smooth and comfortable.

At the top of my steps, I gave him a kiss on the cheek and pulled him into an extra-long hug, pressing my entire body firmly against his. Feeling the bulge in his pants made me smile. I pressed my hips harder into him. When I finally let go, I could hear how rapid his breathing was. It made me feel like a princess in a fairy tale.

Look at how much this boy loves me. How badly he wants me. How I’m the only one in the world for him.

“Guess I’ll pick you up for the party later?” he asked, clearing his throat and turning slightly to hide the bulge in his pants.

I brushed my hair behind my right ear, feeling a warmth in my chest and another unfamiliar flutter.

Nervousness

“Yeah, come pick me up around seven, I guess.”

I stared at my shoes, digging an imaginary hole in the wooden deck.

“Sounds good, Sara,” he said, turning to walk down the stairs.

“Hey.”

He spun around quickly, black hair swinging.

“What’s up?”

“Oh, I was just thinking… I have some pot and all. I don’t know if you smoke, but I was thinking it would be…”

He cut me off before I could finish. That weird nervous feeling had me completely off balance. I had dated Chad, the guy every girl wanted, and here I was, totally out of my element with an emo kid no one talked to.

“Yeah, we can do that,” he said. “It’s been a while, but pot is fun.”

He smiled along with me. We both turned away, already anticipating the next time we’d see each other.

Once inside, I let out a huge sigh of relief. I threw all my stuff on the floor and bolted upstairs to my room. Thank God my parents were gone for the week, no one was going to knock on my door for the next few hours.

I slammed my door, hit the power button on my Bluetooth speaker, and pulled out my phone as I sat on the edge of my bed which was chaotic mix of clean and dirty clothes. I yanked off my tight pants while scrolling through Spotify. Jesse’s Joker-like laugh echoed in my head as the heat between my legs grew unbearable.

I opened my black metal playlist and hit play on an Abigail Williams mix I’d made a few weeks earlier. The blood-curdling screams and blast beats made my pussy throb instantly.

My underwear came off with my pants. I brushed aside the loose clothes on the floor, opened the drawer of my bedside table, and pulled out my toy. I pressed the button and the sweet hum of vibrations filled the room.

My favorite sounds used to be the wand, then black metal vocals. Now the ranking had changed. First was Jesse’s Joker laugh. The wand came in second. Black metal was a close third. One day, hopefully, I’d get all three at once, filling my eardrums while I came.

I crawled under my black sheets, pulled off my tank top, and unhooked my bra. The wall of sound gave way to the singer’s high-pitched screaming, and my nipples instantly went erect. I played with them for a moment, teasing and warming myself up. Normally I’d start the toy on the lowest setting and slowly work my way up, but Jesse had me so worked up that I cranked it straight to max. Why fuck around? Might as well go full black metal with this session.

I dragged the vibrating head across my nipples first, savoring the sharp jolt it sent through me. Then, slowly building the anticipation, I ran it down my stomach and along my inner thighs. I wasn’t even touching my clit yet and I could already feel that tight ball of tension ready to explode.

I wonder if Jesse’s into handcuffs and stuff. The kind of porn I watched always turned me on the most, girls tied up, used, pushed past their limits. The way they shook between pain and pleasure was so fucking hot.

I pressed the toy against myself and let out a loud moan. If anyone had been home, they definitely would’ve heard it. There’s a certain freedom that comes with being able to be as loud as you want. I alternated between soft and hard pressure, my moans growing louder as I imagined Jesse snapping handcuffs around my wrists.

The metal click of the cuffs made a sound escape my throat I’d never heard before, primal and submissive all at once.

He would make me beg. Make me crawl and wiggle across the floor while he sat in a chair laughing that Joker laugh. When I finally reached him, I’d rest my head in his lap as he gently brushed my hair aside.

“That’s a good girl.”

“Such a slutty girl.”

“You know I’m going to slap you, right?”

“You’re going to beg me to stop… and I won’t. Because your body is mine to use.”

My whole body was shaking now. I pressed the wand hard against my clit, chasing the overwhelming sensations. My vision blurred. My heartbeat turned erratic. I could feel how wet I was, dripping down my thighs.

“Yes, fuck yes, Jesse, please! I need you!” I screamed, loud enough that the neighbors might have heard.

Then it hit me. A sudden gushing sensation flooded out, soaking my thighs and the sheets beneath me.

Did I just squirt?

My body turned to jelly. The wand slipped from my hand as wave after wave of euphoria rolled through me. My eyes clenched shut, my legs locked tight, and a huge smile spread across my face. The blast beats continued pounding through the room while I took deep, shaky breaths, trying to come back down to earth.

I had never come like that before. All I could think about was doing it again as soon as possible. Maybe I’d whisper it in Jesse’s ear tonight:

“You made me squirt… and you didn’t even have to touch me.”

I started giggling, still riding the high, then finally reached over and turned the wand off.

“That’s exactly what I needed,” I murmured to myself. “Now let’s eat something and get ready for tonight.”

I decided to wear basically the same outfit I always did, just tighter. My tank top hugged my chest, pushing my cleavage out, and my jeans were skin-tight, the kind that left little to the imagination. A little pink lipstick, matching eyeshadow, and I was ready. Jesse was going to love this. Chad would be furious with jealousy.

I reached under my bed and pulled out the box where I kept my pot. I was never a huge smoker, but I enjoyed it here and there, especially on a chill Friday night in bed watching a movie. I grabbed the two pre-rolled joints from the zip-lock bag and headed downstairs.

DING.

The doorbell rang. I quickly sprayed on some vanilla perfume, stuffed the joints into my bra, and bolted down the stairs. It felt good to be this excited. I never got like this with Chad or any other boy.

When I opened the door, Jesse was standing there as daylight faded into night. He was wearing an Abigail Williams shirt from their Becoming album. It’s like he knew what I was listening to upstairs. He’d combed his hair so it wasn’t constantly falling into his right eye. His jeans were the same tight blue pair, and he had on simple white sneakers.

“Did you know Abigail Williams is one of my favorite bands?” I asked playfully, grabbing the front of his shirt.

“Yeah… I kind of did,” he muttered, looking away.

He looked so cute when he got shy. I felt stupid for not noticing it sooner.

“It looks good on you. Show that shit off.”

I reached for his hand and gripped it firmly. His eyes drifted up to meet mine.

“Jesse, even though it’s cute when you act shy, you don’t need to be.”

I leaned in and kissed his cheek, feeling the light fuzz of stubble against my lips. Maybe one day he’ll grow out his facial hair. It would probably make him even hotter.

A smile spread across his face that matched my own. I closed and locked the door behind us, then took his arm and wrapped it around my waist. The feeling of his fingers brushing the exposed strip of skin on my hip was both erotic and comforting.

We started walking toward Chad’s house, his hand never leaving my hip. Truthfully, I wished he’d slide it into my back pocket and grip me harder. The thought of him slapping my ass in front of all my so-called friends made me laugh out loud.

“What’s funny?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing. I was just daydreaming. You look like you daydream a lot.”

While he was thinking of a response, I took the opportunity. I grabbed his hand and slid it into my back pocket. Whatever he was about to say died instantly, his brain visibly short-circuited.

“Ummmm…”

That was all he could manage, his hand going stiff in my pocket.

“Jesse,” I said in a low, sexy voice, “I asked if you daydream.” I always felt a little ridiculous using that voice, but God, guys melted for it. I could get them to do almost anything with the right pitch.

He shook his head, rebooting. “Uh, yeah… sorry. Yeah, I do. Who doesn’t, right?”

“I do all the time. I read somewhere that over half the population doesn’t have an internal monologue, so I guess that makes us special.”

“Yeah, I daydream a lot of crazy stuff,” he said, his eyes flicking down to my cleavage.

I straightened my back, pushing them out a little more on purpose. It felt nice when he looked at me like that. Other guys always came off as weird or predatory. I’d lost count of how many times I’d caught teachers staring down my top—some of them well over fifty. With the boys at school, I didn’t really care. I learned early on I could use their attention to get what I wanted, but it always felt wrong.

Jesse looking at my tits, as odd as it sounds, made me feel special. He made me feel needed and safe. In a world full of dickheads like Chad, it was refreshing to have his gentle eyes lingering on me.

“Like the view?” I asked.

Jesse kept staring for a few extra seconds before snapping out of it like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“View?” he said, quickly looking up at the sky.

“Yeah, the stars look beautiful tonight,” I teased. “And this top really does make my tits look nice, don’t you think?”

He cleared his throat. I swear his pale skin went almost completely white.

“Jess, look all you want. I like when you do.”

His eyes flicked back to mine, then down to my chest, then back up again.

“Yeah… the stars look nice tonight,” he mumbled, too shy to say what he was really thinking.

“I got the goods in my bra,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow as I reached inside. For a second I wondered if he thought I was about to pull my tits out right there on the sidewalk. His face looked both excited and terrified. I pulled out the plastic bag with the two joints. Disappointment and relief washed over his face at the same time.

“Ready to have a good time?”

Jesse nodded enthusiastically. I opened the bag and took out the joints. Without a word, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a lighter. We were only five minutes from Chad’s house, so now was as good a time as any.

I put the joint between my lips. Jesse leaned in to light it, and I liked the warm orange glow on his face. I took a haul and immediately remembered why I didn’t smoke often. I started coughing hard as the harsh taste and smell filled my nose. No way was I taking a second hit right away. I handed it to him while covering my mouth.

Jesse took a deep pull, held it for a few seconds, then exhaled smoothly. Fuck. As if this skinny emo kid couldn’t get any sexier, here he was smoking like a seasoned pro.

“Fuck… guess you smoke pretty regularly,” I said between coughs. The high hit me fast. My head felt light, my muscles relaxed, and a big stupid smile spread across my face.

Jesse handed the joint back. I took another drag, coughing less this time.

“Not really,” he said. “Guess it doesn’t affect me as much.”

We passed it back and forth. I definitely got higher than he did.

“You feeling this, Jesse?” I asked, noticing his eyes were already bloodshot.

He started laughing at the question, which made me laugh. Soon we were both cracking up at absolutely nothing.

“Yeah, I’m feeling it. How about you?” he asked between giggles.

My skin felt hypersensitive. All I wanted was his hands all over me. Making out and everything else was so much better when you were high. Every good feeling got amplified.

I leaned in close, pressing my chest against his until our noses were barely an inch apart. I could feel his chest rising and falling, his breathing short and shallow.

“I’m having fun tonight with you, Jesse,” I said, letting his name linger.

I put a finger to his lips, keeping my eyes locked on his.

“I want you to take control…”

Like a cheetah, he kissed me. His hand slid back into my pocket and squeezed my ass. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him closer. His lips were firm but soft, and he knew exactly how much tongue to use. With Chad it always felt like wrestling a snake — even when I gave him pointers, he’d get pissed off.

We kissed hard, only breaking for quick breaths. In my head I was begging him to grab my tits or slide his hand up my top. Almost like he could read my mind, his hand slipped under my shirt and cupped one of my breasts over my bra. My nipples hardened instantly. I tilted my head back, and he started kissing my neck.

Fuck. I’d wanted a guy to do this to me for so long.

The passion, the force, the way I could feel how badly he wanted me, it was everything. I knew that no matter what happened tonight, my underwear and jeans were going straight into the wash.

We finally pulled apart, both breathing heavy. I fanned my face with my hands, trying to cool down. Jesse was visibly pressing against his pants, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead.

“What the fuck was that?” I sighed, still feeling the heavy buzz of the pot mixed with intense arousal.

“That was intense,” Jesse said, barely able to speak.

“We are definitely doing that again tonight,” I said with a smile, followed by a giggle. We were both high, after all. Jesse slipped his hand back into my pocket, squeezing my ass. Soon enough, he’d be comfortable putting his hands anywhere he wanted.

“Sounds good to me,” he replied, giving my ass another firm squeeze.

I rested my head on his shoulder as we walked under the moonlight toward the party. I felt excited and proud to show up with Jesse. I was finally ready to be myself.

As we climbed the steps to Chad’s house, the music blared from inside, the same generic pop shit that all sounded identical. I could hear the chatter of the crowd, punctuated by Ashley’s piercing squeal. The blue door was slightly ajar, but before we went in, Jesse reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

“Want one?” he asked, popping one into his mouth.

How did he know that was exactly what I’d been craving since our makeout session?

“Yeah. I didn’t know you smoked, Jesse.”

He handed me one and it was my favorite brand.

“Once in a while. I know you like to smoke here and there, so I grabbed a pack.”

When had he seen me smoke? I never did it at school, and he hadn’t seen me sloppy drunk at parties. There was only one other place…

“Between two dead trees,” I muttered as he lit my cigarette.

He tried to play it cool, but his face gave him away. He knew about my secret spot in the woods, and now he knew that I knew.

“Is that a movie or a new album?” he asked, doing a terrible job of pretending.

“I know how you knew about the smoke. You must have followed me a few times.”

I blew out a cloud of smoke and watched it drift under the porch light. I didn’t care that he’d followed me. Honestly, I found it kind of hot and cute.

“I did,” he admitted. “It’s the place you go to cry when life gets too hard. The place you contemplate what to do. The place you daydream about a better life. I learned more about you in that silence than in all the years of listening to you talk at school.”

He looked away, taking long drags off his cigarette like a character in a hard-boiled detective novel.

Before I could respond, something strange started to happen. The yellow porch light shifted to a dark, bloody red, bathing both of us in crimson. My blood ran hot. My muscles tightened like cords of steel. I could tell Jesse was experiencing the same thing. Time slowed as the music inside the house suddenly changed to Marduk’s Wormwood.

When I looked down, I was holding a large machete dripping with blood. My other hand wore a leather glove studded with rusty nine-inch nails. I was now wearing a matching Abigail Williams shirt and skin-tight leather pants. Jesse stood beside me with a sledgehammer over his shoulder and a leather jacket lined with kitchen knives.

“Jesse, I don’t care that you spied on me. I actually think it’s kind of cute,” I said in a low, seductive voice. “But you know what I want?”

“Do you want to kill everyone at this party with me, Sara?”

The nervousness in his voice sounded exactly like I’d always imagined a cute boy asking me to prom.

“Yes! I want to cut them all open, Jesse! I want to hear them scream! I want to kiss you covered in their blood and gore! That’s all I’ve ever wanted a boy to ask me!”

I placed my nailed glove on his face, kissed him, and whispered in his ear:

“Let’s make Satan blush, Jesse.”

Holding hands, he kicked the door wide open. We were met with a wave of screams.

Jesse swung his sledgehammer at the first guy he saw. The jaw shattered, teeth splashing across the nearby wall. I locked the door behind us, but a girl tried to bolt. I punched her in the face with my nail glove. The rusty spikes sank into her cheeks and eyes as she dropped to the ground, writhing in pain. I jumped on top of her and kept punching, feeling the nails slide between her teeth.

Crunch.

Her nose caved in. Chunks of flesh stuck to the nails. I licked them off slowly, making sure her one remaining eye watched me do it.

“Open your mouth!” I shrieked, sounding like a black metal vocalist.

When she didn’t obey, I gripped her jaw and pried it open. I shoved my nailed fist down her throat, feeling her jaw unhinge as I pushed deeper. Pulling it out was harder than I expected. I had to yank a few times, ripping some nails off the glove, which stayed lodged in the roof of her mouth.

I looked over at Jesse. He had smashed another guy’s legs and now held the blood-covered sledgehammer high, ready to deliver the killing blow.

Crunch.

An explosion of blood sprayed upward, covering him. He looked at me and smiled.

That’s my man, my sexy emo boy and he is absolutely in love with me.

Once my fist was free, I moved on to a girl cowering behind a white couch that was now soaked red. I stalked toward her like Michael Myers, machete dragging across the floor. She hugged her knees in a pathetic attempt to protect herself. I raised the machete and brought it down, slicing clean through her left forearm. It hit the floor with a wet thud. Her right arm dangled, blood spraying across the couch. She tried crawling away, which was almost comical, like watching a midget reach for something just a bit too high.

I drove the machete into her back, severing her spine. Her body shook violently. I jumped on her, grabbed her hair, and started sawing at her neck. The blade cut through flesh and tendon easily. With a few more pulls, her head came clean off. I lifted it above my face, letting the gore dangle as warm coppery blood dripped into my mouth. Then I blindly tossed the head over the couch.

“Hey, watch where you’re throwing that head!” Jesse shouted.

I burst out laughing. My laugh sounded just like his Joker cackle from earlier. I rested my chin on the back of the couch, blood running down my face as I laughed.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

Jesse was holding Ashley by the hair. Her annoying squeaky voice was unchanged even though he’d already knocked out all her teeth. She tried kicking him, but it did nothing but annoy him more. He pulled out a large kitchen knife and plunged it deep into her left thigh, dragging the blade downward until you could see her femur.

She stopped kicking.

“Rip her vocal cords out!” I shouted between giggles.

“Your wish is my command, love.”

He sliced her throat open. The squeaking stopped instantly. Blood poured down her chest as he sawed back and forth.

Finally, the world was saved from that octave.

Jesse dropped the knife, and it accidentally stuck in her other thigh. We both lost it laughing, like that cup-flip game where you freak out when the trick actually works. With his free hand, he reached into the hole in her neck, pulled out a handful of gore, and curled his finger at me. I crawled on my hands and knees through the blood and flesh to him.

He held Ashley’s vocal cords above my face, blood dripping onto me as I put my hands behind my back. My machete rested in front of me.

“How bad do you want to eat this?” he asked in a low murmur.

“I need it, Jesse! Please let me eat it! I need you, Jesse!”

I felt like a starving lion. He knelt down and held the handful of neck meat in front of me.

“You’re such a good slut,” he whispered as I started eating from his hand. The fibers stuck between my teeth. The feeling of her vocal cords sliding down my throat made me moan with pleasure.

“That’s a good little psychopath,” he whispered, sliding his hand down my blood-soaked top.

Within minutes I had eaten all of her and was licking her blood off his fingers. The pressure built between my legs until my thighs turned to jelly and steel at the same time. With one final lick of his middle finger, I climaxed and fell into his shoulder.

“That’s a good slutty maniac,” he said gently, stroking my blood-soaked hair.

“I love you,” I muttered into his shoulder, trying to work the chunks of flesh out from between my teeth with my tongue.

“What the fuck!” Chad’s unmistakable rasp echoed through the blood-stained house.

“What the fuck are you guys doing?!”

Jesse and I looked around, but Chad was nowhere to be seen.

“What the fuck did you guys take?” his voice echoed.

“Yo, be careful with that shit, I dipped it in embalming fluid,” said a voice I couldn’t quite place.

As I came down from my post-orgasm bliss, it hit me. I had fucked up and forgotten to mark which joints had been dipped.

“Jesus Christ, just get out of my house!” Chad yelled.

In less than a second, reality snapped back. Jesse and I were on the white couch, making out furiously with his hand down my open pants. He was rubbing my clit and fingering me right in front of the entire party. I looked at Chad and just started laughing while Jesse kept touching me.

“Get the fuck out of my house!” Chad shouted loud enough for the DJ to cut the music. I kept moaning as everyone stared at us in stunned silence.

Chad eventually had to drag us out, with Jesse refusing to take his hands off me. I won’t get into details, but let’s just say we took full advantage of my parents being gone for the weekend. Sex on pot soaked in embalming fluid is definitely going to be an anniversary tradition.

Over the next couple of weeks, Jesse and I got even closer. At school, everyone was terrified of us, and we loved it. When we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, we’d talk on the phone about our darkest daydreams. He told me about the one where Chad murdered me and how he watched from the basement mirror.

It was so fucking hot I made him write it down for me, and it became my favorite dark smut.

Life felt good. I had finally found someone who just got me. Jesse could look at me and know exactly what I was feeling and what was going on in my head. We were in love, the kind that felt like it would last forever.

Want to know what’s actually kind of funny?

A few months later, it turned out Chad really was a serial killer. From what I heard, he had killed at least six girls, and his parents helped cover it up. He’d bring them home, knock them out, strangle them during sex, then chainsaw the bodies and dump them in industrial bins outside town. He was actually pretty good at covering his tracks, probably studied mob disposal methods.

Ironically, love is what got him caught. After we broke up, he and Ashley got together. Two morons in love, not exactly shocking. One night she caught him in the act. He killed her too, but he couldn’t let go of the Egyptian ankh necklace he’d given her. Cops pulled him over for a busted taillight and spotted it hanging from his rearview mirror. They got a warrant, searched the house, and found Ashley’s blood on the basement walls mixed with Chad’s semen.

He’s facing the death penalty. Personally, I hope he gets the electric chair so his flesh melts. Daydreaming about this shit and getting turned on is one thing. Actually doing it? Fuck that.

Netflix reached out to Jesse and me to appear in some trashy true-crime documentary for stay-at-home moms to flick their beans to. We both told them to fuck off. Maybe someday we’ll do our own podcast. I already have the perfect title:

How a Serial Killer Got Me Out of the Friendzone.

I don’t know what the future holds for Jesse and me, but I see lots of good sex, wild adventures, and a couple of kids in it. And honestly… isn’t that what everyone wants?

Thanks to everyone for reading this two part short story that maybe one day I will turn into something bigger. Hopefully you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. This gave me an opportunity to do a fair amount of things I enjoy like melodrama, teen romance and extreme horror.

It was a weird feeling looking at her locker, covered in flowers and various notes people had taped to it. Her locker was distinct from all the others around it. First, it had a red door where all the others had blue. Second, the top right-hand corner was rusted so badly you could probably knock it out with a few light taps of a hammer and reach right inside. We had those long, full-body lockers at our school, so even if I reached in, I don't know what I could grab, a sweater, maybe? I assumed the cops had already cleaned it out for evidence after they found her body.

Her name was Sara, and she was the most beautiful girl at school. It wasn't even up for debate. She had this striking blonde hair that fell to her hips, looking like strings of gold floating in the air as she ran down the hallway. Her frame was petite, around five-foot-one, give or take a few inches. Yet, despite her tiny frame, she had all the curves that guys go crazy over, with wide hips and an ample chest. All the other guys at school talked about her tits and ass, but for me, it was all about her face and her smile.

If I had to compare her face to anyone, she reminded me of Amanda Seyfried. She had what could only be described as a sexy, wholesome quality. You could take her home to meet your parents and they would approve. Then you could take her to a party later that night and she would be the sexiest girl in the room. Her green eyes reminded me of the shade of moss you only see growing deep in a damp forest. When she looked at me, it was as if her eyes had hypnotic power. Whatever I was thinking about, whatever I was doing, would just vanish. Her eyes made sure I focused entirely on her.

And her lips, oh my fucking god, her lips. I used to just stare at them when she talked to friends or ate lunch, watching them come together and separate, tiny strands of saliva breaking between them. Sometimes I would imagine her talking to me, but with no sound leaving her mouth, just watching her lips open and close.

Her outfits, like everything else about her, were a combination of sweet and so unbelievably hot that you couldn't actually approach her. Most of the time, it was just a simple jeans and tank top setup, but the way her clothes hung on her body made it so damn sexy. Her jeans were always low-cut, and I swear, sometimes they were low enough that I thought I was going to see her underwear. Her tank tops varied, some high-cut, some low, but she always had a bit of her stomach exposed. She had the cutest belly button ring in the shape of a red heart. See what I mean by cute and hot?

The days she wore low-cut tank tops, I didn't even like being around her. It's not that I didn't *want* to be, but it just didn't seem fair. She would lean over, and I would see the freckles on her chest, and honestly, there were days I thought I was going to pass out. I spent so many days wondering what her breasts actually looked like. Did she have big or small areolas? Were they dark or pink? Were they sensitive or not? I didn't care either way, because I knew I would love them regardless.

When I heard her laugh in the hall, the only way I could describe it was like hearing an angel speak. It was at a frequency I hadn't heard before and will never hear again. No one laughed like Sara, and now that sound was gone forever. I stared at her locker with all the different colored flowers, and a tear rolled down my cheek. That was Sara: an angel taken away from me before I could ever tell her how I felt.

I call her my friend, but we weren't really that. Sure, we would talk in the hallway sometimes, and by "sometimes," I mean when she needed help with her math homework. By "help," that meant me just doing the work for her. My reward would be a quick hug where I got to take in a bit of her scent. It was a mix of vanilla and her natural, salty sweat. No one else noticed stuff like that about her, just me. I knew the exact point where her perfume stopped and her true, beautiful smell came through.

I fell in love with Sara the moment I saw her, and over the years, that love deepened from a distance. You can learn a lot about someone when they don't think you're watching.

I noticed the way she would always brush her golden silk hair behind her right ear, never her left. I noticed that when she talked, she had a hard time looking someone directly in the eye; her gaze would dart away to something else nearby. Maybe she didn't find most people very interesting, or maybe it was just a simple nervous tic. I loved the way her cute, barely visible birthmark on her left cheek would get lost in her dimples when she smiled.

I also knew her signs of sadness, signs she put on full display, even though no one else noticed. She wouldn't wear tank tops when she was sad; she’d wear zip-up hoodies, and only zip-up hoodies. Her lips would press together, causing little lines to form at the corners of her mouth. The red veins in her eyes would multiply, and her breathing would become short and fast. None of her friends noticed, but I did. I saw it at lunch, in class, or when I passed by her in the hallway.

In many ways, I knew Sara better than the people she was closest to. To all her friends, her favorite musician was Taylor Swift. But I knew that when people weren't around, she listened to metal and punk. I even knew her weird way of eating chicken fingers: first, she would dip them in plum sauce, but she wouldn't eat them with the sauce. She would suck the sauce off first before actually eating the chicken.

I noticed how she would always smell something before eating it. Whether it was a bag of chips, cucumber slices, or an apple, she would always breathe in deeply before taking a bite.

When she was fighting with her parents or her friends, she had a special spot in the forest that no one knew about. It was tucked right between two dead trees, and the surrounding canopy was so dense that only a few rays of light made it through. She would sit on the left dead tree, kicking at the leaves or the moss on the rocks near her feet. This was where she would smoke, something else no one knew about, and on more than a couple of occasions, drink.

All this is to say that most people don't really know anyone, and no one paid attention to Sara like I did. Everyone else just saw the beautiful girl who always smiled, the girl everyone else wanted to be.

At the time of her death, Sara was dating the resident "Chad" of our high school. Fittingly, his name was actually Chad White. The most boring, generic name in the history of humankind.

He was the star quarterback of the football team, and he could have had any girl in school. The dude was rocking biceps, protruding pecs, and a six-pack in the seventh grade, and on top of it all, he was six-foot-three. He didn't have a single thought in his head, because why should he? Everything went his way, and the worst part was that he didn't even have to try. Playing football was a breeze for him, and it always had been. Picking up girls? Come on. They flocked to him. He had his pick of them like he was scrolling through Netflix. Even with schoolwork, he just had other people do it for him, yet he was still going to college on a full scholarship just because he could throw a ball better than most.

His unofficial nickname among his buddies was "Chad Thundercock," because, according to them, his dick was like lightning and made all the girls scream. It goes without saying that everything about Chad made me sick. He didn't give a fuck about Sara. To him, she was just another football trophy, just another sex story he could brag about to his friends.

One time, Chad and his friends came into the bathroom. They didn't know I was in one of the stalls. Chad told them all about what a freak Sara was in the sack. How she would deep-throat him, how she would scream his name, how much she loved his cock and always wanted it. At one point, he started talking about finishing on her face, and I had to let out a loud cough just so they would stop.

I didn't believe his stories. There was no way Sara was like that. The things he said she did? Nope. No way. Chad was just talking shit to look impressive to his friends, like Neanderthals do. I wasn't a moron; I knew Sara had had sex before. She wasn't some angelic virgin. But the stuff Chad was talking about? That wasn't her.

They dated for a few months, but I could tell she wasn't ever really happy with him. How could she be? Sara was actually smart. Sara actually had depth. Sara was more than just a pretty face. Chad, on the other hand, had none of those things.

Sometimes, I would try to imagine what a conversation between them would actually sound like, but all I could come up with was silence. Because what the fuck would they actually talk about? The thought of them even kissing seemed completely wrong. Sure, they were both good-looking, but the couple of times I saw them kiss, Sara didn't have any passion or desire in her eyes. She looked like she wanted to be anywhere else. I could only imagine what sex was like for her. It was probably painful, because there was no way Chad cared about foreplay, and there was no way Sara actually climaxed, because that would require Chad to care about someone other than himself.

I know who killed Sara.

I know, because I saw it that night. I watched it happen through a basement window.

I had followed Sara to Chad's place. It was a stormy night, with blue lightning spider-webbing across the sky. The rain was coming down so heavily that within seconds, you were completely soaked. I had overheard in the hallway that she was going to Chad's, so I waited for her to get off school. I followed on foot behind her car, losing sight of her in the rain a few times.

No one else was out on the streets because of the sheer volume of water coming down. It felt like my shoes were coming apart as they filled with rain. I watched temporary rivers cut themselves into the dirt, washing the entire neighborhood's trash into the sewers.

Chad's house wasn't far from the school, only a ten-minute walk, which meant Sara was already there by the time I arrived. The thought of his hands on her, their lips touching, and I can't even mention the other stuff, made me want to vomit. How in the fuck Sara thought she couldn't do better than Chad pissed me off to no end. There were hours throughout the day where I would just sit and stew in anger, thinking about them together. On my walk to his place, that's all I could think about. How Sara was dating a guy who would brag about her apparent oral skills to his friends.

Like, fuck off, seriously. What the fuck was wrong with Chad? Didn't he appreciate anything life gave him? People would literally kill to be with a girl like Sara, and to him, it was just a notch on the good old belt. Fucking life is absolutely garbage sometimes, and Sara being with Chad was a prime example of it.

She was parked on the street across from his house. That was another weird thing she did: not once did I see her park in his driveway, despite there always being an empty spot for her.

The house itself was an imposing three stories of red brick with a giant wraparound patio in the front. I saw the interior lights turn on, though the glow looked muddy through the torrential downpour. As I crept closer, I could hear the water squishing inside my shoes. My feet were already pruning; if I stayed out here much longer, I'd probably get trench foot. The lawn was incredibly slick. With each step I took, I ripped up chunks of grass, leaving small sinkholes of mud in my wake.

I couldn't go up on the deck to look through the main windows, they’d catch me for sure. So, I settled for sitting down in the mud near the basement window well. I had done this once or twice before, usually just settling for catching a stray word here and there. Most of the time, it was just her moans being interrupted by Chad's gross grunting.

There I sat in the freezing mud, rain pouring down as thunder cracked above me. I wasn't going to hear any moans over the roar of the storm, but I thought maybe I could rely on my memory. I knew her distinct sounds. I knew how her breathing went fast and shallow right before she climaxed. I closed my eyes, ready to just imagine those sounds and picture her beautiful face contorting in pleasure.

Then, the lights flicked on in the basement.

I looked through the window, but the glass was sheets of rain. I used my wet jacket sleeve to clear a spot. I couldn't get a clear view through the streaks, so I had to wipe it a few more times.

Chad and Sara were making out. His hand grabbed the back of her head, pressing his lips hard against hers.

I had to wipe the glass again, the streaks of water making it too blurry to see.

Her hands slipped up under his white tank top, rubbing his pecs and abs. He grabbed a handful of her long golden hair, yanking her head back. Her face twisted into absolute ecstasy as he started kissing her neck passionately.

Once again, I wiped the glass. But as my sleeve grew heavier with rain, it became harder to keep the window clear.

I leaned in closer, lying flat on my stomach in the mud just as a crack of thunder, louder than any I had ever heard, exploded above me. In any other circumstance, I would have jumped out of my skin. But not now. Not in the middle of this.

I couldn't hear their voices, but I could tell Sara was moaning as Chad's tongue traced from her ear down to the top of her cleavage. She feverishly reached for the button of his jeans, but he grabbed her wrists and pinned them behind her back. This made her smile, a smile I had never seen before. All her teeth were on full display, her eyes crazed and entirely fixated on him. In that moment, Chad could have told her to do anything, and Sara would have done it if it meant she got to take his pants off.

I wiped the glass again as the rain started to turn icy cold.

It was difficult seeing his face between the water streaks, but it was perfectly clear what was happening below. He had his hand on the back of Sara's head, pressing her face against his crotch, his jeans still on. I guess he had commanded her to keep her arms behind her back, because they hadn't moved an inch. Her eyes looked desperate as she stared up at him. He pressed his thumb to her lips, and the second he did, she started sucking on it, kissing his hand.

I wiped the glass again as the icy rain turned into small pellets of hail. It wasn't enough to hurt me, but at that moment, I wouldn't have moved even if they had turned into golf balls.

He made a brief gesture with his free hand. Sara immediately pulled off her white tank top, dropping it to the floor before swiftly putting her hands back behind her. She sat there on her knees in just her bra and blue jeans.

Then, suddenly, Chad slapped her across the face.

Not with a ton of force, but enough to sting, that's for sure. She shook the hair out of her eyes and looked back up at him towering over her. She looked even more desperate, and happier, than she did before. The only thing she wanted was his cock, and he was in complete control of whether she was going to get it or not.

He slapped her again. This time, it was hard enough to cause a trickle of blood to spill from her lip. Still, she smiled. She was actually enjoying what he was doing to her.

He pressed her face against his crotch again, much more forcefully this time, before violently yanking her back by the hair. She left a faint trace of blood on his denim. He pulled her hair back even harder, forcing her spine to arch. He didn't slap her this time. He spat in her face, then used his free hand to smear it all over her skin. Her lipstick, her eyeshadow, her makeup, it was all ruined now. But she just kept smiling. She actually laughed in joy.

He slapped her a third time, swinging so hard it sent her sprawling to the floor. Grabbing her by the throat, he dragged her back up to her knees. That last hit had busted her nose. Blood was dripping from it now.

She took a bit longer to return to her position, hands behind her back, looking up at him with hunger in her eyes. Blood dripped from her nose and landed on her lips. Chad reached down, rubbed some onto his thumb, and sucked it off. It continued dripping down to her cleavage, falling between her tits and running down her flat stomach.

The hail mixed with rain stopped suddenly, and silent lightning flashed across the sky. My dick began to harden as I watched what was happening. I had only ever heard Sara moan. I had never actually seen her like this, sexual, raw, desperate.

I wiped the condensation off the glass, and my view finally cleared as Chad dropped to one knee and grabbed her throat. I pressed my ear against the window. The cold sent a chill straight down my ear canal. I could just barely make out what he was saying, like a distorted ham radio recording of a recording.

“You love me, right?” he asked as blood continued to drip down her nose and lips.

She didn’t speak. She simply nodded her head up and down.

Chad groped her chest, and she let out a moan I had never heard before, the sound of pure animalistic desire. As he slid his hand down her bra, her eyes rolled back and she reached out to touch him. This time he didn’t slap her. He punched her.

His right hand came around in a downward arc, landing squarely on her jaw. Blood sprayed from her mouth, and it was hard to tell, but it looked like a few of her teeth fell to the floor like loose change. This time she didn’t get back up. She just lay sprawled across the floor, her face pressed against the concrete.

My dick grew harder. I reached down and pressed it against my jeans.

He stood over her body, a trail of blood leaking from the left side of her head.

“You love me, right?”

With her face still pressed to the cement, she didn’t lift it. Instead, she dragged her head up and down along the concrete, the blood now flowing in a steady stream.

Then time slowed down.

He raised his left leg high in the air and, in what looy like slow motion, slammed it as hard as he could into the back of her head. Even from my distance and through the wall, I heard her nose and cheekbones cave in. Blood sprayed across the concrete.

My dick got even harder despite my attempts to will it away.

Again he raised his foot and brought it down. This time there was no crunch, just a wet, squashing sound.

“Do you love me?” he asked again.

I didn’t expect her to respond. I assumed she was already dead or seconds away from it. But her head moved, barely noticeable, but it was an up-and-down motion.

He grabbed her by the shoulder and flipped her over with ease. The beautiful angel she once was had vanished.

Her nose was caved in and bent sharply to the left. The left side of her face was both swollen and compressed. Her cheekbone and orbital bone were shattered. That eye was swollen shut. Too many cuts and bruises to count covered the rest of her face. When she opened her mouth, only bubbling dark blood came out, along with a few of her front teeth.

He grabbed her by the neck and began to choke her. At first her arms flailed, desperately trying to pull his arm away, but that only lasted a few seconds. My dick pressed so hard against my jeans I thought the zipper might break. He held his death grip firm as her body spasmed, blood pouring from her nose and mouth.

Her face turned, and her right eye, the one that wasn’t totally pulverized, locked with mine. Burst blood vessels lined the white, but her mossy green iris was still intact. She looked at me with pure desperation and terror. Her lips moved, blood dripping down the sides, and I read them clearly:

Please help.

My cock continued to stiffen as her eyes stayed locked on mine. Then it happened, that unmistakable look only dead bodies have. That death stare that cuts across time and space. Still, her one good eye remained locked on mine. Inside my pants, I felt the little death release. As soon as we both climaxed, the rain came down heavier than before.

Frantically I tried wiping the glass, but it was pouring too hard now. I couldn’t see inside anymore. I could hear the sounds of a chainsaw, followed by the rustling of garbage bags being opened. She wasn’t my angel anymore. Angels don’t die. She was nothing but unconnected parts now, a leg separated from the body, a head no longer on its shoulders. She wasn’t my problem anymore.

Chad had given me a gift I didn’t know I needed. He showed me that no one was an angel. We were all just blood and flesh.

He got me out of the friendzone.

Suddenly, I heard Sara’s voice cutting through the rain and thunder.

“Hey, are you going to ask me something?”

My cock immediately went flaccid.

“Hey, Earth to Jesse, are you going to ask me something?”

Suddenly I was back in the hallway at school. There she was at her locker. The flowers, the notes, everything was gone. It was just me staring at her, the hallway empty around us. She wore a tight tank top and low-cut jeans, her heart-shaped belly button ring dangling. My eyes drifted up to her face. It was just as angelic as before. Her green eyes burned into mine as my hands started to shake and my legs went weak.

“I already know what you’re going to ask,” she said, “and yes. Let’s hang out sometime, Jesse.”

The words caught in my throat. I had to force them out.

“Ummm… yeah, let’s do that, Sara… but what about Chad…?”

She stepped closer, brushing her hair over her right ear the way she always did. Her vanilla scent mixed with her natural smell flooded my nose. I could practically taste her.

“Chad is a goof,” she said, leaning in and kissing me on the cheek. “I want to try something different.”

I froze searching for a response as the realization of her wanting to hang out and kissing me on the cheek still hadn't hit.

“Not much of a talker Jesse” she laughed brushing her hair over her right ear again.

“Oh sorry…still adjusting from my daydream…..”

She grabbed my hand and we began to walk down the hallway with both of us smiling from ear to ear.

Audio Version

I stumbled home from the bar, which was a pretty normal occurrence for me. I wasn’t an alcoholic or anything; I just liked to finish some of my days off with a few wobbly pops.

Over the years, I learned that if I stuck to beer, I was usually fine. It was the hard stuff that led to trouble. My local bar knew that about me and wouldn’t serve me liquor no matter what. Now, if I snuck it in from time to time, that didn’t count, I suppose. They weren’t serving it to me, and I could only sneak in so much without getting caught.

I didn’t consider myself an alcoholic, but from an outsider’s perspective, people would probably call me a “functional” one. I didn’t get violent. I wasn’t prone to self-pity. I always made it to work and kept my shit together. Sure, there was the vomiting at night or in the mornings, the constant brain fog from hangovers, the terrible diet, and the non-stop smoking. But hey, we all have bad habits.

I was just a man who no longer cared about the absurdity of life. You see these people running around trying to get somewhere or understand something, only to end up nowhere, or right back where they started.

Take my neighbor, for example. He was a nice guy, the kind of guy everyone would want as a neighbor. He kept his lawn pristine, his kids were well-behaved, and he’d invite you over for BBQs. But of course, the fucker didn’t drink.

Let’s call him Marc, because his real name doesn’t matter. Marc was a Christian. What denomination? I didn’t have the faintest idea. Catholic or Protestant, probably. He wasn’t whatever the Russians are. Marc thought he had everything figured out: go to church, pray to God, read your Bible, follow the rules, and when you die, you get into heaven. That’s what his religion told him, and honestly, it seemed like a pretty nice way to live. The results spoke for themselves. He was always smiling, always willing to lend a hand, and he had a wonderful family.

Yet I fucking hated people like Marc.

Don’t get it twisted, I wasn’t going to hurt him or his family. It was the absolute arrogance of his beliefs that drove me nuts. How did he know any of this shit was true? Heaven, God, Jesus, miracles—other than simply assuring himself that it was. I couldn’t trust a man like that. A man who never examined why he believed what he believed.

Like, say I went home, grabbed my gun, and shot his entire family in the face. Would he still believe in God? Would that have been part of “God’s plan”? Not to mention, doesn’t his God tell him to turn the other cheek?

Marc knew about my drinking. On more than one occasion, he helped me to the bathroom so I could puke my guts out, only for me to fill them right back up with booze. He’d try to talk to me about God, but I wasn’t having any of it. Fuck him and the high horse he rode in on.

What made Marc so much better than me, honestly? He was afraid to experience life in all its absurdity, so he sheltered himself in his own little bubble. Yeah, he could play the part of the loyal husband, but deep down, Marc had the same thoughts any guy with a dick has. *What it would be like to fuck Cindy a few streets over. He definitely pictured her fake tits in his face, her bent over the kitchen counter begging for more while screaming, Oh God.

He could fool others, but he wasn’t fooling me. Marc had the same depraved thoughts we all have. Though calling them “depraved” is bullshit. That’s just how his people frame it, like wanting to see Cindy looking up at you with those green eyes while sucking your cock is somehow evil.

Give me a fucking break. I’d seen the men coming in and out of her place. And it’s not like I sat outside her house watching, I wasn’t that kind of creep. But fuck it, what if I was? What’s so wrong with that? It’s not like I was peering through her windows or taking videos. I’d just be sitting in my car, thinking about whatever new guy she had in there. Nothing wrong with that. What’s the difference between that and Marc fantasizing about what Cindy would do in bed that his frigid, cock-scared wife wouldn’t?

For the record, I never parked in front of her house drinking while doing that. I can’t make that clear enough.

My whole point is that, stripped of his self-righteous bullshit, Marc was exactly the same as me. Sure, I wasn’t the smartest guy, and the drinking over the years hadn’t helped. But let me assure you of one thing: the bottle and the bar scene give you a front-row seat to how people actually are.

Take this regular at my bar. Let’s call him John. John wasn’t a drinker like me; I’d only see him once a week, maybe once every two weeks at most. But when John drank, it was watch-the-fuck-out time. John couldn’t accept the absurdity of life. Everything made him angry, from work, to his wife, to his kids, and ultimately how none of it made sense. The moment he walked in, you could see the bartender cringe because they knew what was coming.

John would start off fine, talking about sports or whatever bullshit guys talk about. But as the night wore on, the real John emerged. It would begin with bitching about his job and especially his boss. I never bothered to remember what John did for a living, but judging by his rough hands, it wasn’t easy work. He’d rail about how he wanted to strangle his boss, how the man didn’t appreciate everything he did. I don’t know, maybe he was telling the truth. Lots of bosses are dicks. I’d daydream about killing my own boss sometimes. Like sticking his tie in the big industrial printer and watching his head get squished into a pancake. Or tying him to a chair and killing him with paper cuts. How many paper cuts would it actually take?

But that’s enough about me. Back to John. Once he finished complaining about work, he’d move on to his family. From a distance, I’ll admit it was amusing to hear his anger directed at his wife. The fucking bitch was always on his back, always complaining that he didn’t help around the house, always on his phone, all the typical shit everyone deals with in marriage.

Sometimes he would get into his sex life, depending on how drunk he got. He would yell about how his fucking cunt of a wife hadn’t sucked his dick in years, how when they had sex she didn’t make a noise and just laid there like some kind of flesh sack.

I wonder what it would be like to fuck someone acting like a dead body. Just lying there, completely still, not making any sound. There’s a strange beauty in that, but the problem is you could still feel the warmth, which kind of ruins the experience. Like if you really wanted to take it further, you could shove ice cubes up her pussy, but that’s enough, back to John.

What John needed was to go visit Cindy. I could just imagine how his eyes would roll back in his head as her nose pressed against his hairy stomach while she gagged on his cock. John wasn’t the type to make love. He would probably press her head down until she couldn’t breathe anymore, causing her to spray snot out of her nose.

Okay, back to John and his family. Once he was done bitching about his wife, his wrath would turn to his kids. He had one daughter who thought she was a boy and a son who thought he was a girl. Personally, I’m of the opinion that sure, do whatever you want. But I’ll admit that’s probably not how most people expect their kids to turn out.

The one who thought he was a girl was apparently suicidal and would cut himself often. John came home one time and all he wanted to do was take a shit. He walked in on his son, dressed in a short plaid skirt, cutting his thighs. Apparently John ended up shitting his pants, and his wife gave him shit about it. No pun intended.

The daughter who thought she was a boy was suicidal in a different way. She was a drug addict, and all the pills in the house had to be locked up at all times. One time John came home and she or he, it gets confusing sometimes, tried to kill herself using laxatives. From what I could gather, he had to sit outside with her in the backyard as she shit her guts out. Afterwards, John had to dig a giant hole to bury the excrement, like he was cleaning up after a dog.

This is all to say I get why John was an angry dude and would probably end up killing himself one day. Me personally? I would have just walked away from the whole situation and gone straight to Cindy’s house.

John knew who Cindy was—everyone did. If he could just stick his dick in her a few times, I bet all his problems would go away. It’s easier to come home to whatever you could call his family situation after dropping a load in Cindy’s tight hairy snatch.

I bet John didn’t have a big dick. Probably a thick one, but no way it was very long. Cindy for sure had a 70s-style bush that guys loved rubbing their faces on. But okay, enough about dicks and bushes. Let’s get back to John.

After complaining about his kids, John would get angry and start trying to pick fights. Most of the time people just ignored him, but there was one time he smashed a beer bottle over his own head. The dude cut his forehead wide open and poured blood everywhere. I don’t understand how he was ever allowed back in the place after that, but I thought it was pretty funny. Not every day you see that much blood while a guy is crying about the fact his kids don’t know who they are.

John was the opposite of Marc in almost every single way, but with one key similarity.

Marc thought he had it all figured out. He could fantasize about sticking it in Cindy’s ass, but he knew how this whole thing we call life works. John, despite wanting to gag Cindy with his dick and choke her out, thought that what was happening to him wasn’t part of the plan he envisioned.

See what I’m trying to say? They both believe in some kind of plan, but me? I don’t, I get off work, I get drunk, and I think about what it would be like to see Marc’s wife and Cindy making out while I sit in the corner drinking. That’s life, right? Just watching two chicks making out as you film them? Maybe they do more than make out. Maybe Marc’s wife is way more twisted than her flat ass and thin lips suggest. Maybe she ties Cindy up, pours wax over her tits, and takes a lighter to some of her glorious red pubic hair.

I don’t know why Cindy has red pubic hair, she isn’t a ginger, but why does that fucking matter? What matters is that there is no plan, good or bad. There’s just Marc’s wife burning her pubic hair. Then Marc’s wife comes over to me as I film, pulls out my dick with its scratchy grey hair all along the shaft. I can’t get hard. I can never get hard, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Marc is in the room now, watching as his wife gets irritated that I can’t get hard for her. Marc pulls her up and they both laugh at me as they passionately kiss, and all I can think about is how my dick was just in her mouth.

That’s life though, right? Sometimes you kiss the mouth of someone that just had a dick in it.

John comes into the room with a knife in his hand. Cindy tries screaming but she has a gag ball in her mouth. Is John going to cut her up? Marc and his wife don’t pay attention as he climbs on top of Cindy, dangling the large kitchen knife between his thumb and index finger, swaying it back and forth.

With my pants around my ankles, I move toward John and Cindy, feeling my shaggy balls slapping against my thighs. That’s life, right? Old man balls and a dangling knife right above your head.

Marc, that self-righteous fuck, thinks he has it all figured out, but he doesn’t know what goes on in Cindy’s room. I know a guy that parks outside her house, it’s not me, I can’t make that clear enough, but it’s another guy and I don’t know his name. I see him there all the time and I know he’s jerking it because how the fuck else do you explain the steam on the windows?

I’m not saying Cindy is into knife play, but what if she was? I bet John would be the perfect person to do it with. He would walk that line between fun and “oh my God this guy could cut my tits off and feed them to me.” That’s life, right? Just eating your own tits while some of us can’t even get hard when Marc’s wife is trying to suck your dick.

My whole point is there is no plan. And if there was a plan, it would involve Cindy in some way.

Like I could drive my car drunk, crash into another car, and kill an entire family. Watch the dad crawl out of the wreckage covered in the blood of his kids, and his eyes full of glass. His last image is me drinking from a brown bag, still amused by what I had just caused.

That could happen, but it’s unlikely because I don’t drink and drive. But if I did… maybe, just maybe, I have thought about hitting a minivan in a head-on collision.

I wonder if Cindy would be into that kind of thing, like from that movie..fuck, what’s it called with that creepy Spader guy… Crash, that’s it.

Let’s say we go back to that family I just killed. I could drag the kids out of the wreck. They look about 10 and 8, one boy and one girl. The boy’s femurs are snapped in half with the bone sticking out, and the girl’s arms are ripped off from the elbow. The boy is in a cute little Spider-Man shirt and the girl is in an Elsa dress from Frozen. Cindy could be leaning against the car fingering herself as their faces drag across the broken glass and concrete.

Yeah, that seems like something she would be into, me covered in kids’ blood and her getting off on all the absurdity.

I wonder what Marc’s God would think about that? Would that be justice? Would that be part of his goddamned plan?

Fuck Marc and fuck his God.

I bet John would be happy if I hit his minivan and killed his entire family. Maybe Cindy could sit on his dead wife’s face, grinding her pussy on it, while I take a shit on one of his kids. Yeah, John would be happy about that, his last sounds finally hearing a woman orgasm in person, even if it was Cindy grinding on his wife.

Now that’s part of God’s plan Marc, me taking a shit on some kids I just killed because John over here couldn’t stand his life or family anymore.

So when you stop and think about it, me being a drunk was part of God’s plan all along, Marc!

Yep, that’s life alright. Absurdity. And the only response is to just keep on drinking and thinking about Cindy getting cut up or her fucking some dead person.

“Fuck Carl, not again,” I heard a voice say.

When I woke up I was passed out at the urinal with a half-eaten baloney sandwich in my right hand. Spitting out a few strands of colored pubic hair that fell from my lips, I let out a laugh.

“Can you pass me a towel or something? It appears some other customers have pissed on me.”

Part one

Part 2

Audio Version

Explicit Content!!!

“Yo, you didn't tell me your sister was that hot,” I said, jabbing a fist into Chris’s shoulder.

“Mia, for fuck's sake, can you calm down a bit?” he shot back, punching me in return with a grin.

“Don't go acting like some goddamn saint,” I laughed, the sound sharp and jagged. “You were kissing a girl you’d blown the head off just last week.”

Chris just shook his head, looking away with a slight, knowing smile. He couldn't argue; I wasn't lying.

The news was calling the massacre at the club the worst atrocity to ever hit this city. Personally, I thought they were being dramatic. Sure, heads had been ripped clean off their shoulders and intestines had been strung up to decorate the place like it was the middle of December. But the club hadn't even been that packed; we’d only killed a couple dozen people at most. Chris had only claimed one of them, but Christ, it was hot. The way he’d leaned down to kiss her cooling lips right after the kill made my blood run cold in all the right ways.

Then he’d agreed to kill his sister. Honestly, that was the vampire equivalent of him getting down on one knee and asking to marry me. It had been a fun couple of days—nothing but slaughter and fucking. And yes, vampires fuck. I know there’s some popular belief that we don’t, but that’s human nonsense. We fuck better and harder than any of the living ever could.

Two days ago, Chris needed a new suit. We were both hungrier than any mortal could imagine. I didn't know a thing about high-end fashion, but he knew everything there was to know about threads. It was almost funny; when we first walked into the tailor’s, Chris actually reached for his wallet. I looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I whispered. "We don't pay for things anymore, Chris. We just take."

I wanted him to do it—to really lean into his new abilities. So, as he spoke to the older man behind the counter, I hung back in the corner, watching in hungry anticipation. He didn't even hesitate. He reached across the counter with breakneck speed and seized the man by his silk tie.

With a sickening crunch, Chris slammed the man’s face into the glass display counter. The glass shattered instantly, shards embedding themselves deep into the man’s eyes and cheeks. Without missing a beat, Chris used the blue tie to haul him back up and began to systematically pulverize his face.

Each punch was more ruthless than the last. I watched as the man’s nose caved in, followed by the wet snap of his eye sockets collapsing. Front teeth flew like white sparks across the room. Chris stood over him as the tailor began to writhe in a growing pool of blood and jagged glass.

I broke out laughing from the corner and sprinted to him, wrapping my arms around his neck. I kissed him passionately, the sound of our passion drowned out only by the weak, gurgling cries of the dying cashier. I ran my tongue over Chris's fangs but don’t ask, it’s a vampire thing.

When we finally broke the kiss, I looked down at the sad sack of meat trying to crawl away. He was wearing a wedding ring, a simple, polished gold band.

“We just made someone a widow,” I chuckled, grabbing Chris’s hand and sliding it up under my top. “Probably made some kids fatherless, too.”

He began to knead my breast, his eyes dark and fixed on mine. He pulled back just an inch. “Let’s eat first,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Before we fuck.”

“Never fuck on an empty stomach... isn't that the saying?” I teased, seductively licking the fresh blood off his knuckles.

We fell on the old man like starving animals. I started at the legs, ripping through the fabric of his slacks to get to the meat, while Chris went for the face. At one point, he looked up at me, a stray eyeball caught between his teeth, while I worked on a jagged chunk of thigh.

By the time we were finished, there wasn't much left attached to the bone. His femurs were white and exposed; only raw fragments of his face and neck remained. I indulged in my specialty, tearing his abdomen open until his intestines were draped over the shattered counter like grisly tinsel. We made sure to leave the finger with the gold ring intact, perched on the edge of the display—it just felt like the right thing to do.

Once we were full, we fucked, hard and fast, right there in the wreckage. Chris could barely contain himself, ripping my top to shreds and using a handful of gore to paint my breasts and stomach in a thick, hot coat of red. We rolled around in the stomach acid, blood, and insides as our tongues licked the coating of red off each other. My tongue traced his chiseled abs, up to his pecs and along his throat.

The best feeling in the world is fucking on a full stomach of blood. He whispered in my ear, “You look so hot with his flesh stuck in between your teeth.”

I leaned down and ripped a chunk of flesh off the victim's forearm, exposing the bone. With the meat between my teeth, I grabbed Chris by the shirt, forcing his eyes to meet mine. We both started chewing on the flesh in my mouth, the blood dripping down our chins. It was like the scene from Lady and the Tramp, two love drunk vampires sharing a bit of meat and its juicy, coppery heat. At the end, our lips touched and I dragged my tongue over his fangs.

We fucked on top of the corpse, a quickie fueled by the adrenaline of the kill. Eventually, all of the attention we were attracting would catch up to us. We left the store and watched the news reports; the city was in a panic, wondering if the McDonald’s and the nightclub massacres were the work of the same monsters.

Back at the car, I stared at his sister, Chloe, through the window. She was outside on her deck with some friends. She had on a tight white tank top and a skirt that was even tighter. I couldn't see her face clearly from this distance, but her hair was dyed that dark shade of red that every other girl seemed to have now.

“So, tell me... how are you going to do it?” I asked, putting my hand on his upper thigh.

"Do what? ” Chris responded, covering my hand with his.

"Don't be a fucking dumbass. I want to know how you're going to kill your sister."

“I don't know. Maybe rip her neck off? That's what we do, right? "

"No, absolutely not," I said angrily, my nails extending into sharp points. "That's your sister, for fuck's sake. You can't just kill her like some homeless guy on the street. This needs to be art, Chris. It needs to be a masterpiece."

“What do you want me to do then?” he asked, his eyes drifting toward the house as the girls, including Chloe, headed back inside.

I grinned. “Maybe rip her tits off, or her face, or… you could rape her first. Is she a virgin? Fuck, imagine how metal that would be, her first time being with you, her own brother, raping her… and then you kill her right after. Absolutely brilliant.” I giggled, lifting my hands in the air with excitement.

Chris looked at me, far less enthusiastic. “Really, Mia? You want me to do that?”

I grabbed his face and turned it toward me, my razor-sharp nails pressing gently against his skin. “Yeah, actually, *I* want to listen you rape her. What’s wrong— you not tough enough for that?”

I slid my hand between his legs and squeezed. A small smile crept across his face as I felt him stiffen through his jeans.

“See? You’re already getting turned on by it,” I whispered in his ear, then softly kissed his neck.

“You’re going to take her to the bathroom, lock the door, and start by playing with her down here.” I grabbed his hand and guided it up my skirt so he could feel how wet I was getting. “Make sure your nails are long and sharp. Slide them inside her and rip her pussy apart from the inside out. Blood makes great lube anyway. I’ll be right outside the door, listening. First her screams… then her whimpers as she starts to give up… and finally that sweet silence when she accepts she’s going to die.”

He began rubbing me frantically. I could feel his cock getting harder, straining against his jeans.

“You’re really a sick fuck, you know that?” he whispered, his voice low and hungry.

I moaned softly. “You love it. Don’t pretend what I just described didn’t turn you on.”

His hand slid up under my top, fingers gripping my nipples as his hot breath brushed my neck. I was about to climb on top of him when I noticed it, a full moon hanging in the sky, bright enough to illuminate the entire street. Its craters and cracks were clearly visible. I wondered if I would live as long as the moon. In theory, it was possible, I was an immortal vampire after all.

Chris kept running his hands up and down my body, but I was barely paying attention, lost in the moon’s glow.

“What the hell?” he said, annoyed. “You get me all worked up and then just stop?”

“Oh, I was just looking at the moon,” I murmured. “Doesn’t it look extra big and bright tonight?”

“Fuck the moon,” he replied dismissively.

Before I could answer, screams erupted from the house, a wall of guttural wails of pure horror and despair. The lights in the two-story red brick house began to flicker wildly as the screaming grew louder and more desperate.

“What the fuck is going on?” Chris asked, finally taking his hands off me.

I immediately bolted out of the car to get a better look at the house. My muscles pumped, hardening like cold steel. My fangs extended, and my fingernails sharpened into razor-edged talons. Whoever was in that house was about to get ripped to shreds. My veins pulsed, and I could feel my eyes twitching, locking into what I’d started calling "McDonald's Mode."

Chris was still lingering in the car. I was half a second away from ripping the door right off its hinges to drag him out. He spared me from doing that, and stepped out into the night.

"Follow me," I roared, my voice a jagged, animalistic rasp.

I leapt forward. Each of my strides covered the length of five human steps. Chris trailed behind me as I kept my breathing low, stalking toward the property. We hunkered down behind a cluster of ancient pines in the front yard.

The view was a nightmare. Every window had been painted in fresh streaks of blood. The screaming inside hadn't stopped—it had only changed to a lower desperate pitch. Light pulsed out through the blood-smeared glass in rhythmic, nauseating flashes.

"Full moon…" Chris whispered, peering through a crack in the pine bark.

"Yeah, a full moon," I replied, dragging my tongue across the points of my fangs.

"Come on, Mia. Do I have to spell it out for you?" His voice was an octave too high, full of nervousness.

Fast as a cheetah, I wrapped my hand around his mouth and brought my face inches from his. When we went into hunt mode, our eyes changed; mine turned a burning, predatory red, and Chris’s shifted into a polished, cold silver. I didn't know if it was just a gender quirk. I hadn’t met any other vampires, besides the one who turned me and I couldn't remember what he looked like.

"Say another word and I will rip your jaw off. And that won't grow back," I seethed. He tried to speak, the sounds coming out as muffled grunts against my palm.

Suddenly, a window shattered. My head snapped toward the sound with the reflexes of a cat. A severed arm landed on the lawn spraying blood. Judging by the hair and the sheer bulk, it had belonged to a large man. My brain short-circuited. Was there another vampire in there?

My hand dropped from Chris’s mouth as I tried to process the sight.

"Full moon! It’s a fucking werewolf!" Chris yelled, loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. I wanted to end him right there, but I had bigger problems.

"There’s no such thing as werewolves, dumb fuck!" I hissed.

Smash

Another window gave way. This time, a head flew out like it had been shot from a cannon. It skipped across the grass and rolled until it hit the base of our tree. It was a man with a shock of ginger hair, his mouth frozen open to reveal a set of neglected teeth. Blood pulsed from the jagged neck, darkening the soil beneath us.

Smash.

The rest of the ginger man followed, his torso hitting the ground with a heavy, wet thud. Before I could blink, a teenage girl came sprinting out the front door. Her arm had been torn clean from the shoulder, making her run with a frantic, lopsided tilt. Her top had been shredded away, exposing her modest and floppy tits to the cold air.

She tripped on the steps, and I couldn't help but laugh, watching her struggle to get back up was funny. With only one arm, every time she tried to push herself up, she just slipped, her chest scraping painfully against the grit of the cement. Blood sprayed comically from the stump of her shoulder.

By now, every window in the house was a jagged hole. Body parts began to rain onto the lawn. A severed hand smashed into the one-armed girl as she tried to get back up. Then, a howl ripped through the air, the unmistakable, bone-chilling sound of a wolf talking at the moon.

*Was Chris actually right? Was there a fucking werewolf in that house? *

“See? I fucking told you! A werewolf!” Chris shouted.

I spun and sent a backhand across his jaw. He spat blood onto the tree and went silent.

"We have to get the fuck out of here," I whispered, backing away from the pines and dragging Chris with me.

The howling continued, punctuating the sound of more human remains hitting the grass. I could hear the girl on the steps; her screams were becoming wet and bubbly, a sure sign she was about to kick the bucket. It was a good thing Chris and I had recently eaten; if we hadn't, I don't think we could have fought the urge to feast on the carnage.

The howling grew louder. For the first time since I died, I felt fear. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like, a frantic jumpiness in the nerves, a flutter in the heart. My fingers began to shake. Whatever was in that house could actually kill me. Where was this creature a few weeks ago when I was looking for a way out?

But I’d gone too far now. My course was set, and besides, causing mayhem with Chris was a blast. I was learning that being a vampire wasn't all melancholic sickness and complaining about immortality.

BOOM.

The front door was torn off its hinges. It flew twenty feet into the air, crashing into the street like a small meteorite. When the dust settled, a creature stood in the doorway.

Chris was right, it was a fucking werewolf.

It stood eight feet tall. Its face wasn't quite a wolf's; the mouth was comically wide, filled with thick, yellow talons for teeth. Every muscle pulsed, mapped by visible blue veins. Its arms looked like corded metal, hard, stiff, and tightly wound. Its legs were thicker than a professional bodybuilder’s. Short, patchy grey hair covered a frame that was still recognizably human-like, a grotesque hybrid of man and beast. Its black claws were twice the size of my own. With every heavy breath, a mist of blood sprayed into the air.

“Told you,” Chris said, his voice way too loud.

Immediately, the werewolf’s yellow eyes locked onto us. Its face was masked in gore. I grabbed Chris and pulled him with such force I heard his shoulder pop out of its socket. We could fix that later; right now, we needed to get to the car. I could hear the beast behind us, the sound of earth kicking up under its feet was unmistakable.

I hoped the animal hadn't killed Chloe yet. She was supposed to be my prize.

My heart hammered. I looked back; it was running on all fours, blood flying off its fur like raindrops. It was a fifty-fifty shot. We either died fighting or we made it to the car. I gripped Chris tight and leapt with every ounce of strength I had. We flew ten feet through the air, landing hard beside the car.

Smash.

The ginger man’s head whistled through the air, slamming into the car’s quarter panel. It left a massive dent in the metal and turned the face into a pulp.

“Get in the fucking car! I’m driving!” I screamed, sounding like a lead singer in a black metal band.

Chris didn't protest. He scrambled into the passenger seat. I had the keys in the ignition, but I had to look one last time. The creature had stopped on the other side of the street, breathing in heavy, ragged lungfuls of air. It held a chunk of meat in each hand.

I zoomed in on its neck. There, glinting against the grey fur, was a gold necklace. The name Chloe hung from the chain.

A smile crept across my face.

Chloe didn't want to kill me yet, otherwise, she would have already crossed the street. We stared at each other—me taking in her transformation, her looking at the vampire who had killed her boyfriend and threatened to kill her.

The background noise was the girl with the missing arm, still failing to find her footing. Chloe and I didn't need words. We both knew the score. I looked at Chris, who was screaming for me to get in. Maybe I’d picked the wrong sibling. Chloe had just slaughtered all those people. I’d never fooled around with a girl before, but at this point, what was off the table?

I gave her a knowing wink and blew her a kiss.

“Promise me this, let's fuck before we kill each other” I whispered.

She didn't respond. I slid into the driver's seat. Chloe hurled the chunks of flesh at the car, coating the windshield in a thick layer of gore.

“What the fuck was that?” Chris asked, his voice cracking.

I put the car in gear and started to giggle.

“Fuck off, Mia! Tell me!”

I broke into full-on, hysterical laughter. I had to catch my breath just to speak.

“Turns out your sister is a werewolf, Chris. And she’s going to hunt us down.”

“What the fuck is funny about that?!”

I ignored him, flooring the gas and peeling away. In the rearview mirror, I watched Chloe standing in the middle of the road, a growing dark silhouette as we drove further away.

"I killed her boyfriend, I told her brother to kill her, and now she’s the one hunting us? This is fantastic! If I die now, at least it’ll be fun,” I shouted.

I cranked the radio. *Shout At The Devil* by Mötley Crüe blasted through the speakers. Chris was still talking, his mouth moving frantically, but I couldn't hear a word over the music.

“Oh, Chloe,” I whispered, staring ahead at the empty dark road. “This is going to be so much fun, and the best part? I win either way.”

Thanks for everyone reading this twisted and gory vampire and now werewolf story. Don't be afraid to leave a comment and be sure to check out my other story Burning Angel all the chapters are posted!

Previously on Burning Angel

Audio Version (With intro and outro music)

Just Outro Music

Chapter 65: Ryan

I woke to the car radio blasting Sting’s "Angel Eyes."

Have you ever had the feeling

That the world's gone and left you behind?

Have you ever had the feeling

That you're that close to losing your mind?

You look around each corner

Hoping that she's there

You try to play it cool, perhaps

Pretend that you don't care

But it doesn't do a bit of good

You've got to seek till you find

Or you’ll never unwind

Try to think

That love is not around

Still, it's uncomfortably near

As I rubbed my gritty eyes, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the song held some profound, terrifying significance for me. It took a few seconds for my vision to adjust to the blinding sunlight piercing through the windshield. I felt feverish and sticky, as if I hadn't showered in weeks.

I opened and closed my eyes several times, trying to piece together how the hell I’d ended up here. Looking down, I realized I was wearing a blue windbreaker with a bold FBI insignia printed on the chest.

"What?" I whispered. My voice was a dry rasp; my throat felt like it had been lined with sandpaper.

Underneath the jacket, I was wearing a standard G-man suit. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet, and flipped it open. A gold shield and an ID card stared back at me. It said Special Agent Ryan Hope, followed by a badge number.

The car’s interior was black leather, smelling faintly of a new-car scent. I pulled down the visor to look in the mirror, but I didn't recognize the man staring back. My hair was short and military-clean, but my eyes were rimmed with dark, bruised rings. A scruffy five-o’clock shadow clung to a jawline etched with deep lines of exhaustion. I looked like a man who had been out for days, drinking away a life he didn't want.

When I shifted in the seat, I could feel heavy muscles flexing under the suit, I felt like an old prize fighter trying to remember his glory days. I snapped the radio off. That song was filling my chest with a creeping sense of dread.

A newspaper sat on the passenger seat. I pulled it closer, reading the masthead: The Red Hills Tribune.

"Red Hills," I muttered. "Why does that sound familiar?"

I thumbed through the pages, but nothing caught my eye. It was filled with the mundane trivialities of small-town life: lost dogs, the diner’s new pie recipe, high school football scores. Had I been here before? The question looped through my mind, but I couldn't recall a single street or face.

I searched my pockets again. In my left pants pocket, resting against the cold steel of my sidearm, I felt a tightly folded piece of paper. I pulled it out and delicately unfolded it, careful not to tear the yellowed creases.

Play the tape in the VCR, and there are more downstairs behind the cabinet.

I had no clue what it meant. What tapes? What cabinet? Who had written this and shoved it into my pocket? I folded the paper back up and tucked it into my wallet.

"What the fuck is going on?" I asked the empty car.

Disorientation washed over me in dizzying waves. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to anchor my nerves, but it didn't help. I pulled out my wallet again and dumped the contents into my lap. Old receipts and loose change spilled across my thighs, but one item seized my attention.

It was a small photograph of a girl in a white dress. She had raven-black hair and piercing, ice-blue eyes that seemed to look right through me. The background appeared to be a basement with cold, windowless concrete walls. With her full lips, delicate nose, and porcelain skin, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

"Jessica," I whispered.

I didn't know where the name had come from, but it felt right. I stared at her image for a long time before tucking it away.

I had to find this girl. She was the key. But I didn't even know where to start. Was she in this town? Was she even still alive?

I threw the car into drive and started down the empty asphalt road. Ancient trees towered on either side of me, an endless wall of pine and shadow.

Jessica? The basement? Tapes? How did it all fit?

I was sweating profusely now. Suddenly, the radio snapped back on without me touching the dial. A woman's voice cut through the static—a voice I instinctively recognized, though I possessed no memory of it.

"I missed you, David," the voice said.

"My punk rock angel," I blurted out. The words hit me so hard I almost veered into a ditch.

"Cassie," I whispered. A tidal wave of intense, devastating emotion crashed through my body. I couldn't attach a face or a memory to the name, but the feeling was there, visceral and real. I loved this girl with all my heart, yet I couldn't remember ever meeting her.

Before I could process the shock, another girl's voice crackled through the speakers.

"Of course, Sheriff," she said.

"Valeria," I whispered. The name fell off my lips involuntarily.

The same rush of euphoria and agonizing heartbreak ripped through me. A part of me loved Valeria just as fiercely as I loved Cassie, and, if I was being honest, just as much as Jessica. I slammed my hand against the radio, silencing it. I couldn't handle these violent emotional swings while driving.

Who are these girls? Why do they own pieces of my soul?

I slammed the heel of my palm against my forehead in frustration. Instantly, two images flashed behind my eyes like strobe lights, searing themselves into my mind.

One was a girl standing beside a broken-down car on a pitch-black road, a cigarette dangling from her lips. She wore black knee-high socks, a short, tight red skirt, and a cut-off Metallica shirt that showcased long legs and a flat, toned stomach. Her long blonde hair, emerald eyes, and dark mascara made her a muse of punkish beauty.

The second image slammed into my consciousness. It was a stunning girl with a curvy figure, her dirty-blonde hair tied up, sporting a radiant, wholesome smile. Her green eyes sparkled with life. She wore a light pink diner uniform that looked like something out of the 1950s.

The image of Cassie invoked pain, anger, and a desperate love. The image of Valeria invoked warmth, safety, and care. Yet, beneath both visions, I sensed a deep, pulsing trauma.

I drove for what felt like hours, hoping to hit a town soon as the gas needle dipped dangerously low.

There’s a strange peace that comes with driving down a quiet road in total silence. The steady hum of the engine had a hypnotic effect, making me feel as though I were drifting through a different world. I tried to relax, to process the fragmentary memories bleeding into my mind, but the images of those three girls—Cassie, Valeria, and Jessica, kept flashing behind my eyes like a carousel.

Up ahead, the heat waves shimmering off the asphalt parted to reveal a car pulled over on the shoulder, its hazard lights flashing rhythmically. I slowed down and eased onto the dirt, figuring the driver might need a hand.

My door creaked in protest, much like my bones, as I peeled myself off the sticky leather seat. The sun was a blinding, white-hot orb, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. I ripped off my stifling FBI windbreaker and threw it back into the car. Thick, white salt stains ringed the armpits of my dress shirt. Inside the car, I hadn't realized just how bad I smelled. The taste in my mouth was a foul mix of stale cigarettes, old coffee, and a hint of cheap booze. I certainly didn't look or smell like a federal agent, and I knew anyone passing by would think I was just a vagrant in a ruined suit.

Shielding my eyes from the glare, I walked toward the stranded car. My body was so stiff it felt like I had been trapped in that driver's seat not for hours, but for weeks.

"This is Special Agent Ryan Hope. Do you need any assistance?" I called out, my voice hoarse and gravelly.

"No, I'm okay," a female voice responded.

As I drew closer, I lowered my hand from my eyes and felt the breath knocked completely out of my lungs.

"Cassie!" I gasped, breaking into a desperate jog.

"Sorry, what?" she asked, turning around.

I came to a halt in front of her, huffing and puffing. Her face, her outfit, her emerald eyes, she was the exact girl seared into my memory.

"Cassie," I wheezed, coughing as I tried to catch my breath. Sweat dripped from my eyebrows, stinging my eyes.

"Sorry, what, sir?" she repeated, stepping back as I struggled to keep my eyes open against the glare.

"Cassie, I know you," I pleaded, holding my arms out. Her face registered no recognition—only profound, defensive confusion.

"Yeah, I'm not Cassie," she said, a hint of fear creeping into her voice.

"You're friends with Valeria and Jessica," I insisted, aggressively wiping the sweat from my face.

"Jessica and Valeria?" she echoed, utterly bewildered.

"You loved David! And a man in a bloody apron haunted you!" I shouted. The words erupted from my mouth without my permission.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" she snapped, her confusion curdling into genuine anger and fright.

I took a step toward her, and she immediately backed away. The absolute terror in her eyes broke my heart, sending a massive knot of confusion twisting in my gut.

"I picked you up on the side of the road," I said, a desperate edge of anger bleeding into my voice because of my own disorientation.

"You have me mixed up with someone else. My boyfriend is coming to pick me up," she said, her voice shaking as she took in my disheveled, sweaty, unhinged appearance. Sweat poured from every pore of my body, making my skin feel thick and greasy.

Suddenly, her eyes widened. "How did you know my boyfriend's name?" she asked, looking around the empty highway.

"David loved you," I said, not even knowing where the words were coming from.

"Do you know David?" she asked, staring at me as though I were digging up a repressed, deeply buried memory.

"I'm not sure," I replied, looking up at the blistering sun. "Maybe I am David. Maybe I am not."

"You're not David," she said, though a flicker of doubt crossed her face. She put a trembling hand to her temple.

"I know he loved you," I replied gently.

"I don't know who the fuck you are, but I am not Cassie. My name is Michelle, you fucking lunatic!" she screamed, tears of frustration spilling over.

"You're Cassie, but I can't explain it," I tried to say as calmly as I could.

"You're not who you think you are," I said, stepping closer in a misguided attempt to calm her down.

She turned her back and bolted toward the driver's side door. Frantic, I reached out and grabbed her shoulder to stop her, feeling the silk-soft warmth of her skin beneath my calloused fingers.

She whipped around, slapping me hard across the face. Her nails dug in, carving three hot, stinging cuts across my cheek.

"You're Cassie!" I yelled, gripping her arm firmly. I could feel her muscles grinding against the bone as she struggled.

"Let go of me, you fucking lunatic!" she raged, raising her free hand to strike me again.

I intercepted her wrist, pinning both her arms. A wave of disgust washed over me, I was holding a terrified, beautiful young woman against her will. The salty sweat dripped from my forehead, searing into the fresh, bleeding scratches on my cheek.

"David loved you," I said, pinning her arms to her sides. She stared back at me, her perfect green eyes wide in that angelic face.

"Fuck you," she raged, spitting directly in my face.

"You slept in the back of David's car as he drove you to Red Hills," I said calmly, ignoring the warm spit on my cheek.

As soon as I finished the sentence, her expression shifted. It was just for a fraction of a second, as if some deep, repressed memory had suddenly breached the surface, but in the next moment, the recognition was gone, replaced again by panic.

"You're not David!" she screamed, violently twisting to rip her arms from my grip.

"David said he was coming back," I replied. I was still unsure where these words were even coming from.

"You're not David!" she shrieked, the raw sound sending a booming echo down the desolate asphalt.

I could see the veins pulsing at her temples as she finally wrenched her arms free. If I had truly wanted to keep holding her, I could have, but the sheer terror in her eyes made my hands go slack.

"Cassie," I whispered as she turned her back and reached for the door handle.

"My punk rock angel!" I shouted.

Just as she was about to pull the door open, she froze.

"Where did you hear that?" she demanded. Her voice was firm, though her back remained turned to me.

"I don't know," I replied truthfully, watching the hot wind gently toss her perfect blonde hair.

"I don't know where or when... but I remember hearing that," she murmured, pressing a trembling hand to her temple.

"You had a very hard life, and David gave you comfort," I said, taking a slow step toward her.

As I closed the distance, I heard the soft, broken sound of her crying—but it quickly hardened back into a defensive rage. She whipped around and pointed a shaking finger at my chest.

"You stay the fuck away from me. Get back in your car and just drive, you fucking lunatic!" she shouted through her tears.

She threw herself into the driver's seat and slammed the door with a metallic crash. I heard the heavy thwack of the locks engaging. The sound hit me like a physical punch to the gut.

I lunged at the car, slamming my palms against the passenger-side glass. I yanked at the door handle, but my hands were so slick with sweat and grease that they kept slipping off the metal.

"Open the fucking door!" I roared, hammering my fists against the reinforced glass.

"Get the fuck away from me!" she shrieked, recoiling into the far corner of the driver's seat and pulling her knees to her chest.

"You don't understand how important this is!" I raged.

In a blind fit of adrenaline, I threw a devastating right hook into the side mirror, snapping it completely off the frame. A jagged shock of pain shot through my knuckles and tore up my forearm. I grabbed my injured hand with my left, watching hot, bright blood well up and leak through my fingers.

"Cassie, open the fucking door!" I screamed. I slammed my bleeding hand against the window, leaving a thick, smeared bloody handprint on the glass.

"Just fucking go!" she sobbed. Her terrified face was now distorted and clouded by the wet, red streaks smeared across the window.

"Open the door, for fuck's sake!" I bellowed. I drove my heavy boot into the passenger door, kicking it hard enough to leave a massive, echoing dent in the metal.

Heaving for breath, I looked down at the ruin of my hand. The knuckles were flayed open and mangled, the torn skin rapidly swelling purple and black. The agony of just trying to open and close my fingers was nauseating. I had likely shattered a few bones, but seeing a doctor wasn't exactly an option right now. Fueled by pure, unhinged desperation, I brought my bleeding fists down in massive, hammer-like blows against her windshield, watching the safety glass splinter and spiderweb under the brutal impact.

"Please, just go. Please just go. Please just go," she kept repeating, her voice breaking into a pathetic, terrified whimper.

The sheer, broken terror in her tone finally pierced through my rage. I stopped. My heavy arms dropped to my sides, and I collapsed onto the sun-baked dirt of the shoulder. I sat there, chest heaving, watching the hot, bright blood drip from my shredded knuckles, mixing into the dry dust between my boots. Taking a few ragged breaths, the horrific reality of what I had just done washed over me.

I thought about how insane I must have looked: a grown man, reeking of stale booze and sweat, violently smashing a terrified girl's car to pieces, bleeding all over her glass and demanding she open the door. I looked like a monster.

I forced myself up and dragged my heavy legs back to her window, which was now clouded by thick, smeared streaks of my own blood. It was difficult to even see her inside anymore; my blood had formed an impenetrable, gruesome barrier between us.

I lightly tapped on the glass with an uninjured finger. "David loved you," I whispered.

All I could hear was her panicked, muffled sobbing from inside the car. I decided to take her advice and leave.

I lumbered back to my car, my mangled hand throbbing in agonizing rhythm with my pulse. Sinking into the sticky leather seat, I pulled down the visor to examine the cuts on my face. Staring back at me in the small mirror was a stranger—a man with no soul, no purpose, a hollowed-out shell who looked like he had turned to cheap booze just to fill the void. I snapped the visor shut and leaned my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes in a futile attempt to relax. But there would be no peace. My heart was pounding against my ribs, my breathing was shallow, and my blood was boiling beneath my skin.

I turned the ignition, letting the low hum of the engine fill my ears.

"Fuck, this sun is unbearable," I whispered to myself. I cranked the AC dial, but it was completely dead. Putting the car in gear, I drove past Cassie's ruined vehicle. I watched her flashing hazard lights fade in my rearview mirror, swallowed by the thick cloud of dust my tires kicked up.

Who the hell was Cassie, anyway? I thought to myself. That was Cassie. She looked exactly like her.

The sweat dripping from my forehead seeped into the raw scratches on my cheek, stinging sharply. My injured hand burned as I gripped the slick steering wheel, but thankfully, the bleeding was finally starting to coagulate and slow.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" I yelled, squeezing my eyes shut for a second as the salty sweat stung my eyes.

"I knew her. Or someone I know knew her," I muttered to myself in the empty car, forcing myself to focus on the seemingly endless stretch of blistering asphalt.

Does time flow in a straight line?

The question abruptly entered my head, unprovoked, as the unbearable sun beat down on the roof of the car. "Fuck, it's so hot," I groaned, pulling at the collar of my soaked dress shirt. The movement wafted my own foul, greasy stench directly into my nostrils. Why had I freaked out so uncontrollably when she told me to go away? Those violent emotions seemed to have erupted out of absolutely nowhere, yet in the moment, the rage had felt entirely natural—justified, even. That terrified me. Could I have actually been capable of hurting her? I quickly reassured myself that I would never have crossed that line. I wouldn't have.

After what felt like hours of driving through the purgatorial heat, I finally spotted a green road sign up ahead, its edges blurred and wavering in the heat mirage. I stepped on the gas, feeling the roar of the engine vibrate up the steering column, sending fresh spikes of pain through my bruised hand. As I blew past it, I read the white lettering:

WELCOME TO RED HILLS.

Finally, I'm getting somewhere, I thought as the first signs of civilization slowly emerged from the tree line.

Seeing neat little houses and cars parked quietly in driveways had an immediate, disarming effect on me. This town felt like it was perfectly preserved in amber, stuck permanently in the 1960s. As I drove deeper into Red Hills, the eerie wholesomeness of it all was staggering. I saw kids playing in the streets, riding vintage bicycles, and parents pushing newborns in strollers under the shade of ancient oaks. I passed a quaint red-brick schoolhouse that couldn't have held more than a few classrooms. It was likely the only school in the entire town.

The heat inside the car was still unbearable, so I rolled down my window. Instantly, I felt a cool, refreshing breeze wash over my face. As soon as it hit my skin, I knew that air was coming off a body of water. I wanted to rip my stifling, sweat-glued shirt off right then and there, just to feel the coldness against my chest. I felt like I had been burning alive for hours.

I needed to get to that lake. It wasn't just for the breeze; a strange, magnetic pull was drawing me toward it, completely out of my control. The sensation felt chillingly similar to the sudden, uncontrollable surge of emotion that had overtaken me with Cassie, or Michelle, or whoever she was.

Driving down the town's narrow, pristine roads, I could hear children laughing and birds chirping in the canopy above. If people ever envisioned the perfect, idyllic place to live, this town was exactly what they saw in their minds.

To my left, a wooden sign pointed toward Red Hills Lake. I flicked my indicator on and stopped at a red light. Looking to my right, I noticed an old man in the car next to me. He gestured for me to roll my window down further. He wore a faded blue plaid shirt, had a perfectly bald head, and most of the fat beneath his skin had withered away, leaving his face sagging and deeply lined.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" he called out with a wide smile, showing off a row of yellowish teeth lined with dark silver fillings.

"That it is, good sir," I replied, struggling to sound friendly despite my horrific appearance.

"You know what the best thing about time is?" he asked, letting out a dry chuckle.

"What's that?" I asked, my annoyance flaring slightly.

The light turned green. Without finishing his sentence, the old man simply faced forward and drove away.

What the fuck was that? I thought, turning left and heading down the road toward the water. What is the best thing about time?

The lake finally came into view, glistening under the sun. Can you ever get time back? Or once time has passed, is it impossible to retrieve? Does time flow randomly, or does it loop back on itself? These questions hammered against the inside of my skull as I approached the shore. Could a time loop explain how I knew Cassie, but didn't know her at the exact same time? Or how I knew Jessica, but truly didn't know her? Things were different here. It hadn't looped back exactly the same; the details were slightly warped. But who knew? Maybe I was just completely insane, bleeding out in my wrecked car on the highway, hallucinating all of this.

I pulled over near the grass and killed the engine. Pushing my heavy door open, I stepped out, breathing in as much of the cool lake breeze as my lungs could hold.

The water was a perfect, brilliant sapphire blue. The gentle, rhythmic lapping of the waves against the shore filled me with a sudden, profound peace, cutting through the adrenaline and guilt still lingering from my violent encounter with Cassie. The breeze turned the sweat on my skin ice-cold, leaving me shivering while simultaneously feeling like I was boiling from the inside out. Vibrant green grass sloped gently down to a small, pristine sandy beach. The lake wasn't massive, but it wasn't small either; out on the water, I could see a few people lazily drifting in aluminum fishing boats.

Like the rest of Red Hills, there was no shortage of massive, ancient trees bordering the water. Desperate for shade, I trudged over to the nearest oak and leaned my aching back against its thick, rough bark. Looking up through the dense canopy of branches, I realized it must have been one of the largest trees I had ever seen. I slid down the trunk and sat in the cool dirt, letting my muscles go slack as I scanned my surroundings.

Down to my left, sitting quietly near the sandy edge of the beach, was a young girl with long black hair. From this distance, it was impossible to make out her details.

I cleared my dry, aching throat and braced my hands against the bark, forcing my battered body back up to its feet. "Fuck, I need water," I rasped, struggling to swallow my own depleted saliva.

The scratches on my face stung viciously, and my right hand throbbed with a hot, pulsing agony that was becoming almost unbearable. What was I even going to say to this girl? I had dried blood on my suit, a mangled hand, fresh lacerations across my cheek, dark sweat stains painting my clothes, and I smelled like a slaughterhouse mixed with a dive bar. If I approached her looking like this, she would either scream for help or assume I was an escaped lunatic.

Yet, what other choice did I have? I didn't have time to find a place to clean up, and even if I did, there was no guarantee she would still be here when I returned. In a strange, terrifying way, I had no idea where I was going, but somehow, I always ended up exactly where I needed to be.

I wiped the fresh sweat from my forehead with the back of my uninjured hand in a futile attempt to make myself presentable. As I started walking toward her, an overwhelming, bone-deep certainty washed over me: the girl sitting by the water was Jessica.

My mangled hand throbbed in perfect unison with my racing heart as I slowly closed the distance. It's odd how, in moments of extreme tension, you notice the smallest, most insignificant details. I could hear the crisp crunch of the grass yielding beneath my heavy boots, and the million distinct, rustling whispers the leaves made as the wind moved through them.

As I got closer, her back remained turned to me. My anxiety skyrocketed, my mind scrambling to figure out what was about to happen next.

When I was only a few feet away, she turned around—almost as if she had felt the heavy, dark gravity of my presence looming over her. To my exhausted, adrenaline-soaked mind, her movement played out in agonizing slow motion. Her perfect, raven-black hair swept gracefully through the air, catching the bright sunlight.

When her piercing, ice-blue eyes finally locked onto mine, she didn't scream. She didn't run.

Instead, she looked delightfully confused, and offered me a soft, hesitant smile.

"That's a beautiful dress," I said, my voice rough as I pointed to the white fabric.

"Umm, thanks," she replied with an awkward smile.

"My name is Ryan Hope," I said. I held out my good hand, making sure to keep my mangled, bloody knuckles hidden behind my back. She offered hers like a lady, and I grasped it gently but firmly.

"What's that you're reading?" I asked, nodding at the book resting in her lap.

"Oh, it's called Burning Angel," she responded shyly, looking away.

I groaned as I lowered my aching body onto the grass beside her. I could instantly sense my proximity made her uncomfortable, so I pulled out my wallet and flashed my FBI badge in an attempt to put her at ease.

"Oh. You're an FBI agent?" she asked, her voice a mix of confusion and fear.

"Don't worry, you didn't do anything wrong," I replied, gently placing my hand over hers.

"What is Burning Angel about?" I asked, nodding toward the cover.

"It's hard to describe. It's kind of like reading a dream, if that makes sense," she answered, closing the book.

"That sounds interesting. Maybe I'll read it sometime," I responded. The title tickled a dark corner of my memory, but I couldn't place it.

"I hope you don't take offense, but Ryan... you look really rough right now," she said, her beautiful eyes scanning me up and down.

I cleared my parched throat, noticing a pink water bottle resting beside her. "Can I have some of your water, please?" I asked.

"Yes, of course. Have it all; it looks like you need it," she replied, handing it over. Our fingers brushed against each other.

"You have beautiful hands," I murmured, unscrewing the top of the pink Stanley cup.

"Thanks," she responded, a faint blush dusting her cheeks.

I drank the water like a man who had been lost in the desert for days. The moisture instantly soothed my raw throat, but it was painful as I chugged it down, excess water spilling from the corners of my mouth and soaking my shirt. As I put the empty cup down and screwed the lid back on, I could feel the ice-cold liquid hit my empty, acidic stomach.

"Jessica," I whispered, panting heavily.

"Excuse me?" she said, leaning forward as if she hadn't heard me correctly.

"You're Jessica," I whispered again.

"No, I'm not. I think you have me confused with someone else," she said, physically leaning away from me.

"Look," I replied frantically, digging the photograph out of my wallet. I held the picture out between my thumb and forefinger. She stared at it, utter fear and confusion warring on her face.

"How did you get that?" she asked, her hands flying up to her hair.

"I honestly don't know," I replied, my voice barely a whisper.

"I... I don't know where that is, or how that picture was taken," she stuttered, looking away.

"Your father died in a car crash, Jessica," I said, reaching out to touch her hand in a desperate bid to offer comfort.

"My name isn't Jessica; it's Ashley!" she yelled, yanking her hand away.

Ashley.

Why did that name sound so familiar? It conjured up phantom romantic emotions, a profound ache, as if I had once dated or been married to a girl named Ashley.

"Your mom, Megan, married a man named Jake," I pressed on, bracing myself for another outburst.

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," she hissed, pure venom in her words. The look on her face was a volatile mixture of fear, anger, and total disbelief.

"Jake did the worst kind of evil to you, Jessica," I said, barely able to look her in the eye.

"I don't know Jessica, I don't know Megan, and I don't know Jake," she replied, staring directly into my eyes with a tragic blend of fury and sorrow.

"You can tell me what he did to you," I urged, so caught up in the emotion that I didn't even realize I had brought my mangled, bloody hand out from behind my back.

"I don't know who you are, or what you're on, or where you're from, or why I am still sitting here, but I am not this Jessica girl," she responded quietly, but with an intensity that made her veins pulse.

"Jake took you to the basement of your house, laid you down on that dirty mattress, and did... I can't even say it," I choked out, fighting back tears.

I didn't understand how I knew all of this or where the memories were coming from, but I felt the horrifying truth of it in my marrow. Maybe I was getting the names mixed up or the order of events wrong. Yet I knew the girl in the picture and the one sitting right in front of me were the exact same person. She had been raped, abused, and manipulated by her stepdad and mother for years, generating a pain so profound it had spilled out into the cosmos.

She clenched her fists, looking as though she might punch me in the jaw, before deciding that standing up and walking away was the better option.

"I am going to go home, to my nice warm bed. I am going to turn on my pink lamp, and I am going to dream none of this ever happened," she said. She turned her back on me and started walking away.

My heart began to pound against my ribs like a jackhammer. No matter what happened, I couldn't let this girl leave.

"Ashley, you know deep down I am telling the truth!" I shouted. The exertion immediately made my wounded face and shredded hand throb with fresh pain.

She froze. The way the bright sunlight filtered through the branches of the massive oak tree cast her in a picturesque, golden halo. As I walked toward her, she spoke without turning around.

"Not a single fucking thing you have said is true."

I reached down, my fingers wrapping around the warm, black grip of my service weapon. I drew the gun and pressed the cold steel barrel firmly into the small of her back.

She immediately opened her mouth to scream, but I lunged forward, clamping my bloody, cut-up hand tightly over her mouth to muffle the sound.

"You're going to get in my car. We are going to find Jake, and then we are all going to your place together," I whispered directly into her ear.

I could feel her soft hair pressed against my sweaty cheek. Her skin was delicate, and the sweet scent of her perfume filled my nostrils, clashing violently with my own rancid stench. She tried to scream again through my fingers, and I clamped down harder against her face.

"No more bullshit. Scream, or try to run, and I will shoot you," I warned in a low, dangerous whisper. A drop of my own sweat fell from my brow, landing on her chest. She nodded her head frantically in agreement.

"You may not remember everything. Neither do I. But what I was saying to you happened somewhere, at some time, Jessica," I rasped, my hot, stale breath washing over her ear. "I am going to take my hand off, and we are going to walk to my car with no problems. Right?"

I slowly slid my slick, bloody hand off her face.

"Yes," she whimpered quietly. By the look of sheer revulsion in her tear-filled eyes, my breath and the coppery smell of my blood were making her physically sick.

"Sorry for my appearance and smell. I haven't been able to clean up yet," I murmured, turning her around by the shoulder so we could start the march to my car.

Hearing her softly cry as we walked broke my heart. Just how quickly this entire situation had escalated terrified me. What scared me the most was how certain she was that I would pull the trigger if she bolted. What kind of monstrous energy was I giving off? She believed she had a better chance of surviving by following the instructions of a madman with a gun than by screaming for help in a public park.

"I don't want to hurt you, and I don't fully understand where all the things I'm saying are coming from," I said, keeping a tight, threatening pace directly behind her.

"Please don't hurt me. I don't know anything about what you're talking about," she begged through her tears.

"Stop crying, please... once we find Jake, I think this will all begin to make sense," I replied, trying to force a soothing tone into my gravelly voice.

"I don't know who Jake is," she repeated, her voice thick with terror.

"He is your stepdad; you must know where he is," I pressed desperately.

"I don't have a fucking clue what you're talking about!" she snapped back, a brief spark of anger cutting through the fear. Her black hair lifted in the lake breeze, looking like dark smoke rising from a fire.

"The car is right there," I said, nodding toward the black sedan parked just a few feet ahead.

She stopped beside the passenger door, the hot wind pressing her white dress against her legs. Her blue eyes were bloodshot and swollen from crying.

"Put your hands together," I ordered, pulling the heavy steel handcuffs from my belt.

Her wrists were so delicate and soft as I clamped the cold, unforgiving metal around them.

She broke down, sobbing hysterically. "I don't know what the fuck is going on," she gasped between the tears.

"You know, Jessica. You may have just forgotten," I said softly, pulling the back door open for her.

She slid into the backseat, glaring at me through her tears. "You're a fucking lunatic," she spat.

I shut her in and climbed into the driver's seat, instantly hit by the suffocating, oven-like heat trapped inside the dark leather interior.

"Sorry, the AC isn't working," I said, glancing over my shoulder. She was crying quietly.

She was already sweating as profusely as I was. Her dark hair was becoming wet and plastered to her neck, and her skin looked shiny in the stifling heat.

"This would go a lot faster if you just told me where Jake was," I said stoically, even though her terror and what I was doing to her was ripping me apart inside.

"I don't know who the fuck Jake is!" she raged, sweat pouring off her face.

"Jessica, I don't want to be doing this," I said, trying to keep my voice as gentle as possible.

"My name isn't Jessica; it's Ashley, you fucking lunatic!" she screamed again, twisting violently enough that her sweat flicked across the seat.

Then it hit me like a jolt of lightning—I hadn't shown her the note.

"You don't remember writing this?" I asked, pulling the yellowed paper from my pocket and holding it up so she could see it in the rearview mirror.

Play the tape in the VCR, and there are more downstairs behind the cabinet.

She paused. The anger drained from her face, replaced by a deep, hollow confusion. I pulled out the photograph next and held both up so she could see them clearly. She sat in silence, staring at the items.

"That's you in this picture, and you know it," I whispered.

She sat perfectly still, not blinking, as a heavy bead of sweat rolled down her cheek. She just stared at the note and the picture.

"That note... I don't remember writing," she stuttered, her voice losing its venom.

"The look on your face says it means something to you," I replied. I folded it up and put it, along with the picture, back in my wallet.

"Where did you get that?" she asked as I turned back around to get the car started.

"I honestly don't know," I responded, wiping a fresh layer of sweat from my forehead. "We're going to the diner. I need something to drink."

"It's just a ten-minute drive; it isn't far," she responded automatically.

I turned the engine over and put the car into drive. We sat in silence as I pulled a U-turn, heading back toward the main road.

"You don't need directions?" she asked, a note of suspicion returning.

"If I do, I will ask," I said, taking a quick glance at her puffy eyes through the rearview mirror. "At the third stop sign, I turn left, right?"

I saw her nodding slowly in the mirror.

"I wish I could tell you what's going on, but I don't understand it myself," I said, keeping my eyes on the road.

"You're a fucking lunatic; that's what's going on," she replied sternly, though her hands remained tightly clenched in her lap.

"I am not crazy," I said. I turned around to look at her as we idled at the stop sign. "I saw the look on your face when I showed you the note. I don't expect you to understand it yet, but somewhere, deep inside, you remember."

I turned back around as the light shifted to green.

The intense adrenaline of our encounter began to fade, and the throbbing pain in my face and hand came rushing back with a vengeance.

"Who did that to your hand?" she asked, genuine fear creeping into her voice.

"It's a long story, and it doesn't matter right now," I replied flatly, staring ahead.

I flipped my left turn signal on and waited until it was safe to pull into the parking lot. The sweat dripping into my eyes stung fiercely, blurring my vision and making it difficult to focus.

"Fuck this heat," I hissed as I finally made the turn. The diner came into view; its fairly large dirt parking lot only held a few scattered cars. I put the sedan in park.

"I'm going to take your handcuffs off and let you out of the car. But if you make one move to run, I will shoot you. Do you understand?" I asked, unclipping my seatbelt and holding the small silver key in my hand.

She nodded in fearful agreement. I leaned across the console and unlocked the cuffs.

I got out of the car first. The sun beat down on me relentlessly, intensifying the suffocating heat. Every step I took kicked up fine dust from the dry lot. As I opened her door and she stepped out, it was painfully obvious how brutal the temperature inside the car had been. Her white summer dress was soaked through and practically transparent; if you looked closely, you could see the dark outline of her underwear clinging to her skin. Her hair was saturated, giving her the appearance of someone who had just stepped out of a shower fully clothed.

I turned and looked at the front of the restaurant. A big, red neon sign read: RED HILLS DINER.

We walked side-by-side, our boots kicking up dirt that immediately clung to our sweaty skin, making us both look even more disheveled and desperate.

"Your friend Valeria works here," I said, stating it as a fact as we approached the heavy glass doors.

"I don't know anyone named Valeria," she responded tightly.

I reached out and grabbed her hand, leading her inside.

The sudden rush of cold air conditioning felt like heaven on earth. I glanced over at Jessica and could see the immediate relief wash over her strained features. My mangled hand was throbbing horribly, and the dirt getting into the open lacerations wasn't helping. Holding her tight, I guided her to the front counter and we sat down on the red vinyl stools.

This place radiated a profound sense of warmth, of home, of inner peace. It was a jarring contrast to us; we looked like washed-up, violent drunks, with our sweaty, dirt-streaked skin, my bleeding cuts, and the horrible, sour smell radiating off my clothes.

I turned my head to the left. There she was. Valeria, in all her wholesome beauty, was cheerfully taking care of an elderly couple in a nearby booth.

"I'll be right with you in just a minute!" she called out in a bubbly voice.

Her entire demeanor shifted the second she turned around and really looked at us. Walking behind the counter, she pulled a pen from her tied-up dirty-blonde hair and nervously fumbled a notepad out of her pink apron. She was even more beautiful than the quick, fragmented snapshots that were seared into my memory. Her eyes were a vibrant, sparkling green, and her hair caught the diner light in different shades of gold. Her perfectly white teeth and the soft curves of her body completed an absolutely stunning appearance, even as she forced a polite, deeply uncomfortable smile.

"I'll have my regular, Val," I said, completely mesmerized by her presence.

"Sorry... what, sir?" she responded, her smile faltering.

"My regular, Val," I repeated, surprised she didn't know what it was.

"Yeah... sorry, sir, I don't know what that is," she said, a concerned frown wrinkling her forehead. "Let me just grab you guys something to drink first. Does coffee sound good?" she asked, her eyes darting nervously toward Jessica's soaked, disheveled state.

"Yes, two black coffees, Val," I answered, glancing at Jessica, who gave a small, numb nod of approval.

"It's a little weird that you keep calling me Val. My name is right here," she said, tapping the plastic name tag pinned to her uniform.

I squinted my eyes, focusing on the white letters, and mouthed the name out loud: "Rachel."

She turned away, looking annoyed but giving off a distinct vibe of fear.

"Do you know her?" I asked, turning to Jessica, who was just staring blankly at the sugar packets.

"Not really," Jessica responded deadpan.

When Rachel returned with our hot coffees, the rich aroma filled my nostrils, sending a comforting, phantom warmth down my spine.

"You're in love with the sheriff of this town," I stated flatly as she placed the mugs on the white countertop.

"Excuse me?" she snapped, bolting upright in sudden anger, though a furious blush immediately stained her cheeks.

"Chris loved you," I said, staring down into the dark reflection of myself in the coffee.

"I don't know what type of sick game you guys are playing, but it isn't funny. So just knock it off," she replied, taking a large step back from the counter.

"Chris, the sheriff. His favorite meal was liver and onions," I continued smoothly, taking a sip of the piping hot coffee. Jessica didn't move or say a word; she just watched the interaction like a trapped animal.

"You were best friends with a girl named Cassie," I said, taking another sip and feeling the hot liquid hit my empty, sour stomach.

Rachel just stared at us, utter confusion warring with rising panic on her face. Her left hand, gripping the order pad, began to shake slightly.

"You knew a girl named Jessica that looked exactly like this girl sitting right here," I pressed, gesturing to my right. Jessica looked just as confused as Val did.

"Cassie told you about the time she found her crying in the high school locker room," I continued, taking a large gulp of the coffee, letting it burn its way down my throat.

Val and Jessica both looked at each other now, exchanging a silent, horrified expression of what the fuck is going on.

"I have feelings for the sheriff, yes, but his name isn't Chris. And he is married to Robin," Val stammered, dropping her pen onto the counter with a clatter. "I don't know any Cassie. I do know Ashley, sitting right beside you, but I don't know Jessica or any of the other crazy stuff you just said." She ran her trembling hands nervously through her hair.

"Chris loved you with all his heart, Val," I whispered softly, taking another slow sip.

She didn't respond to me. Instead, she turned her desperate, pleading gaze to Jessica. "Is everything okay?" she asked, her voice thick with concern.

"Yes, everything is fine. This man here works for the FBI," Jessica said quickly, glancing at me.

"Oh, yes. How silly of me," I said. I reached into my jacket, pulled out my badge, and flashed the gold shield at her.

"What brings you here, then? And why is Ashley with you?" she asked, her eyes darting between the badge and my ruined, bloody knuckles.

"I am just showing him around town for a case he is working on," Jessica lied, struggling to force a smile that looked anything approaching natural.

"Does this note mean anything to you?" I asked, pulling the folded paper out of my pocket and laying it flat on the counter beside my coffee.

Play the tape in the VCR, and there are more downstairs behind the cabinet.

She stared at it. She stared long enough that I could see the gears shifting behind her green eyes, something deep and suppressed had just fired off in her brain.

"No, it doesn't, sir," she finally said. She looked confused, her gaze drifting off into the middle distance, avoiding the paper entirely.

"Look at me, Val," I said, tapping the formica counter with a bloody finger to snap her attention back.

"My name isn't Val..." she tried to argue, but I cut her off.

"It's very important that you remember. I see the look on your face. Somewhere inside you, you remember something," I said, staring intensely into her eyes. She looked like she was on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown.

"I need to find Jake, Val," I asked gently, my voice lowering. I glanced at Jessica to gauge her reaction. She looked just as confused and terrified as Val did.

"Sir, I don't know any Jake. Please, just get that note out of my face," she stammered, her hands trembling. "Ashley, are you sure everything is fine?" she asked nervously, refusing to look at me, staring only at Jessica.

"I am fine, Rachel," Jessica replied, her tone surprisingly steady.

I pulled out my gun and slammed it onto the Formica table. Both of our coffee mugs rattled violently. A few sharp gasps echoed through the diner, and Val started quivering like a beaten dog. I stood up, yanking my FBI badge from my pocket, and raised it in the air for the entire room to see.

"There is absolutely nothing to worry about. I am a federal agent," I announced.

It did less then nothing to calm the tension in the room. The elderly patrons stared at me like I had just landed from another planet. Turning back to Val, I slammed the gun back down onto the counter and looked at Jessica, who was nervously biting her nails.

"No more games," I raged at Val. She stood frozen, paralyzed like a statue.

"This note means something," I said aggressively, slamming my index finger down on the folded paper.

"Please... just stop," Val sobbed.

Behind me, I heard a deep, gravelly voice. "Fucking knock that off."

I grabbed my gun and whipped around. Staring back at me was an older man, probably in his sixties, wearing blue overalls, a faded grey plaid jacket, and a green John Deere hat. I leveled the barrel of my gun squarely between his eyes.

"Sir, take one more step, and I will put a bullet in your brain. So sit the fuck down," I said, my voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet rage.

"Just do what he says, John," Val pleaded through her tears.

Jessica hadn't moved an inch from her seat the entire time. I watched the old man slowly back away, his hands raised, until he sank back into his booth.

"Enjoy your meals, and stay out of this, everyone!" I yelled, finally lowering the weapon to my side. I turned my attention back to the counter.

"I know you know Chris. I know you know this girl is Jessica. I know that note means something to you, and I am damn sure you both know who Jake is!" I yelled. I was screaming so loudly I could feel the veins pulsing against the side of my skull.

"I don't have a clue what you're talking about!" Val cried out. When I turned to Jessica, she looked at me, a profound shame darkening her blue eyes.

"I saw the look on your face when I mentioned Chris! I saw the shift in your eyes when you read that note! And I saw the absolute terror when I mentioned Jake! No more games!" I roared, the exertion making the fresh cuts on my face and my shredded hand throb with agonizing heat.

"I don't know anything," Val struggled to say between heavy sobs.

I snatched the photograph of Jessica out of my wallet and aggressively thrust it right in front of Val's face.

"You see this? Just try to tell me that the look on her face doesn't mean anything to you," I demanded, pointing at Jessica without taking my eyes off Val.

Val just stared at the picture. I saw it again, that flicker in her green eyes. Something had triggered deep within her soul.

"Please... put it back in your pocket," she pleaded.

"I know all of this means something to you, even if you don't understand it yet," I said, forcing my voice to calm down. The look on Val's face was one of complete existential crisis; her bloodshot eyes were filled with a deep, paralyzing dread.

"I don't understand what's going on either," I admitted, extending my uninjured hand for her to hold.

"Please, for the love of God, just leave," she replied. She stumbled backward, bumping into a stack of ceramic plates behind the counter and sending them crashing to the floor.

"I don't want to hurt you, or anyone. I just want to save Jessica," I pleaded. I suddenly realized just how unhinged and ridiculous I must have looked to her.

"Val, Chris loved you with all his heart. You are one of the most kind and beautiful people in the world," I said softly, before nodding to Jessica to get up.

"Please, just stop. Just leave and don't ever come back," Val begged, nervously crouching to pick up the broken shards of porcelain.

"I am sorry. We're going, Val. Please, don't forget what I told you," I replied.

I grabbed hold of Jessica's hand, ignoring the terrified stares of every customer as we walked toward the glass doors.

"I am sorry for making everyone upset," I announced loudly to the diner before pushing the door open. As soon as the heavy glass swung shut behind us, I could hear the panicked, hushed conversations erupting inside.

The heat from the sun beat down on us so intensely it felt like stepping into an open oven. Within seconds, we were both sweating profusely. We just stood there in the dirt parking lot, looking at each other without saying a word.

"Let me see that picture again," Jessica asked quietly, catching me off guard.

"Yeah, of course," I replied, pulling the photo out and handing it to her.

She stared intensely at it for a long time. A few customers hurried out of the restaurant, casting us dirty, frightened looks as they scurried to their cars, but Jessica ignored them.

"You're right, you know that," she whispered, finally handing the picture back to me.

"Right about what?" I asked, feeling a wave of confusion as I tucked the photo away.

"She felt something when you mentioned Chris, and when you pulled out that note and the picture," she answered, sweat beading and pouring down her forehead.

“Someone probably called the cops in there. We should get going," I said, feeling my exposed skin literally frying in the sun.

"Yeah. You're probably right," she agreed.

"Do you remember anything?" I asked, squeezing her hand as a gesture of comfort.

"Not really. But I don't think you're as crazy as I thought you were," she admitted.

The cuts on my face and my ruined knuckles stung viciously as salty sweat dripped into them.

"I wish I could tell you more, but I don't even know where all of this is coming from," I said gently. "I am sorry for scaring your friend. I feel like absolute shit about it." I meant it; my insides were turning upside down from guilt over what had just happened in there.

"She will get over it," she responded. She was looking at me differently now, the fear was gone.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man getting out of an old, red pickup truck across the lot. Instantly, all my senses went on high alert. He was wearing slightly baggy blue jeans, a blue plaid button-up shirt, and a faded green baseball hat.

Time seemed to slow down as he kicked up dust walking toward the diner. The man was massive. He had a freakishly wide back, thick, tree-trunk legs, and forearms the size of most men's calves. His biceps bulged like a bodybuilder's, and his chest was a wide, dense wall of muscle. The plaid shirt stretched tight across his frame; I suspected he had a hard time finding clothes that fit him properly. Sweat poured off his body, just like ours, under the unbearable sun.

"Does that guy look like anyone you know?" I whispered in her ear, noticing how her dark hair was plastering to her wet neck.

"No," she responded.

But I knew. I knew immediately who this was. My hand dropped to the grip of my gun as he drew near.

"Jake!" I shouted.

He kept walking, not even turning his head.

"Jake!" I shouted again, tasting the salty sweat dripping onto my lips.

"JAKE!" I screamed, as loud as my raw throat would allow.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

"Are you talking to me?" he asked in a rough, gravelly voice, looking around the lot.

"Yes," I replied.

He turned and walked toward us with the heavy, intimidating intensity of a silverback gorilla. I pulled my FBI badge and held it up as he came within a few feet. His gray eyes gave off an intense, violent energy that made me deeply nervous about what he might do next. I glanced at Jessica; she was shrinking back, unable to even look at him.

"Jake, I am FBI Agent Ryan Hope," I announced.

"Oh, yeah?" he responded. A thick, sickening wave of cheap alcohol washed over me from his breath.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. FBI Agent. But my name isn't Jake," he said dismissively, turning as if to walk away.

"You're staying right here," I replied firmly.

His eyes narrowed, and a spark of genuine anger flared. Jessica gripped my hand tightly as the massive man stepped right into my personal space. The deep lines on his face bunched up, and his revolting breath washed over me as he pressed his nose almost against mine.

"I am fairly certain that if I made you take a breathalyzer test right now, you wouldn't pass. So why don't you calm down?" I said evenly, pushing my hand flat against his thick, pulsing chest to create space.

He seemed to process the badge and my tone. He calmed down slightly, pulling off his green hat to wipe the heavy sweat from his brow.

"Do you see this girl here? Do you recognize her?" I asked, stepping aside so he could get a clear look at Jessica. I watched his eyes track over her. I could see him checking her out, his gaze lingering on the fact that her white dress had become almost entirely transparent from her sweat.

I immediately stepped back in front of her, blocking his view. "I asked if you recognize this girl."

"Nah, officer. I have never seen her before," he said, licking his lips.

"Ashley, have you ever seen this man before?" I asked over my shoulder, keeping her shielded behind me.

"No... I don't think so," she said, though I could hear a distinct tremor of nervousness vibrating in her voice.

"Is that good enough for you, officer? Can I be on my way now?" he asked, throwing his massive hands up in the air in a mocking, exaggerated fashion.

"No. You can't," I answered, my voice turning to ice.

"You did unspeakable evil, Jake," I continued, my grip tightening on the handle of my gun.

"Maybe Jake did. But I am not Jake," he said, his agitation spiking again. We stared into each other's eyes without blinking, sweat pouring down our faces.

"You raped Jessica repeatedly. And then you brutally murdered her," I stated, refusing to break eye contact.

"Wait... what the fuck are you talking about?" he said. His face twisted into a mask of genuine, utter confusion.

I pulled Jessica out from behind me. "Look, you sick fuck," I raged.

"I have never seen that girl in my fucking life!" he yelled, a sudden flash of fear entering his voice. I could see it in his eyes, the rapid escalation of the situation was making him panic.

"You married her mom, Megan, after her dad died! And instead of being the father she needed, you took her to that fucking basement!" I roared. A few patrons exiting the restaurant stopped dead in their tracks, staring at the three of us.

"You are out of your goddamn mind," he replied, aggressively wiping the sweat from his short, military-style hair.

The look on Jessica's face was a heartbreaking mix of confusion and instinctual terror. She didn't understand why this stranger terrified her so much, but her body recognized the monster.

"Officer, I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," he said, his tone dropping to one of desperate sincerity.

"You murdered that girl in a cabin not far from here, in the most brutal way imaginable," I answered, my voice dropping to a quiet, lethal rage.

"I murdered this girl?" he asked incredulously, pointing a thick finger at Jessica.

I paused for a fraction of a second. My own confusion briefly short-circuited my anger. I knew for an absolute fact that he had butchered her in that cabin... but she was standing right here next to me, alive and breathing.

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the folded note and the photograph. "Look at these," I demanded, holding them up to his face, blinking through the sweat stinging my eyes.

I watched his lips move silently as he read the note, then his eyes darted to the picture of Jessica.

"I can't even remember the last time I touched a VCR. And as for that picture... how the fuck did you get that?" he asked, his confusion rapidly giving way to aggravated panic.

"We are going to that basement," I raged, shoving the note and picture back into my pocket.

"Move one fucking inch, and I will shoot you dead right here in the dirt," I yelled, drawing my gun and leveling it directly at his massive chest.

"This is fucking nuts! What are you taking me away for exactly? For murdering a girl I am looking at right now?!" he demanded, flabbergasted, throwing his thick arms in the air.

"Ashley, get in the passenger seat," I ordered, not taking my eyes off him. I waited until I heard her door shut before I moved.

I popped open the trunk of my car with the key fob and slowly walked backward, keeping the gun trained steadily on him. His plaid shirt was entirely soaked with sweat, making his heavily muscled frame stand out even more prominently. I thought to myself, Thank God for this gun. If I didn't have it, he could have easily beaten me to death with his bare hands.

"One inch, and I shoot," I warned again, reaching back with my free hand to grab a pair of steel cuffs from my belt.

As I slowly circled him, keeping the barrel of the gun pointed directly between his eyes, I said, "You're being arrested for driving under the influence."

"Put your hands behind your back," I commanded, stepping behind him to clasp the cuffs around his thick wrists.

Being this close, the stench of stale alcohol radiating from his pores was nauseating. I could feel the intense, radiating heat coming off his thick, sunburned neck.

"We are going to find those tapes, you sick fuck," I whispered directly into his ear.

I jammed the muzzle of my gun hard into his spine to force him forward. Just before we reached the back door of my car, I kicked him viciously in the back of the knee. He grunted and tumbled hard to the ground, kicking up a massive cloud of dry dust.

"Fuck!" he groaned in the dirt.

An elderly couple walking through the lot looked on with deep concern. I just gave them one hard, dead-eyed stare, and they quickly turned away, scurrying to their own car.

I grabbed the chain linking the cuffs and roughly hauled him back to his feet. His blood was already mixing with the thick layer of dust on his face. I slammed him hard against the side of the car. I saw that when he hit the ground, the rough gravel had carved deep, nasty scratches along the right side of his face. The blood mixed with the dirt, thickening into a dark sludge as it leaked down his cheek.

He turned his head and spat a wad of bloody saliva at my boots.

"You're a fucking lunatic," he raged, his gray eyes burning with a murderous intent.

"Those tapes will be there. Now turn around," I demanded.

I yanked the back door open and shoved his massive frame into the backseat. Before I closed the door, I pressed the barrel of my gun hard up under his chin.

"Try one thing, and I am going to blow your head off," I whispered. I could see the raging, impotent fire burning in his eyes.

I slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. All three of us sat in silence as the unbearable, suffocating heat inside the dark car took over. The only sounds were the crunch of dirt under my tires and the low hum of the engine as I pulled out of the lot.

As I sat idling, waiting to make my turn onto the main road, I glanced over at Jessica and mouthed, "It's almost over."

Her response was impossible to read. There was a part of her that was clearly starting to process the horrific things I had been saying, but I could also see a part of her that simply thought this was all pure, unadulterated insanity.

"This is fucking nuts, man. How can I kill a girl you're looking at right now?!" Jake pleaded from the back seat as I turned right.

I just kept my eyes locked on the road, refusing to acknowledge him. I reached over and tried turning the radio on again. This time it powered up, but all I got was a wall of harsh white static. A part of me wanted to just snap it back off, but I let the static hiss fill the cabin as we drove down the narrow, tree-lined road.

"Get in the basement," a low, distorted male voice bled through the static.

"Hear that, you piece of shit?" I said, glaring at Jake through my rearview mirror. He was pouring sweat, his eyes bloodshot and stinging.

"Hear what?" Jake asked, shaking his head and sending droplets of sweat flying around the backseat.

"Did you hear that, Ashley?" I asked, turning my head to look at her.

"All I heard was static," she answered quietly. She looked as though the stifling heat of the car was making her weak and sick to her stomach.

I slammed the radio off in frustration and tried my best to ignore the intense, throbbing pain radiating from my mangled hand.

"We should be there in ten minutes or so," I said, watching Jake through the rearview mirror to gauge his reaction. The only emotion he was expressing was a pure, unadulterated rage aimed directly at me.

"For the love of God, just tell this fucking lunatic I don't know you!" he pleaded, aiming his voice at Jessica. She sat perfectly still, frozen like a statue as his booming voice washed over her.

"Shut the fuck up!" I yelled, throwing a backhanded punch blindly over the seat. My knuckles connected solidly with his face. I could feel the immediate, sickening crunch of his nose cartilage giving way, and hot blood instantly coated the back of my hand.

"Motherfucker!" he roared. He instinctively tried to bring his hands up to his face, but the steel cuffs held them tightly behind his back. Blood poured freely from his shattered nose, soaking into his plaid shirt and bubbling over his lips as he gasped for air.

"When I get out of these cuffs, I am going to rip your fucking head off!" he bellowed, thrashing against the seat. A fine mist of his blood sprayed forward, splattering against the windshield and dotting Jessica's bare arm.

Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, I reached over to try and wipe the blood off her skin, but she flinched and pulled away, her entire body shaking.

"See? You cocksucker, she is afraid of you," he yelled, laughing a wet, hacking laugh that sprayed more blood around the interior.

When he said that, a rage grew inside me that felt almost demonic. It was a cold, absolute fury. I pulled my gun from its holster, turned around in my seat, and pistol-whipped him directly in the mouth with the heavy steel barrel.

"Fucking choke on them!" I yelled, holstering the now-bloody weapon back at my side.

I could hear him choking and sputtering on his own blood. He violently spat out three of his front teeth; they hit the center console with a dull, plastic clatter. Maybe it was the sudden escalation of violence, or the sheer, unhinged rage flashing in my eyes, but it finally scared him. He fell silent, making no further attempt to curse at me, just quietly gasping for air through a ruined mouth.

"I am sorry, Jessica," I said softly, brushing his bloody teeth off the center console and onto the floor mats.

"My name is Ashley!" she yelled, her hands trembling violently. She looked as though she were tipping over the edge of a full-blown panic attack, and she finally broke down into heavy, ragged sobs.

"My name is Ashley, not Jessica!" she screamed again, so loud the volume made my teeth vibrate in my skull. She lunged forward and started punching me as hard as she could in my right shoulder.

I didn't even bother trying to stop her.

"I am sorry," I kept repeating, gripping the steering wheel and trying to keep the car steady until she tired herself out. When she finally ran out of breath, she sank back into her sticky leather seat, crying uncontrollably.

"I don't know if I know him," she whispered between sobs, trying to regain some semblance of composure as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"What the fuck? I have never seen her in my life," Jake chimed in, spitting out more blood. His voice was thick with genuine distress and pain.

I threw my indicator on and turned down a quiet side street lined with houses that looked like they hadn't been updated since the 1950s.

"It's almost over, Ashley," I said, trying to infuse my voice with as much warmth and tenderness as I could muster.

I scanned both sides of the street, searching the properties. When I finally saw the house, it hit me like a physical jolt of lightning. I slowly eased the car up alongside the curb and put it in park.

"Ashley, you get out first," I said. I didn't want her trapped in that cramped space with Jake, even for a single second.

Through my window, I watched her step out onto the dry grass. She stood perfectly still, staring up at the house, her sweat-soaked dress clinging tightly to her body.

"My name isn't Jake," he spat out from the back seat.

"I don't give a fuck what your name is," I yelled back, fighting the urge to smash the gun across his face again.

I got out of the car and walked around to stand beside Ashley. We were both sweating profusely as we stared up at the long, steep concrete steps leading to the front door.

"Do you feel anything?" I asked, wanting to hold her, just in case the memories hit her too hard.

"I am not sure... but something about this house makes me feel unnerved," she answered quietly, her arms wrapping protectively around her torso.

"It's okay. I don't expect you to remember much, because I am struggling to understand it myself," I replied softly.

"You kissed David right in front of that house once," I said, looking at her to see if she remembered. I didn't expect her to. I didn't even know where these fragmented memories of mine were coming from. When they surfaced, it felt like trying to hold onto water from a running tap—the harder I squeezed, the faster they slipped through my fingers.

"David sounds like a nice guy," she whispered, and I found myself staring into her ice-blue eyes and beautiful lips.

I wanted so badly to pull her close, to kiss her right there on the street, and whisper in her ear, "You're safe now; all that happened before will soon be over."

Our moment of mutual, quiet serenity was violently interrupted by Jake, who started yelling and kicking the inside of the car door.

"Ashley, I don't know why any of this is happening. But what I know from the bottom of my soul is that what happened to you will be made right," I promised her, a single, hot tear running down my cheek.

"I believe you," she replied. She reached up with a soft, delicate hand and wiped the tear away.

I didn't even care that the salt from my sweat stung the fresh cuts on my face, because that touch felt like it came straight down from heaven.

"You can't really do that, though. You know that, right?" she said, her hand dropping back to her side.

"I can't really do what?" I asked, confused.

"The stuff you said about Jessica... the stuff that happened to her. You can't undo that. You can't make that good," she whispered.

I couldn't look at her face when she said it. The brutal honesty of it was too painful to contemplate, so I focused my gaze on the diluted blood washing off her arm, carried away by her sweat.

"I have to try," I replied firmly, working up the courage to meet her eyes again.

"I hope she knows how much you care. But you can't undo any of this, Ryan," she answered, her gaze returning to the looming house.

I walked over to the car to retrieve Jake, feeling incredibly winded and dehydrated from the oppressive heat. He looked like a caged, panicked animal in the backseat—sweating, bleeding, and thrashing frantically against his restraints.

"You motherfucker," he growled, spraying a mist of blood at the glass as I opened the door.

I grabbed him roughly by the chain of his cuffs and dragged him out, letting him fall heavily and violently onto the concrete sidewalk. His right shoulder scraped hard against the cement, ripping the fabric of his shirt and cutting deep into the thick skin underneath. I hauled him back to his feet by the cuffs, which made him cry out in pain and release a fresh string of profanities.

"Ashley, start going up the stairs. I'm going to keep a hold of him," I shouted over his yelling.

As we began the long climb up those steps, a dark, heavy shadow seemed to enter my gut. It was that specific, primal type of dread you feel when you have to go down into a pitch-black basement as a child. It's a presence you can't see or touch, but you feel it instinctively in your marrow.

Even in his precarious, bleeding situation, I noticed Jake was staring intently at Ashley's ass as we walked up those dreadful steps behind her.

"Eyes up," I snarled, giving a sharp, punishing yank on the cuffs that made him groan.

"How's everything, Ashley?" I asked, trying to focus my attention entirely on her. With every step we took, the shadowy dread taking root in my stomach grew heavier.

"Fine," I heard her respond softly, her gaze locked straight ahead.

It's almost over, I thought to myself as we finally reached the wooden deck.

There were no lights on in the house, and no cars parked in the driveway or nearby, but we were getting inside, even if I had to kick the door off its hinges. Every creak the old wood made under our boots felt like a physical stab wound to my flesh. Jake tripped on the final step, and I had to drag his massive frame back up as he spat more blood and told me what a piece of shit I was.

All three of us stood on the creaky deck, staring at the front door.

It was painted a deep, dark purple. It stood out, as none of the other houses on the street had a purple door. I couldn't recall ever seeing a dark purple front door in my life. Jake huffed and puffed beside me, spitting a glob of blood onto the wooden planks.

"Motherfucker," he groaned. I looked at him; the thick muscles of his arms were flexing against his restraints, and the thick blue veins on his neck were pulsing visibly.

"Do you remember this at all?" I asked Ashley.

"No, not really. But this place... it’s giving me a really odd feeling," she responded, turning around to look at me.

"Standing here is giving me an overwhelming sense of dread and depression," I confessed, trying my best not to let the fear show on my face.

"Yeah, because you have completely lost your fucking mind," Jake snarled.

Running purely on instinct and exhausted adrenaline, I punched him squarely in the face again, sending another spray of blood flying through the hot air.

"Fuck!" I yelled. I had punched him with my already-mangled hand, and the pain was blinding. I could hear Jake softly, wetly laughing at me through his ruined teeth.

"Please step aside, Ashley," I asked, violently shoving Jake toward the front door.

It was at this exact moment that I realized something profound: she could have run. While I was struggling with Jake, she easily could have bolted back down the stairs, and I wouldn't have been able to stop her. But she hadn't. She had decided to stay with me, for better or for worse.

There was no doorbell, so I had no choice but to knock on the wood with my ruined, bloody knuckles. Each knock stung worse than the last, and I truly had no idea what to expect. What if a stranger answered the door, took one look at the three of us, bloody, sweaty, and bruised, and immediately called the cops? Would I just force myself inside anyway, holding an innocent family at gunpoint?

These panicked questions ran through my head after each heavy knock, followed only by silence.

"You really don't remember any of this?" I asked Ashley again, desperately trying to decide on my next course of action.

"No, not really. But standing here... looking at that door… I can't explain it, but something deep in my soul feels like I have been here before," she replied softly.

I heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching from the other side of the door. The loud, metallic click of the deadbolt unlocking was all I could focus on as my anxiety skyrocketed.

The door slowly creaked open.

Standing in the doorway was Megan.

"I am FBI Agent Ryan Hope," I said, struggling to pull my gold shield from my pocket with my good hand while still keeping a tight hold on Jake's cuffs.

Megan was an older lady. Much of the fat beneath her skin had withered away, leaving her face drooping and deeply wrinkled. She had the same striking, ice-blue eyes as Jessica, but that is where the familial resemblance ended abruptly. Her hair was a mousy dark brown, cut a little bit above her shoulders, with a few gray strands visible if you looked close enough. Her lips were thin and severely drawn. She was wearing a loose-fitting, drab brown dress that fell to her ankles, paired with a blue knit sweater that looked incredibly itchy just to look at.

“I hope I can be of some help,” she said, struggling to clear her throat.

“I know how this may look, Megan,” I replied. I kept a close eye on Jessica, watching for any spark of recognition as she faced her mother.

The older woman coughed again, a deep, rattling sound, before spitting into a plastic cup. “Sorry,” she croaked. “I have lung cancer.”

“I understand, Megan,” I said, my voice softening with a false sense of apology.

“Why do you keep calling me Megan? My name is Jennifer,” she said, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion as she spat into the cup again.

“I’m sorry about that, Jennifer. It’s been a long day,” I said, scanning the porch. Jake was a bloody mess beside me, and Jessica stood like a ghost to my right. A part of me was certain this was Megan, but the reality in front of me refused to align with my memory. Jessica looked at the woman with nothing but fear and bewilderment.

“Do you remember this girl standing right here?” I asked, gesturing toward Jessica.

Jennifer gave her a slow, clinical look up and down. She coughed again, a wet spray of phlegm involuntarily escaping her lips. “No.”

“This may sound insane, but somewhere, at some point in time, this girl was your daughter,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite how crazy the words felt in my mouth.

Jennifer looked at her again. This time, I saw a shift in her posture, an unmistakable discomfort. “Nope. Can’t say I do,” she answered.

I gave Jake’s handcuffs a sharp yank, making him grunt in pain. “What about this man?” I growled.

“No, I don't know him either,” she responded, wiping a smear of bloody saliva from her lip.

“You were married to him,” I said, yanking the cuffs again for emphasis. “It was after your first husband died in that car crash.”

“Okay?” she replied, her confusion sharpening into anger. “What is this?”

“He raped your daughter,” I said, the words coming out low and jagged. I looked at Jessica; she was trembling now. “He did it for years while she grew up. And then he killed her.”

“Excuse me!” Jennifer yelled. A string of cancer-riddled spit dangled from her lip.

“It all happened in your basement. And you knew,” I replied. My muscles tensed, fueled by the sheer audacity of her denial.

She tried to slam the door on us, but I shoved my hand out to catch it. A shock of agony raced through my mangled knuckles, but I didn't flinch.

“I don't give a fuck if I have to blow your brains out right here,” I yelled, staring directly into her eyes until she flinched. “We are going into this house.”

The look of pathetic cowardice on her face only made me angrier. She made a weak attempt to push the door closed again, but I threw my weight against it. The door flew open, knocking her back onto the floor. Her yellowish-brown spit splashed against the entryway wall. I stepped over her as she cried out in pain.

“What the fuck is going on?” she coughed from the floor.

I waved for Jessica to enter. She hesitated, her eyes wide, before giving me a small, numb nod. She stepped into the dimly lit hallway, and I dragged a bleeding, sweating Jake behind her.

“What’s the matter with you?” Jennifer wailed, struggling to sit up.

“If what I think is down there is actually down there,” I said, pointing the barrel of my gun toward the basement door at the end of the hall, “she may come up and use this thing on you.”

I caught Jessica’s eye. She looked back at me with a devastating mix of dread and sorrow.

“Fucking move,” I snapped at Jake. I slammed the front door shut, locking us in. The only light now came from the sun bleeding through the windows.

“There is nothing here, you bloody lunatic!” Jennifer spat, her voice wet with the fluid in her lungs.

“Your room is up those stairs,” I said softly to Jessica. “The one with the pink moon lamp. Do you want to see it, Ashley?”

“No,” she whispered, leaning against the wall. “Not really.” She let out a long, weary sigh—the sound of someone who had realized the world no longer made sense.

“If there’s nothing down there, can I fucking go?” Jake yelled, jerking his head toward the basement. In the grey, flat light of the house, he looked less like a man and more like a cornered animal.

“I’ll decide that,” I snapped. I noticed the dark bruising and raw cuts around his wrists where the steel had bitten in. He deserved every bit of it.

I turned back to Jennifer, leveling the gun at her. “You knew the entire time and you did nothing. Why? For God’s sake, why?”

Spit bubbled on her quivering lips. She leaned against the wall, her whole body shaking. “I... I haven't seen either of these people before,” she insisted, running a hand through her thin hair.

“You knew,” I said. My voice was a death knell.

In that second, I saw a microscopic change in her expression. A flicker of a memory flashed behind her eyes, a moment of recognition that confirmed everything I had said was true. I pulled back the hammer of the revolver. I stared down the barrel, centering the sights directly between her eyes.

“I... I don't know what you’re talking about,” she whispered. She couldn't even look at me. Jessica stood by, shaking with the terror that this woman truly was the mother who had abandoned her to a monster.

Bang.

The gun kicked, the recoil jolting up my arm. The bullet caught her square between the eyes and erupted out the back of her skull. A spray of blood, bone, and grey matter painted the wall behind her, sliding down the wallpaper in slow, thick streaks.

Her eyes stayed open for a heartbeat, staring into the void, as time seemed to dilate. I looked into those lifeless pupils and whispered, “You could have stopped it at any time. But you did nothing.”

Jessica’s scream sounded muffled, as if I were underwater. Jennifer’s body toppled over, exposing the hollow canyon in the back of her head. Blood pooled around her, and the sound of her skull thudding against the hardwood made my stomach turn. But it felt like justice.

I snapped out of the slow-motion haze. Jessica was screaming at the top of her lungs now. Jake was howling too, a string of incoherent profanities.

“She fucking deserved it!” I spat, though I knew Jessica couldn't hear me.

She bolted for the door, but I pivoted and trained the gun on her. “Stop right there!”

She froze instantly.

“Look at me!” I pleaded.

She stood like a statue, staring at the floor as the pool of her mother’s blood slowly crept toward her bare feet.

“You saw it,” I told her, my voice cracking under the weight of the adrenaline. “You saw the look on her face. You know she knew.”

“Fucking murderer!” Jake spat.

I spun and pistol-whipped him across the back of the head, sending him face-first into the floor. Jessica turned to look at me, her face a mask of shock. We stayed there, caught in a gruesome tableau, the muzzle of my gun still smoking.

Tears began to carve tracks through the grime on her cheeks. In the silence, I watched as they fell, mixing with the blood gathering around her toes.

“I don't know who I am,” she whispered through her sobs.

“You’re Jessica,” I replied, my voice breaking. “As strange as it sounds, that’s who you are.”

She wiped at her eyes, trying to catch her breath. “Do you know who you are?” she asked, looking down at the blood soaking into her skin. “Do you know what you've done?”

"I wish I did," I replied, my voice sounding like dry timber. "But I'm trying to fix what happened to you. I'm trying to make it right."

"If I am this girl you say I am," she whispered, taking a shuddering breath as she wiped a streak of her mother's blood from her cheek, "you can't fix any of this. Some things stay broken."

"I have to try," I said, the words feeling like heavy stones in my mouth.

"This Jessica girl is lucky to have someone who cares so much," she replied. She turned away from the cooling corpse of her mother and began to walk toward the television room, her bare feet leaving wet, sticky red prints on the white rug.

I yanked on Jake’s cuffs, dragging him behind her. He was still reeling from the pistol-whip, his eyes rolled back, a trail of dark blood leaking from his hair and marking our path.

"Is there a VCR?" I demanded, staring at the ancient wood-paneled tube television.

Jessica leaned down, her fingers trembling as she clawed open the doors of the TV stand.

"No," she said, her voice hollow.

A million thoughts collided in my skull. I was so sure. I was so certain this was the house, that the evidence was here, that the tapes would be the key to breaking the world and making it honest again.

"Check again!" I shouted. I knew she wouldn't find anything, but I needed those few seconds to stop my mind from splintering.

"There’s fucking nothing!" she yelled, her frustration boiling over as she kicked the TV stand.

"Fucking lunatics," Jake spat, the words bubbling through the blood in his mouth.

Jessica stood up and walked past us, her eyes locked on the basement door at the end of the hall. I turned, dragging Jake with me. My eyes caught Megan’s body one last time, slumped in the corner, her head a hollowed-out canyon of gore. A cold, sharp needle of doubt pierced my spine. Did I make a mistake? I shook the thought away. I couldn't afford it.

She stood at the basement door, her hand hovering over the handle.

"It’s almost over," I whispered. I wasn't sure if she heard me over Jake’s wet groaning.

She turned her head, her ice-blue eyes searching mine. "Standing in front of this door... Ryan... I feel something. A weight."

"Once we're down there, it will all be clear," I said, trying to sound like a man who wasn't drowning in his own madness.

The old door shrieked as she pulled it open. An overwhelming wave of damp earth and rot hit me as she stepped into the blackness. I felt a surge of pure panic; I felt as though if I let her out of my sight for even a second, she would vanish into the fog forever.

In a fit of sudden, jagged rage, I kicked Jake in the small of his back. He tumbled down the steep wooden steps, his body making a series of heavy, wet thuds until he hit the concrete at the bottom.

"You broke my arm, you motherfucker!" he shrieked from the dark.

I scrambled down the stairs, tripping over my own feet and landing hard on top of him. The smell of his sour sweat and the iron tang of his blood filled my senses.

"Shut the fuck up!" I screamed, checking myself for broken bones as I fumbled for the chain on his cuffs. I felt the cold steel and yanked him upward.

"Ashley? Jessica? Do you see a light?" I shouted. I could barely breathe; the air down here felt like it was made of lead.

"I... I think I found one," she called back.

A loud click echoed through the basement. A single, bare incandescent bulb flickered to life, swinging rhythmically from a frayed wire. The light cast long, erratic shadows, making Jessica appear and disappear as the bulb swayed.

"Behind the cabinet," I gasped, my heart hammering against my ribs. "That's where the tapes are."

Jessica moved toward a heavy metal cabinet. I leaned down, shoving the muzzle of my gun into Jake’s cheek. He spat blood into my eyes. I wiped it away with my sleeve, leaving a red smear across my vision.

"There's no mattress," Jake wheezed, a jagged, bloody smile spreading across his face. "There are no tapes. There is no Jessica. You're chasing a ghost, Agent."

"Remember doing this to her?!" I roared, shoving the barrel of the gun deep into his mouth until he gagged. I pushed it until I heard him retch, vomiting a slurry of blood and bile onto the floor. The stench of his stomach acid was overpowering.

Behind me, I heard the screech of metal on concrete as Jessica shoved the cabinet aside.

"There’s nothing here!" she screamed.

I whipped my head around. In the oscillating light, I saw her hands frantically clawing at the bare, damp concrete wall.

"Look everywhere!" I yelled, my voice cracking.

"I fucking told you," Jake gurgled through a mouthful of vomit.

"Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up!" I screamed, every vein in my neck bulging.

"There’s nothing fucking here!" Jessica wailed, her voice hitting a pitch of pure hysteria.

"There has to be!" I dragged Jake through his own mess, pulling him toward the center of the room beneath the swinging bulb. "Ashley, get over here!"

She approached us, her feet dragging, her white dress stained with the filth of the floor.

"Lift your head, Jake!" I ordered, using the gun to force his chin up. He spat more blood at us. The light above began to strobe, flashing faster and faster.

"Why did you do it?" I yelled. Jessica stood over him now, the two of them staring at one another in a heavy, terrible silence.

"I don't know who you are," Jake whispered, blood dripping from his lips. As the light flickered, I saw it—a tiny, knowing smirk at the corner of his mouth.

He knew.

A flash flood of white-hot rage erupted in my chest. I grabbed Jessica’s hand and forced the grip of my revolver into her palm.

"Just do it," I growled. "He knows. He knows what he did to you. He doesn't deserve another breath, fucking kill him Jessica."

She held the gun with both hands, her entire body vibrating with tremors. She didn't point it at him. She just stared at it.

"No," she stuttered. "I can't."

"He raped you!" I screamed into her face. "He destroyed you! Just fucking do it!"

"No!" she shrieked, shoving the gun back against my chest.

"Jessica, it has to be you! It has to end with you!"

I felt a flash of shame for yelling at her, but the anger had completely hijacked my soul.

"Fine," I spat. "I'll fucking do it."

I pressed the barrel against Jake’s temple. He looked up at me, his eyes wide and vacant.

"Fucking lunatics," he whispered.

He left a fresh smear of blood on my shoe. Time dilated, slowing until every heartbeat felt like an hour. I pulled the trigger.

The muzzle flash was a blinding burst of orange in the blue-lit dark. The report of the gun was deafening in the cramped concrete space. The back of Jake’s head disintegrated in a violent spray of red mist, bone shards, and gray matter that painted the floor. His eyes remained open for a second, fixed on nothing, before he toppled forward. His face hit the concrete with a sickening, hollow thud.

I stared into the ragged hole in his skull, mesmerized by the gore and the smoke curling from the wound.

"It's over," I whispered, the adrenaline finally beginning to recede. "It’s finally over."

"No... no... no... no..."

I turned my head. Jessica was staring at the body, her face a mask of primal terror.

"It's over, Jessica," I repeated.

She didn't hear me. She started to scream. It wasn't a human sound; it was a jagged, rhythmic shriek that tore at my essence. Her mouth opened unnaturally wide, exposing teeth that were slick with blood. The light bulb above us turned a violent electrical blue, strobing so rapidly that reality felt like it was being sliced into individual frames.

Blood began to pour from Jessica's mouth, soaking the front of her dress. She fell to her knees in the pool of Jake's blood and brains, and began to claw at her own head.

"Jessica, stop!" I yelled, reaching for her.

She ignored me, her fingers digging into her scalp. She began to rip out massive chunks of her charcoal hair, tearing the skin from the roots. Blood cascaded down her forehead, flooding her eyes.

"No, no, no, no, no!" she howled, holding the bloody clumps of hair in her fists.

Her screams were sucking the very air from the room, pulling the life out of my body. I fell to my knees in the blood. She crawled through the gore toward me, pressing her face inches from mine. Her eyes had turned a solid, milky white.

"I am not who you think I am!" she shrieked.

The volume was so immense that the light bulb above us shattered, plunging the basement into total darkness.

In the blackness, the screaming continued, joined by the rhythmic, wet sound of flesh being sliced. I closed my eyes, grateful for the dark, unable to watch what she was doing to herself.

"I'll never stop trying, Jessica," I muttered into the void.

Her demonic shrieks filled my head until they became a single, vibrating note.

"I love you, Jessica, and it's our love that unlocks all." I whispered

The screaming began to fade, replaced by a low, persistent hum. My body and mind became tired, and I couldn't fight off falling asleep.

I woke up one Sunday morning in total darkness, surrounded by a faint electrical humming sound ringing in my apartment….

Thank you to everyone who has read the entirety of Burning Angel! I hope you guys enjoyed the book, but don't worry, there is more to come in this universe!

What's everyone's theory on the ending? What exactly is going on in this story? What's a dream, and what's not? Who is the dreamer?

Thanks again, from the bottom of my heart, for taking the time to read this twisted and heavy story. For all of you who made it this far, here's a sneak peek at the next installment to Burning Angel:

Eternal Hope

By Chris Daniels

To Jessica

When I went to get some water from the food stand, I turned around and watched your hair moving in the breeze. Its, raven blackness reminded me of smoke rising from a fire, shifting and creating beautiful shapes in the air. I couldn’t help but get lost just staring at the way it flowed. I made sure to take in every single second, just so I could hold onto that memory forever.

The contrast between the green grass beneath you, the deep blue of the lake you were gazing at, and the vibrant pink sky encompassed all the beauty possible in this universe. I imagined the sweet, fruity scent of your perfume drifting toward me like pink smoke, filling my senses. When you finally turned around and our eyes locked, my knees actually went weak.

Your ice-blue eyes have a way of pulling me in, making me feel thousands of different emotions that words could only ever scratch the surface of. They remind me of those massive blue glaciers that people travel across the world to stare at and marvel over, but even that comparison doesn’t do them justice. When I look deep into them, I see all the love in the universe. They are filled with so much pure goodness that they can barely hold it all.

That goodness radiates from you and fills my soul. It’s not just happiness; it’s a burning, white-hot joy that travels through every molecule of my body. Your lips are full and soft, almost too perfect to touch. It actually scares me sometimes when we kiss, because I know exactly how lucky I am to be the one kissing you.

When our lips connect, I swear we release an energy into the cosmos that will travel forever. The intense love we create is felt by everything in the universe, it’s what keeps everything going. When we pull away to take that first breath, the air rises as purple and pink smoke, intertwining into a single thread as we watch it disappear into the distance.

We just smile at one another, and in those quiet moments, time simply slows down for me. The look of pure joy on your face, with your charcoal hair spilling over your shoulders, will always make me weak. What I did in this life to deserve moments like that, I will never understand, and maybe that’s exactly the point.

Jessica, my love for you will burn like a white-hot fire for all of eternity. No matter where you go, or what lives you end up living, I will always love you. It’s our love that fuels the universe.

Love,

Michael Hope

P.S. I am never going to stop loving you.

Previously on Burning Angel

Audio Version (Intro and outro music)

Chapter 63: David

As we dragged ourselves up those cold, wet concrete steps, the pink moon hung ominously above Jessica's house. I didn't know what we'd find inside, but a fleeting sense of relief washed over me, knowing this journey was almost at its end. My shredded hand throbbed in time with my racing heart. When I glanced at Chris, his face was contorted in absolute agony. Each step looked like it cost him an eternity.

"It's almost done, Chris," I said, hauling him up another step.

Chris's complexion mirrored the excruciating pain he'd endured. Deep, jagged lines etched his face; his eyes were sunken, hollowed out, and his skin looked entirely drained of life.

"It is," he muttered.

The pink light flashing from the windows enveloped us in a sickly, pulsating glow. We both paused at the landing, taking a deep, shuddering breath to prepare ourselves for whatever lay ahead.

I closed my heavy eyes, letting my mind drift to Cassie. I pictured us back at Val's house, sitting together in the deck chairs once all this madness was over. The sky was a flawless, brilliant blue, the sun beating down with a comforting warmth. It was a perfect spring day with a gentle breeze, and I filled my lungs with clean, sweet air. Birds chirped in the trees, and in the distance, I could hear the faint, joyous laughter of kids playing. On the table beside us sat two cups of steaming coffee. We both leaned back, soaking in the weather and nature's beautiful music.

"It's finally over," I said, smiling, losing myself in Cassie's stunning green eyes.

I took a sip of my coffee, feeling a profound warmth spread throughout my body. She wore the exact same outfit from the night I picked her up on the side of the road: a short red skirt, knee-high socks, a cut-off Metallica shirt, and dark red lipstick. With her perfectly applied dark eyeshadow, she was the absolute, ideal image of beauty.

"My punk rock angel," I said.

She smiled back, leaning in to kiss me, careful not to press against my injuries. Her lips tasted like sweet water, as soft and perfect as an angel's touch.

"I love you, Cassie," I murmured after our long, passionate kiss. I felt a hint of her red lipstick lingering on my mouth, and she gently wiped it away with a nearby napkin. She sank back into her seat, beaming, and uncapped a pen to write something on the paper.

"What are you writing?" I asked jokingly, still euphoric from the taste of her.

She gave me a, secretive smile and kept scribbling.

"It's over, and I'm with the most beautiful girl in the world," I said, marveling at our little slice of heaven.

I turned to Cassie, who had just folded the napkin in half. "Seriously, what are you writing, sweetie?" I asked with a laugh, taking another sip of my coffee. Her smile made me feel whole—her happiness was the proof that my soul was complete, that I had actually made a difference in this dark world.

"Come on, let me see," I teased, leaning in to kiss her again. As our lips met, she slipped the folded napkin into my hand. We shared another slow, breathless moment.

When we finally parted, I stared at her, absorbing the radiant energy she gave off. "You're the strongest, most beautiful angel ever," I whispered, pressing one more gentle kiss to her lips.

I leaned back in my chair and unfolded the napkin.

I am not who you think I am was scrawled in black ink right above her red lipstick stain.

"What's this?" I asked, forcing a confused chuckle.

Cassie didn't answer. She was staring straight ahead, locked in a dead, unblinking trance, looking right through me. Panic surged like ice water through my veins. My hands began to tremble as I held the napkin.

"What's this, Cassie? Please?" I asked, my voice spiking with frantic desperation.

She remained frozen, unmoving and utterly silent. It was as if her mind had been violently pulled into a different dimension. I bolted out of my chair and grabbed her forearm. Her flesh felt like solid ice.

"Cassie, please," I whispered.

In the blink of an eye, our surroundings violently shifted. The bright day collapsed into pitch-black night. The sky mutated into a bruised, dark purple, and the massive pink moon reappeared, looming heavy and oppressive. Thick, suffocating purple fog rolled rapidly down the street, swallowing the neighborhood.

"Cassie," I gasped, looking down at her. She was still sitting in the deck chair, but her hand was now tightly gripping the jagged, broken neck of a beer bottle.

"I loved you, David. That was real," she said to the empty air, as if I wasn't even standing there.

"I love you, Cassie!" I screamed, but she couldn't hear me. I was a ghost in her nightmare.

Dark purple tears streamed down her pale cheeks as her knuckles turned white around the broken glass. I lunged to grab her arm, to wrestle the bottle away, but my hands passed right through her. I was completely powerless.

"I was your punk rock angel," she whispered, her voice cracking with sobs.

"You are my punk rock angel," I pleaded, tears blurring my vision.

Time ground to a sickening, agonizing halt. I watched the veins in her hand bulge as she tightened her grip. She let out a scream—a sound of such profound, unending agony that it felt like it tore straight through the fabric of my own soul.

In horrific slow motion, the jagged glass rose. Without a moment of hesitation, she drove the serrated edges deep into the side of her neck.

Blood didn't just spray; it erupted. A violent, steaming geyser of crimson arterial blood painted the air, splashing across the deck.

"Cassie, NO!" I roared, desperately swiping at her hands, grabbing nothing but cold mist.

She ripped the glass out and plunged it into her throat again, tearing through muscle and vein with a sickening, wet shuck. More hot blood sprayed indiscriminately, coating her face and chest in a horrific crimson mask. But her expression didn't register fear or physical pain—only a hollow, melancholic acceptance of her own destruction.

"I loved you so much, Cassie," I wept, choking on my sobs as dark purple tears carved tracks down my own chin.

She drove the makeshift blade into her neck a third time, twisting it savagely. I heard the stomach-turning crunch of glass breaking off and grinding against her cervical vertebrae. I collapsed to my knees. A thick, dark waterfall of gore cascaded down her chest, pooling heavily on the wooden boards and washing over my shins.

"NO!" I screamed, hammering my bleeding fists against the deck, feeling her hot blood splash across my face.

Her arm finally went limp. The remaining chunk of the bottle slipped from her slick, bloody fingers, clattering onto the wood and rolling through the crimson tide until it bumped against my knee. The horrific, wet gurgle of air escaping her severed trachea filled the silence.

I forced myself to stand, despite every fiber of my being screaming at me to stay on the floor. Her neck was a pulverized ruin—a gaping, jagged crater of shredded flesh, severed arteries, and glistening white connective tissue. It looked as though her head was barely attached to her shoulders, held on by only a few remaining strands of muscle. Her beautiful green eyes were blown wide, staring blankly into the purple void of nothingness. The blood flowed in thick, heavy sheets.

When I reached out to touch her cheek, I could finally feel her. But her body was already turning cold—lifeless, empty, and gone.

"I loved you, my punk rock angel," I sobbed, leaning in to press my lips against her freezing forehead. I had to force myself not to look at the massive, pulsing crater in her throat. Her icy skin sent a shock of pure dread through my nervous system—a coldness I knew would stay buried in my bones forever.

When I pulled back, her dead eyes seemed to meet mine for a split second before dulling back into a vacant, glassy stare. Memories flooded my fractured mind—the soft way she had said, "David, I missed you too," and the image of her sleeping so peacefully in my backseat, her punk-rock beauty captivating me completely.

"Cassie, I missed you," I whispered, echoing the words I had spoken to her on the phone. "I'll never stop missing you," I wailed, burying my face in my blood-stained hands.

I snapped my eyes open.

I was standing back on the wet concrete steps of Jessica's house. The pink lights were still flashing violently. I looked over at Chris; his eyes were squeezed shut, his face twisted in his own internal agony.

"That didn't happen. That wasn't real," I whispered frantically to myself, staring at the flashing lights. I desperately tried to convince myself that Cassie wasn't dead, but deep down in the rotting pit of my stomach, I knew the truth. She was. Even if I turned around and sprinted back to Val's house right now, I would find her slumped in that chair, her severed neck drying out, surrounded by a lake of her own blood.

She was dead, and I could physically feel my soul being ripped in two. No matter how this night ended, I would never be the same person. I might be able to stitch up the cuts in my soul over time, but the scars would bleed forever. My punk rock angel was dead. I had failed her. I would have to find a way to carry that weight and move on—if that was even possible.

The gruesome images of her shredded throat flashed behind my eyes. As agonizing as it was, I forced my mind to lock them away. What was waiting for us inside this house might be the key to undoing everything, but a heavy, cynical part of me knew it wouldn't bring her back.

"Oh, Cassie," I whimpered, allowing myself to cry one last, bitter tear before hardening my resolve for what was to come.

"I am not who you think I am," her voice echoed through the chambers of my mind.

What did she mean exactly? It could mean a million different things, depending on how you looked at it. Was she talking about how little I really knew about her? Was she talking about some dark, unspeakable secret from her past? Did she even know who she was herself? I wanted to know the answers to these questions with every fiber of my being, and I was going to carve them out of this town, come what may. Cassie deserved that much. And maybe, just maybe, the truth would help me heal.

Just then, Chris screamed, "Fuck no!" at the top of his lungs. His eyes snapped wide open, streaming with tears, staring into the flashing pink light of the nightmare house.

Chapter 64: Chris

David and I stopped walking up the cold, wet cement steps to catch our breath before entering Jessica's house. The pink light flashed brightly from the house windows, surrounding us in its glow. My knees and shoulders throbbed with waves of pain, but at least the bleeding had slowed down. "It's almost over," I said to myself, staring up at the house. If we had to get into a physical altercation, I wasn't sure how much I could do to help. My entire body was stiff, sore, bleeding, and the pain in my knees made every step difficult. "We're fine, we've handled everything so far," I reassured myself. Desperate to calm my nerves, I closed my heavy, tired eyelids and tried to daydream about my life with Val once this was all over.

I pushed open the diner doors and yelled, "Val!" The place was packed with elderly couples enjoying wonderful-smelling meals. "Sheriff," she said lovingly, turning around with a smile that lit up her face. Her teeth were perfectly white, and her lips were full and inviting.

"It's all over," I said, sitting down at the same stool where we first met.

"Liver and onions coming right up," she replied, taking a pen out of her beautiful, tied-up dirty blonde hair.

I motioned for her to come closer, and she blushed, putting her elbows on the counter and looking into my eyes. Her diner outfit hugged her curves perfectly, making her look like a beautiful girl you'd want to call your wife. I stared back into her big, green eyes, and the combination with her smile and slightly tanned skin made her look like an angel.

"You're the most beautiful woman in the world," I said, putting my hand on her face, and her skin felt like touching clouds.

"I love you so much, Chris," she whispered, kissing my hand on her face.

"Being with you is all I've ever needed in my life," I whispered, closing my eyes and leaning in for a kiss.

But when I opened my eyes again, everything had changed. The diner was empty, quiet, and cold. The sky outside was purple, with thick, purple fog rolling down the streets. Val was sitting in a booth, crying dark purple tears and struggling to breathe. "No, I am Val," she screamed, ripping away at the rags wrapped around her hand. Blood sprayed everywhere, and I jumped up to stop her, but I wasn't able to.

"You are Valeria," I tried to scream, but my voice was barely audible.

Val continued to scream, "No, I am Val," as she rubbed the blood from her hand onto her face. She slipped on the blood, fell, and struggled to get up. "Where are you, Chris?" she yelled, slipping again on her own blood.

I tried to yell back, "I'm here, I'll always be here," but she couldn't hear my voice. Tears flowed down my cheeks heavily, and It felt like my soul was being torn apart.

Val crawled on the ground, covered in blood, repeating, "No, I am Val." She grabbed a broken coffee cup shard and squeezed it tightly, cutting her hand deeply. The diner was freezing, and the blood on her clothes and the floor was turning to ice. Time slowed down as she stabbed the shard into her throat. Blood sprayed out, freezing into a mist in slow motion. "No, fuck no!" I tried to scream, but it felt like a thousand pieces of glass digging into my throat.

Val stabbed herself again, and blood flowed down her body, freezing slowly. I could see her muscle fibers and connective tissue through the deep cuts. She raised her hands to stab herself again but fell backwards, making a loud thud. As I walked towards her, it felt like my soul was being stabbed and torn with the same shard. I fell to my knees and looked into her beautiful eyes as she slowly bled out. The blood was freezing on the ground and into her hair. My eyes caught a glimpse of the massive, pulsing wounds on her neck, and my soul bled uncontrollably. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling in a tranquil blankness, probably knowing it would be all over soon. Her lips turned blue as she slowly mouthed, "I love you."

"I love you so much, Val," I whispered, and for a split second, her eyes locked with mine before staring out into nothingness again. She lost color in her face as I cried over her, watching her die.

"Fuck no, fuck no!" I finally screamed at the top of my lungs, standing over the dead body of the one person who made my soul feel less torn and stepped on.

"Chris," David said, with concern etched on his face, as I opened my eyes.

"Val's dead," I replied in a deadpan voice, fueled by fury and despair.

"Cassie is dead," David responded with his voice sounding broken, as he rubbed my shoulder.

"I'm going to kill that motherfucker," I spat out in venomous rage, trying to fight back my tears.

"I know, Chris," David responded gently.

The anger rushing through my body made me forget my pain, and my hands shook. "I loved Cassie so much, and I can't even explain it," David said, his voice laced with deep despair that resonated in my heart.

"What the fuck is even going on?" I yelled, feeling my teeth shake.

"We have to end this," David said stoically, but I knew he was fighting back his own despair.

"What does that even mean, David?" I asked in anger, pulling away from him.

"It's in that house – that's where it all ends," he said, pointing to it.

"I don't know why I loved Val so much, but I did," I replied, trying to calm myself down.

"Who is Jessica?" David asked stoically, looking down at the wet cement steps.

"I don't know – I don't even know who I am," I responded as David slowly turned to face me.

"Who is Jessica?" he repeated, looking at me struggling to stay upright.

"I don't know," I replied truthfully, thinking over the question. "I don't even know if I want to know at this point," I yelled, stumbling forward and catching myself with my hand.

David leaned down and put his arm over my shoulder. We both struggled to get back to our feet. "We're going to save her," David whispered, his voice filled with determination.

"How can we even save her, David?" I asked. All I wanted to do was lay down on the cement stairs and let the coldness slowly kill me.

"It's in that house – everything we've gone through has led up to this moment," David said emphatically.

"I kind of just want it all to end at this point," I replied, feeling most of my strength drained from my body.

"Just a few more steps, Chris," David said, helping me up the cold, wet stairs. "I lost Cassie," he whispered as we struggled to get up to the wooden steps leading to her house.

"I didn't know what pain really was until just now," I responded, my feet dragging across the cement. The pink lights were flashing brightly, making it difficult to see as we reached the front deck.

"A few more feet," David said with determination. The look on his face was resolute – he needed to believe that this would be solved once that door was open. I was skeptical, but I didn't have the heart to tell him. David needed to believe he could solve this, find out who Jessica was, and end all the pain and suffering.

As we stood in front of the purple door, a piece of folded paper came out from underneath. David struggled to lean down as he picked it up. "'Play the tape in the VCR, and there are more downstairs behind the cabinet,'" he read out loud.

"I told you, Chris," he said with hope in his voice, waving the paper around.

"I have a feeling nothing will be the same once we go in that house, David," I said, not feeling as hopeful as him.

"We are going to fix everything, and make it all good again" David replied with a mixture of hope and doubt.

Electrical blue light started flashing around the seams of the door when David put his hand on the golden knob. "Chris, no matter what happens when I open this door, I want you to know you're a good man," he said firmly.

"David, without you, I would have given up a long time ago," I replied sincerely. As David turned the knob and slowly opened the door, the sound of Jessica screaming, along with blinding electrical blue light, overwhelmed our senses. I watched David close his eyes as we both made our first step into the light. The sound of Jessica screaming filled my ears as I closed my eyes, stepping into the unknown.

Thank you for reading Burning Angel and continuing to go on this journey. We are nearing the end of this story with one more chapter to go. It will be a very long chapter but it's the last. It will be an ending that you won't see coming unless you're a super insightful person. Thanks to everyone for taking the time out of their day to read Burning Angel or just sharing it. You know the name of the game guys share it around with as many people as possible!

Audio

Jennifer's Body

(Spoilers)

Jennifer’s Body holds a special place in my heart as one of those films that kind of flew under the radar when it first came out. Years later, people have revisited the film and started to see what audiences missed at the time. It’s a flawed movie, but it has some genuinely great elements, especially the performances by Megan Fox and Amanda Seyfried.

I remember when this film came out and both actresses were the new hot girls in Hollywood. Megan Fox was famous for the Transformers movies, while Amanda Seyfried was known for her role in Mean Girls. The entire promotion of the film was directed at the exact demographic that wanted to see these two attractive actresses together on screen: teenage boys.

Personally, I think both of them are attractive, but for completely different reasons. Amanda Seyfried always had the energy of the hot girl you could actually approach at a party, even if she’d probably still shoot you down. Megan Fox had the energy of the girl you build fantasies around but would never actually talk to. We’ll get more into this later, because in my opinion it was perfect casting.

Jennifer’s Body came out in 2009 and was directed by Karyn Kusama, who had previously directed Girlfight and Æon Flux, two films that couldn’t be further apart stylistically. Both are movies I enjoy for different reasons. Æon Flux had some pretty wild visuals and action sequences, and despite its flaws I enjoyed it for that alone.

The film was written by Diablo Cody, who previously wrote Juno and would later go on to write one of my favorite recent horror comedies, Lisa Frankenstein.

The first time I watched Jennifer’s Body, I knew nothing about who made it. My mindset was basically: “I think both these girls are hot, and Megan Fox would probably excel in horror because of her look and energy.” Years later she’s become a bit of a scream queen, so maybe I should’ve become an agent or something.

So now let’s actually get into the movie.

One interesting thing Jennifer’s Body does is start at the end. Needy (Amanda Seyfried) is in a psychiatric hospital and attacks a guard, landing herself in solitary confinement. So right away we’re given the interesting premise of already knowing how things end. Does this remove tension from the film? I can understand why some people might think so, but for me it doesn’t. Jennifer’s Body isn’t really about what happens next; it’s about how a friendship — maybe even something more — completely falls apart.

We quickly learn the dynamic between Needy and Jennifer (Megan Fox). Jennifer is the hot, cool friend who effortlessly gets the guys and attention she wants just by existing. Needy, on the other hand, is the less noticed friend who puts Jennifer on a pedestal and is too afraid to speak up. I liked how quickly the movie establishes this because it’s a very recognizable dynamic.

Jennifer convinces Needy to go to a bar where indie rock band Low Shoulder is playing. Jennifer’s goal is simple: sleep with the lead singer. Low Shoulder is honestly one of the highlights of the movie for me. Everything about them — the name, the clothes, the music — screams “indie rock douchebags” in the most entertaining way possible.

During their performance of “Through the Trees,” the entire bar suddenly goes up in flames, with people being trampled and burned alive. I especially liked how quickly the chaos escalates. It captures that horrifying moment where people realize just how bad things are far too late.

Low Shoulder convinces a shaken Jennifer to leave with them in their van, which immediately gives off horrible vibes. Needy, being a good friend, tries to stop her, but Jennifer ignores her. That moment perfectly sets up their relationship for the rest of the movie: Jennifer never really listens to Needy.

Later that night, Jennifer appears at Needy’s house covered in blood. She tries eating a rotisserie chicken but can’t keep it down. Instead, she vomits black liquid onto the floor before screaming and running away like a demon. In terms of creepy scenes, Megan Fox’s smile during this sequence might be the single most unsettling shot in the film.

The next day at school, Needy sees Jennifer walking the halls looking completely normal again, complete with a slow-motion entrance shot. She tries asking Jennifer what happened, but Jennifer either dismisses it or genuinely doesn’t remember. Jennifer also shows complete indifference toward the fire and all the people who died.

Then comes one of the film’s funniest dark comedy moments. Jennifer seduces a grieving jock whose best friend died in the fire and tells him his friend’s last words were that the two of them would make a “banging couple.” That line alone made me laugh out loud. They go somewhere secluded, start stripping down, and then Jennifer violently kills him while the surrounding wildlife literally stops to watch.

We later find out Low Shoulder has turned the tragedy into a marketing opportunity. They present themselves as heroes who tried to save people during the fire, and everyone completely buys it. Their song “Through the Trees” basically becomes the school’s unofficial anthem. This might honestly be the funniest satire in the whole movie because it feels believable because the actual villains become celebrities.

As the film progresses, Jennifer begins looking increasingly sick and exhausted. Needy notices, but Jennifer brushes it off. They eventually run into Colin, an awkward emo art kid who has clearly had a crush on Jennifer forever. Jennifer initially dismisses him, but the second Needy says he’s cute and nice, Jennifer changes her mind.

Jennifer lures Colin to an abandoned house and kills him in one of the saddest scenes in the movie. Every awkward guy has probably been Colin at some point — silently admiring someone from afar while assuming nothing will ever happen. In his case, it actually does happen, just not in the way he imagined.

During Colin’s murder, Needy experiences strange visions while having sex with her boyfriend Chip. She rushes home and runs into Jennifer, who attacks her car before somehow appearing upstairs moments later looking perfectly clean and normal.

This leads into probably the most famous scene in the movie: Needy and Jennifer making out. Needy eventually stops it, but the film never makes it completely clear whether she was under some supernatural influence or if this was something she genuinely wanted.

Jennifer finally explains what happened the night of the concert. Low Shoulder were Satanists who sacrificed her in an attempt to become famous. The ritual failed because Jennifer wasn’t actually a virgin, so instead of dying she became possessed.

Needy researches the occult at the school library and breaks up with Chip in an attempt to protect him. But on prom night Jennifer targets Chip anyway, manipulating him by claiming Needy cheated on him with Colin. She seduces him, and Needy instinctively realizes something terrible is happening.

That’s exactly what happens. After Chip rejects her advances, Jennifer attacks and begins eating him. This leads to the final confrontation at the abandoned pool, where Chip sacrifices himself to wound Jennifer before dying.

Jennifer escapes, but Needy later breaks into her bedroom, leading to a brutal fight involving a box cutter. Jennifer bites Needy during the struggle, but Needy ultimately stabs her through the heart. Jennifer’s mother walks in just in time to see the aftermath.

The movie then cuts back to the asylum, where we learn surviving a demon bite transfers some of the demon’s powers. Needy escapes and hunts down Low Shoulder, getting revenge on the people responsible for destroying Jennifer.

What I like most about Jennifer’s Body is the relationship between Needy and Jennifer and how many different ways it can be interpreted.

The surface-level reading is completely valid: two childhood friends stuck in a deeply unhealthy power imbalance. Jennifer is the beautiful, popular one, while Needy clings to the friendship because she gets social validation through proximity.

But personally, I think the film works even better as a tragic love story.

I genuinely think both Jennifer and Needy are in love with each other, and the movie constantly hints at it. Jennifer casually mentions being bisexual. Needy thinks about Jennifer during intimate moments with Chip. Other students openly comment on the way Needy looks at Jennifer. Jennifer repeatedly targets men Needy finds attractive, first Colin and then Chip. And of course there’s the kiss scene, which I interpret as both of them finally acting on feelings they’d been repressing for years.

Viewed this way, the movie becomes less about demonic possession and more about love destroying itself.

The moment that captures this best is at the Low Shoulder concert before the fire. Jennifer and Needy are smiling, holding hands, completely happy for a brief second. Then Jennifer lets go, and you can immediately see the hurt on Needy’s face. Moments later the bar catches fire, symbolically destroying whatever they could have been together.

Then comes the final glance between them before Jennifer leaves in the van. The door slamming shut feels symbolic too — like the final closing off of their relationship.

From that point onward, I think you can even interpret Jennifer’s demonic transformation as partially filtered through Needy’s grief and obsession. After all, Needy continues talking to Jennifer despite seeing overwhelming evidence that something is horribly wrong. And when Needy finally escapes the asylum, who does she go after? Not random people — she goes after Low Shoulder, the band that destroyed the person she loved.

Even Jennifer herself repeatedly spares Needy when she could easily kill her.

Some of my issues with the film mostly come down to the mythology. The rules of the possession are a little inconsistent. Why do the animals gather during Jennifer’s attacks? What exactly is the black liquid she vomits up? Why is it ultimately so easy to kill her if she’s possessed by a demon?

Still, the comedy works for me far more often than it doesn’t. The dialogue captures that weird, heightened teen comedy tone perfectly. I especially loved the insults Jennifer and Needy throw at each other during the final pool fight. Jennifer saying “You give me such a wetty” is still one of the funniest lines in the movie. As I already mentioned, everything involving Low Shoulder is fantastic satire.

To sum it all up: if you enjoy horror comedies, erotic thrillers, or stories that hide a genuinely sad love story underneath all the blood and jokes, give Jennifer’s Body a watch. It’s currently streaming on Netflix and Prime, and I honestly recommend revisiting it with this interpretation in mind because it completely changes how certain scenes feel.

Final Rating

7.5/10 — stabs in the face

Come read my story Burning Angel

Previously on Burning Angel

Audio Version (With intro and outro music)

Chapter 61: Chris

When I heard the diner door slam behind me, the thought of how stupid I was entered my head. Val was right; Jessica was dead. How in the hell was I supposed to save a dead girl?

“This all started in a fucking apartment,” I muttered to myself, walking into the thick, dark purple fog.

“Fuck! Fuck!” I yelled to nobody. I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me.

When I first arrived in Red Hills, everything was perfect. The air smelled good, everyone was nice, I met Val, and for a brief moment, I got a taste of what being the sheriff would be like in a town like this. Now, look at what it had turned into, just a purgatory of horror, pain, and suffering.

My thoughts flashed back to the first moment I locked eyes with Valeria and how awestruck I was by her beauty. She looked so wholesome in her diner uniform, and her green eyes made me feel like a twelve-year-old boy again. Now, I pictured her crying in that same diner, empty, dark, and filled with pain.

I didn’t even know where I was going or what the hell I was going to do once I got there. David must be going to the same place, I thought. We both had to get the Man in the Apron, and maybe then, this could all stop.

“Who the fuck am I anymore?” I muttered as I lumbered down the street. The concrete was slightly wet, making my footing slippery.

I was just some dude in an apartment, then I became a sheriff, and now I was marching off to save a girl I didn’t even know. All I knew about her was the deep, unimaginable pain she had endured. There was a part of me that wanted to turn back, to forget all of this. I wanted to take Val with me and run off somewhere far away from this nightmare.

But I knew I couldn’t do that. I had come too far. As much as I felt a pull toward Val, I felt the exact same pull toward Jessica.

My thoughts flashed back to the cabin, to the first time I saw her dead body. Her face: one side perfectly untouched and breathtakingly beautiful, the other smashed in, pulverized, and carved up. Remembering it sent a deathly chill down my spine, and I tried violently to shake the image out of my head.

Her face in that cabin perfectly summed up mine and David’s situation. We were chasing after the smashed and brutalized half, trying desperately to save it, while we already had the beautiful, untouched half waiting for us. We were trying to make the entire face beautiful again, and it was impossible.

Yet, we couldn’t stop trying. We had seen too much. We had learned too much. I think most people would do the same, regardless of how insane the situation was.

Try as I might, the gruesome images of Jessica’s corpse kept flashing behind my eyelids. Her flayed cheek exposing her teeth. The splintered ribs jutting through her skin. The sliced-open stomach spilling purple intestines. The methodically peeled-back flesh on her arm, and that broken leg bent into a sickening L-shape with the bone protruding.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Get out of my head!” I screamed, the fog swallowing the echo.

“What can I do to make it all end?!” I yelled, falling to my knees. The wet concrete was biting cold against my skin. I tucked my head down, grabbing handfuls of my own hair as the horrific images kept flashing. It felt like my soul was being stabbed with a rusty knife.

“I am sorry,” a voice whispered. It was Jessica's.

My eyes snapped open. She placed a soft, warm hand on my trembling shoulder, and I reached over to put my freezing hand over hers.

“Don’t say that,” I whispered. My breath froze into a pink mist, dancing briefly before getting lost in the thick purple fog.

I put a hand down to push myself up. The concrete was so cold it felt like the ice was seeping directly into my bones.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I said, standing to face her.

“I know you saw me,” she said softly. Dark purple tears ran down her pale face. Her charcoal-black hair flowed gently in an unseen wind. Her beautiful ice-blue eyes penetrated my soul, acting as a balm to repair the damage the memory of her corpse had done. She had perfect lips, and her angelic face made me feel like I was caught in a trance.

How could anyone want to hurt, let alone butcher, an angel this beautiful? I thought to myself.

“This is who you are,” I told her, reaching out to gently wipe away her tears. Her white dress moved slightly as she gave me a sad, hesitant smile.

“You’re so sweet, Chris,” she responded, placing her hand over the one I had on her cheek.

“David and I are going to make sure you look like this all the time,” I promised, feeling fresh tears welling in my own eyes.

As soon as I said it, I heard the sound of roaring fire. Beautiful, massive angel wings unfurled from her back. Brilliant purple and pink flames erupted from the feathers, catching me off guard.

“I can’t,” she said, gripping my hand tightly.

“Those look beautiful, Jessica,” I said, mesmerized by the hypnotic purple-pink flames.

She leaned in and kissed me softly on the lips, sending a jolt of comforting warmth through my freezing body.

“If I see that man in the apron, I am going to fucking kill him,” I swore, the veins pulsing hot on my forehead.

“It won’t change what happened,” she replied with tranquil acceptance, kissing my forehead.

“He has to pay for the pain he caused!” I raged. I couldn’t understand how she was so peaceful, how she wasn’t overflowing with a need for vengeance.

“The pain won’t go away,” she responded, her wings burning brighter.

“He killed you! He ripped your body apart!” I yelled, pulling my hand away from hers.

The moment my hand left hers, she brought her own hands up to cover her face. She started to cry, but the sound quickly warped into a high-pitched, demonic shriek.

“Jessica, I am sorry!” I pleaded, reaching out to comfort her.

When she lowered her hands, her face was no longer that of an angel. Those brilliant blue eyes were gone, replaced by foggy, milky-white voids. Thick, dark blood spilled rapidly out of her mouth, and her teeth had elongated into jagged, sharp razors. She opened her jaw unnaturally wide and let out a series of blood-curdling screams that drove me back to my knees.

“I moaned!” she shrieked. The words felt like razors physically digging into the fibers of my muscles. I tried to say something, anything, but what words exist in the face of this kind of unfathomable horror?

“He took me to that basement so many times!” she screamed, her voice cracking in absolute despair at the end.

“He raped me so many times!” she yelled, her voice returning to a normal, heartbroken cry.

She collapsed to her knees in the wet street. I crawled over to her. Even though her face was still a horrific, demonic mask, I wasn’t afraid. I pulled her to me, placing her head against my shoulder. I felt her hot, bloody tears soaking through my shirt.

“I moaned,” she cried out, her voice barely a whisper now.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I muttered, holding her as tightly as I could against my chest. “I am going to get him,” I whispered into her hair.

“It won’t matter,” she responded softly.

“I have come too far,” I said firmly.

“Val really does love you,” she said, slowly lifting her head off my shoulder.

“How do you know that?” I asked, confused.

Her face had shifted back to its angelic beauty, and I found myself staring back into her vibrant blue eyes.

“I just know how she feels,” she said, wiping away a few lingering dark purple tears.

She stood up, her flaming wings shifting slightly. Her white dress was stained with dirt and blood from the knees down. She looked exactly like an angel that had fallen hard to earth.

“I love her, too,” I responded, a flashback of the first time I saw Val in the diner playing in my mind’s eye.

“I know exactly how much you love Val, and I am so sorry,” she said.

“Sorry for what, Jessica?” I asked, a new knot of dread forming in my gut.

“Time just kind of repeats itself,” she answered sadly. She turned her back to me, her wings burning fiercely in the fog.

“Time is going somewhere,” I stated firmly, mostly just trying to convince myself. Truth be told, I had given up on trying to understand how time operated in this place.

“I know what you’re going to do, Chris,” she said peacefully as she began to walk away.

“No, please don’t go!” I yelled. Her burning angel wings illuminated the dense purple fog, creating a halo of light around her retreating form.

I had left Val, and now Jessica was leaving me.

“Can nothing just go right in this fucking town?!” I screamed, so loud my throat tore. “I never asked for any of this,” I whimpered, slumping back down to my knees. I stared up at the sky, barely able to make out the silhouette of the pink moon through the oppressive fog.

“This has to end. It can’t keep going on like this,” I muttered.

But how was I supposed to end it? I was randomly walking down a wet street in a dense purple fog under a pink moon. I had no clue how to stop any of this. I hardly knew what to do when things were normal.

As I forced myself up off my knees, a desperate craving for a cigarette hit me. It was so cold; my bones ached deep in the marrow, and my veins throbbed painfully. I started to walk again, nervously waving my hands in a futile attempt to clear the fog.

“Time is going somewhere,” I kept whispering to myself. I had to believe it, because accepting the alternative would destroy whatever was left of my mind.

The fog slowly began to dissipate with each painful, staggering step I took. The unnatural cold had a way of making connective tissue feel stiff and brittle, and every movement was a chore.

“Time doesn’t flow in a straight line,” a voice said.

Pink smoke danced toward me through the thinning fog.

“It’s going somewhere,” I responded as the smell of burning tobacco filled my nostrils.

As I drew closer to the voice, the fog cleared completely. Standing stoically underneath a streetlamp that emitted a harsh blue light was the Man in the Red Suit. The blue glow reflected off the wet concrete, mingling with the light of the pink moon under the dark purple sky.

As I walked toward him, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a fresh cigarette.

“You know where you have to go,” he said, his face a mask of restrained agony.

“I don’t have a fucking clue,” I responded, exhausted and exasperated.

“You knew exactly where you were going this entire time,” he said, dropping his cigarette butt and crushing it beneath his polished shoe. He was right, in a way. Somehow, through all the confusion and madness, my instincts had always pointed me in the right direction.

“David’s near the house, isn’t he?” I asked.

He nodded slowly and pointed a pale finger down the endless street.

“She loves you, too,” I whispered to him before I started walking.

“I know she does,” he whispered back.

Rows of identical houses lined both sides of the street, electric-blue lights flashing violently from every window. The pink moon hung massive and bright directly at the end of the road. I stared at it, steeling myself for however long this walk was going to take.

Suddenly, a woman’s scream and the loud, crackling sound of an electrical explosion erupted behind me. I whipped around. Where the Man in the Red Suit had been standing, the concrete was now scorched pitch-black. The blue streetlamp had exploded. A mixture of purple, blue, and pink smoke danced wildly in the empty air.

It’s only me and David now, I thought to myself.

Time felt thick and sluggish as I trudged down the endless street. All the houses looked exactly the same. It was nearly impossible to tell if I was making any progress, or if I was just walking past the same block on an infinite loop.

The words from the Man in the Red Suit floated through my head: “Time doesn’t flow in a straight line.”

Despite how tired, sore, and freezing I was, my determination to see this through to the end burned hotter. Far in the distance, I spotted four flashing pink lights sitting just beneath the pink moon.

I started to run.

I pushed my aching legs as fast as they would go, but I stumbled on the slick, wet concrete. I pitched forward, my shoulder and knees crashing hard against the pavement, ripping my clothes and tearing my flesh.

“Fuck!” I groaned, pushing myself up and grabbing my wounded shoulder.

Blood trickled down my shins from my shredded knees. My shoulder was bleeding heavily, and I pressed my fingers hard against the torn flesh to stem the flow.

Almost there, I told myself, forcing my legs to move again.

My first few strides were an awkward, agonizing hobble, the blood from my shoulder misting behind me as I picked up speed. The pink lights grew brighter, and the outline of the house finally began to solidify in the gloom.

It’s almost over, I repeated silently, trying to compartmentalize the blazing pain radiating across my entire body. The blood from my shoulder was already freezing to my shirt.

Then, just up ahead, I saw something that made the pain recede into the background.

“David!” I yelled. I lost my footing and crashed to the ground again.

He turned, saw me, and sprinted over, hauling me back to my feet.

“Chris!” he cried, his voice thick with relief.

I threw my good arm over his shoulder, bleeding onto his jacket. We stood there, propping each other up, and stared at Jessica’s house. The pink lights flashed rhythmically from within. The long, steep concrete steps leading up to the front door looked like a walkway descending into hell itself. Every cell in my body screamed at me to run the other way.

“David, your hands,” I said, noticing the damage. His palms and knuckles were embedded with dozens of small, glinting shards of glass.

“It’s okay, Chris. Look at yourself,” he responded, his eyes never leaving the house.

The image of the two of us flashed through my mind: an FBI agent and a small-town sheriff, both battered, bleeding, and broken, holding onto one another as we stared up at the house of pain.

“It’s almost over, Chris,” David said grimly.

Together, leaning on each other for support, we began the agonizing climb up the steps of pain.

Chapter 62: Jessica

When I walked back up the basement stairs, the yelling abruptly faded. Looking behind me, I saw a scorched, blackened patch on the cement floor where the Man in the Red Suit had vanished. A thin wisp of pink smoke curled upward from the burn mark.

"Thank you so much," I whispered to the empty air.

I stared at the pink smoke and wished it had taken that filthy mattress with it. Turning back to the stairs, I didn't know what was going to happen next. Maybe Jake would be standing right behind the door, waiting to kill me. Or maybe he would do it later. Either way, I was finally ready to accept it.

As I ascended, each wooden step groaned under my weight. That sound had always sent paralyzing chills down my spine, but it didn't anymore. As I reached the landing, I was surprised by how steady my heartbeat was, how calm my breathing felt. Standing in front of the door, I looked back down into the dark stairwell one last time.

"I know what happened down here," I whispered to the shadows. "And I wasn't crazy."

I gripped the doorknob firmly. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I slowly turned it, listening to the rusty hinges creak.

The house was pitch-black, exactly as I had left it. The only sound was the melancholic hum of the movie Burning Angel playing in the TV room. I walked slowly into the living space, my eyes tracing the remnants of my binge. The beer had tipped over, spilling a dark puddle across the wooden table, soaking the lines of cocaine into a useless, muddy sludge.

I looked at the television. It was playing the scene where the lead character sits at a crowded bar, breaking down in tears while Portishead’s "Roads" echoes in the background. As I stared at the screen, a painful memory surfaced. I remembered sitting at O'Reilly's, weeping into my drink. All the overlapping conversations and the clinking of pint glasses had faded into the background, leaving nothing but the suffocating melody of that same song. That was the night Jake had groped my ass at the bar, not realizing it was his own stepdaughter. When I turned around, he hadn't even looked the least bit disgusted. I snorted so much coke that night, turning tricks in dirty cars just to pay for a fraction of it. I had been in a crowded room, crying my soul out, and absolutely no one had cared.

Jake always kept an old VHS player hooked up beneath the TV. I took the tape I’d brought up from the basement and shoved it into the deck. One way or another, that footage was going to play in front of Jake and my mother. I kicked the coffee table over, sending the wet coke, shattered glass, and stale beer flying across the living room rug.

"Mom, you're going to see what you allowed to happen," I whispered, walking toward the front door.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. It startled me—who the hell would be knocking at this hour? I leaned in and looked through the peephole. Standing on my front porch were two men—an FBI agent and a police officer. Both were battered, bleeding, and looked like they had just walked through hell.

I reached for the deadbolt and tried to open the door, but the handle wouldn't budge. I kicked it, slammed my shoulder against the wood, and clawed at the lock, but deep down, I knew it was pointless. This door wasn't going to open. These officers couldn't save me. I knew it was too late for that. Seeing Jake for the truly pathetic monster he was and accepting my own fate was the only salvation I was ever going to get. That was all I needed, to finally face my pain and accept that there was no outrunning it. Once I did that, the fear no longer controlled me.

But I also knew the trauma was never going away. My pain, my fleeting moments of happiness, my anger, my crushing depression, all of it was going to live on, echoing long after my death.

Looking down at the small entryway table, I saw a notepad and a pen. I picked them up and hastily scribbled a message.

Play the tape in the VCR, and there are more downstairs behind the cabinet.

I folded the paper into a tight, tiny square and shoved it through the crack under the door. Peering through the peephole one last time, I watched the FBI agent lean down, pick it up, and unfold it. The look that washed over their faces was a harrowing mix of confusion and horror.

I backed away, closing my eyes tightly and taking a deep breath, preparing my soul for what was coming next.

The air around me shifted. My nostrils instantly filled with that suffocating, all-too-familiar stench of stale alcohol and greasy sweat. I had smelled that exact scent so many times—in the basement, in my nightmares, and in all the fractured realities I had wandered through. I kept my eyes closed, not out of fear, but because I just wanted a few final moments of peace. I imagined myself back on the pink beach with its colorful, shining pebbles, the Man in the Red Suit holding my hand as we stared up at the glowing moon in tranquil silence. But the reek of Jake’s sweat made it impossible to hold onto the fantasy; the stench burned my nostrils and made my stomach acid churn.

When I finally opened my eyes, I wasn't in my hallway anymore. I was back in the abandoned log cabin.

Harsh, electric-blue strobe lights flashed violently from outside, bleeding through the filthy windows and the cracks in the wood. It gave the entire room a chaotic, jagged energy, chopping my every movement into fractured frames of blue light and pitch darkness.

His disgusting, hot, alcoholic breath washed down the back of my neck. It felt like a physical layer of filth coating my skin.

"I know," I whispered.

He continued to breathe heavily down my back. He roughly shoved my hair to the side and pressed his thick, greasy lips against my neck. My skin crawled as his repulsive essence seemed to seep directly into my pores. His massive, calloused hand clamped painfully onto my ass, squeezing hard through the thin fabric of my white dress. I squeezed my eyes shut.

"I know," I whispered again.

He yanked his hand away. I turned around. With every violent flash of the blue strobe light, his form glitched and shifted. In one frame, it was Jake, wearing a sweat-soaked green plaid shirt stained with white salt rings, his blue jeans damp with exertion. In the next frame, it was the Man in the Bloody Apron, his massive muscles bulging, clutching a rusted steel hammer in one hand and a butcher’s knife in the other. Both versions of the monster wore the same crazed, sadistic smile, their facial lines bunched up in pure madness. The Man in the Apron’s milk-white eyes gleamed, thick droplets of blood oozing over his grinning, yellowed teeth.

I stood completely still, staring at the monster glitching between two faces of the same evil.

"I know," I said.

The frantic strobing stopped, leaving the cabin bathed in a steady, suffocating electric-blue glare. The Man in the Apron stood before me, his massive, barrel-like chest heaving up and down with wet, ragged breaths.

"I know," I said again, my voice steady.

He let out a low grunt, and I watched the thick, corded muscles of his right arm—the one gripping the rusted hammer—tense and coil. The veins in his bicep bulged against his skin like thick blue ropes.

"I know," I said, stepping forward. I wasn't whispering anymore.

"I know!" I yelled, stepping right into his face. The greasy sweat dripped off his chin and splattered onto my collarbone. His stench was so overpowering it made my eyes water, but I refused to blink.

In agonizing slow motion, I watched his arm rise, pulling the heavy steel hammer high above his head. Once that hammer comes down, I thought to myself, that will be the end.

"I KNOW!" I screamed, the veins in my own forehead feeling like they were about to burst.

I looked up, watching the rusted steel descend.

Crack!

The heavy, blunt head of the hammer collided directly with my right orbital bone. I heard the wet, sickening crunch of my skull fracturing just a microsecond before a blinding flash of white-hot agony erased my vision. Warm, thick blood instantly flooded my right eye, pouring down my cheek like a spilled cup of hot water. The sheer kinetic force of the blow threw me violently backward, my head bouncing off the hard wooden floorboards.

I stared up at him with my one good eye as he loomed over me. His muscles twitched and flexed, the blood-soaked fabric of his apron dripping onto my legs. He leaned down, his milk-white voids locking onto my remaining eye. Drops of his greasy sweat fell from his forehead, landing directly into the freshly splintered, bleeding crater of my face, stinging the exposed tissue like acid.

"I know," I gurgled, choking on the blood pooling in the back of my throat. I refused to look away.

He straightened up, his chest heaving with a demonic thrill. In slow motion, he brought the hammer down again, aiming for the exact same spot.

Smash!

The right side of my face completely caved in. My cheekbone splintered into a thousand jagged fragments that tore through my gums and shredded the roof of my mouth. I coughed, sputtering a slurry of hot blood, saliva, and shattered teeth over my chin. I watched him raise the hammer a third time. He looked even more unhinged, more crazed with bloodlust than before.

"I know," I mumbled through a destroyed jaw.

CRUNCH!

The third blow struck with cataclysmic force. The impact ruptured my eyeball, dislodging what was left of it from the crushed, pulpy socket. I could feel the jelly-like vitreous fluid mixing with bone shards, a warm leakage of brain fluid trickling deep into my nasal cavity.

With my last fading spark of consciousness, I watched him throw his head back and roar demonically over my mangled, dying body.

"I know," I tried to mouth one last time as the shadow of the hammer descended again.

My vision snapped to black. I didn't feel the final blow.

When I opened my eyes, I was standing perfectly upright in the corner of the cabin.

I was looking down at the hammer strike that finally pulverized my skull, but I felt no pain. I looked over my shoulder and saw them, the beautiful, sprawling angel wings erupting from my back, radiating gorgeous pink and purple flames that cast no heat.

The blue light in the cabin flashed like lightning, and suddenly, it was no longer the Man in the Apron standing over my ruined corpse.

It was Jake.

He was panting, wiping blood from his face, completely unaware that I was standing right behind him, watching him butcher me.

He raised the hammer and brought it down on my face, sending a fine mist of blood flying through the air. He was screaming, a series of guttural, animalistic noises, as blood dripped off his plaid shirt. More blows followed, the hammer smashing into my ribs. I could hear the wet thumps and the sickening crack of my bones giving way. He paused to catch his breath, ripping his shirt off. My blood had soaked through the fabric, leaving his chest wet and stained crimson.

A flash of electric blue light rushed through the cabin, and Jake changed back into the Man in the Apron. He hammered at the broken ribs of my dead body, looking like a rabid animal. With each frantic swing, I could hear more bone splintering. Sweat dripped from his face and splashed onto my corpse as he gasped for air. I walked over to my body, watching in detached silence as he huffed and puffed, his gross breath washing over my bloody, bruised remains.

Kneeling down, I felt the warmth of my own spilled blood soaking into my knees. Looking behind me, I noticed my pink and purple angel wings were no longer flaming. I reached back and plucked a few feathers, placing them gently on the pristine left side of my face.

I watched his arm tense as he gripped a rusty kitchen knife. He raised it high and brought it down in a wide, vicious arc, plunging it deep into my stomach. I could see his hand buried inside me as he dragged the blade violently up and down. I watched him grunt, sweat pouring from his forehead with every powerful stab. My blood coated him completely now, mixing with his greasy sweat.

I looked down at the vibrant feathers resting on the left side of my face. I knew, somehow, that at least this part of me would remain untouched.

Another flash of blue light strobed through the cabin, and the Man in the Apron shifted back to Jake. He started to slice my blood-soaked dress off, exposing my naked, ruined body. What looked like white foam began to gather at the corners of his lips as he, frantically stabbed at my breasts. Each thrust was deep, dragging the knife downwards. Blood sprayed over him, making it look as though he had been caught in a crimson rainstorm. I lost track of how many times he punctured my chest and stomach. He kept going until he was breathing so hard it sounded like he had just run a marathon. By the end, my breasts were nothing but ribbons of shredded flesh, and my intestines were spilling out onto the floor.

The warm blood slowly crept towards my feet as the pool widened across the floorboards. Jake fell to his knees in exhaustion, but I had a feeling he wasn't finished.

He sat there, shirtless and covered in my gore, his eyes bulging as if they were trying to escape his skull. I couldn't even recognize myself anymore; it was as if all the evil in the world had been violently extracted and painted onto my body. My blood pooled around him, and I heard him grinding his teeth so hard I thought they would shatter in his mouth.

The blue light flashed again, and Jake transformed back into the Man in the Apron. His massive, barrel chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. He smiled, blood dripping from his yellow teeth, and crawled back over my body. I watched as he leaned close to the ruined right side of my face and stuck the knife into my cheek. His sweat dripped directly into my shattered eye socket as he began to carve the flesh away. I walked around to get a better look at his gruesome work. He was slowly, methodically slicing off my cheek, exposing the teeth along the side of my jaw.

The feathers I had placed on the other side of my face hadn't moved an inch during this madness. My arms were spread wide, almost as if they were angel wings themselves.

Suddenly, I felt an itch inside the left of my dress. Reaching in, my fingers brushed against a folded piece of paper. It was folded so tightly, so impossibly small. As the Man in the Apron sweated over my body, admiring his carnage, I delicately unfolded it, taking care not to rip the paper. A profound sense of dread washed over me before I even read the words.

You aren't who you think you are, was written in stark black ink on the slightly yellowed paper.

I paused, unsure of what to make of it. Who, or what, was I, exactly? I stood in a cabin I wasn't even sure existed, watching my stepdad mutilate my corpse while flaming angel wings sprouted from my back. Would I ever know who I truly was? Did it even matter anymore?

Looking back at my body, I noticed my right hand was still open. I folded the paper back into its impossibly tight square. The Man in the Apron was sitting in the expanding pool of my blood, breathing heavily, probably contemplating his next move. The feeling of warm blood squelched between my toes as I walked over and placed the folded note into my lifeless right hand.

I dropped to my knees, feeling the hem of my dress become heavy and saturated with blood, and gently curled my stiff, dead fingers closed around the paper. My physical body was so cold, so entirely devoid of life. It felt as though its very essence had been violently drained away. Touching my own corpse, I thought about all the times I had wanted to kill myself. But I had never truly understood death until my living hand touched my dead one.

It’s a specific type of coldness. A coldness that invades your veins, that freezes the very fibers of your being, a coldness that seeps into your soul and makes everything feel hollow and dead.

As I stood up, the bottom half of my white dress was soaked completely red. The moment I turned my back, a demonic scream shattered the silence.

The Man in the Apron had lunged onto my body and was violently hacking at the hand where I had just placed the note. His furious, chaotic chops reminded me of a butcher bringing a meat cleaver down on a stubborn side of beef. He picked up the severed hand and hurled it across the room. A trail of blood followed it through the air. The heavy, wet thud it made when it hit the floorboards sent a chill down my spine.

The harsh crackle of electricity filled the cabin briefly before my severed hand—and the note, vanished in a burst of pink flames and smoke. Where they went, I didn't have the faintest idea, but I knew I would never forget the words written on that paper.

The blue light flashed again. Hunched over my body now was Jake. He was slowly, meticulously peeling away the skin on my left arm, exposing the raw muscle tissue beneath. If you asked me why Jake chose to do these specific, horrifying things to my body, I couldn't tell you. The look on his face was one of total, consuming madness, as if he were possessed. The fact that he was a butcher by trade likely gave him the gruesome skill to slice and dice me so efficiently.

Then, in a sudden fit of rage, he began to furiously stab my exposed bicep. Each strike sent a stream of blood flying through the air, like water bursting from a broken pipe. Finally, he dropped both his instruments of violence into the gore flooding the floor.

He buried his fingers deep into my ruined flesh, leaning his face close to mine, just staring at the carnage he had wrought. Watching his sweat drip all over me made me want to pluck the feathers from my wings to cover myself. I leaned down until I was face-to-face with him. He looked up, his gaze passing right through me.

Flashes of blue light strobed through the cabin, and with each flash, Jake and the Man in the Apron violently traded places. I stared into his milky white eyes, completely consumed by madness, and thought, What a sight this must be. Me, an impossible ghost, staring down at the monster, with my own mutilated body trapped beneath our chins.

"I know," I whispered, rising and turning toward the door.

The Man in the Apron began to scream and grunt uncontrollably before slumping against the wall, utterly exhausted. "Fucking whore!" he yelled at the ceiling.

I stood before the cabin's heavy wooden door. I heard the sickening crunch of the hammer again. When I looked back, I saw he had shattered my leg, bending it into a grotesque L-shape. Blood sprayed over him as he screamed “Fucking whore!” over and over.

Dark purple light began to seep through the crack beneath the door. I felt the heavy, wet blood dripping from the hem of my dress as I grasped the freezing iron handle. I pondered the note and its cryptic message:

"You aren't who you think you are."

One thing, at least, was certain: I had finally gotten what I wanted. I wanted to die. I wanted to feel the blood pool between my toes, to experience the final, numbing cold that made my veins throb, and to end the relentless pain. Though I couldn't undo what had happened to me, I had found a strange, hollow peace in these moments after death.

The pain was over. Jake and my mom couldn't deceive me anymore. Jake could never drag me down into that basement again. I was finally done running.

As the blood trickled under the doorframe, I recalled the Man in the Red Suit's words about time repeating itself. Maybe I would be forced to relive this exact life again. Or maybe I would just carry fragments of this nightmare into another life, who knew?

I turned the handle, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath, fully embracing the pain that I knew would forever follow me.

When I opened the door, a rush of blinding, dark purple light washed over me. As I stepped outside into the void, I whispered, “I know,” and walked blindly into the unknown.

Thank you to everyone for reading Burning Angel and we are only a few more chapters from the end. I will add when my wife read chapter 62 her response was “really she watches herself being mutilated….” I hope you guys having been enjoying the story and I guarantee you won't see the ending coming! Please share around and help get the word out about Burning Angel!

Previously On Burning Angel

Audio Version (I added intro music and outro music hope you enjoy it)

Chapter 59: Valeria

Watching the door slam behind Chris broke my heart, turning my insides to lead.

Why is everything always about her? I asked myself.

Who was Jessica? Chris barely even knew her, and yet there he was, running off into the fog to save her, leaving me here by myself. Jessica wasn’t going to love Chris the way I did. Jessica wasn’t going to be there for him the way I promised I always would be.

“Jessica is dead!” I screamed into the empty restaurant. “She is fucking dead!”

I grabbed an empty coffee mug from the counter and hurled it at the floor. It shattered into a dozen jagged pieces. “She’s fucking dead, Chris!” I kept screaming, sweeping plates and silverware off the counter, letting the crash of breaking ceramic drown out the silence.

My entire body started to shake, my teeth grinding together until my jaw ached. “She’s dead! You can’t save her!” I yelled so loud I tore my throat.

A sudden, warm sensation ran down my left elbow. When I looked down, I realized I had badly cut my hand on a piece of the broken porcelain. Turning my palm over, I saw a deep gash running right across my life line. Blood poured out like water from a faucet, hot and thick. I grabbed a rag from under the counter and squeezed it tight over the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding.

All I could think about was how, if Chris were here, he would have gently wrapped my hand up, kissed my forehead, and told me everything would be okay.

“He isn’t here because of you!” I screamed at the empty air.

I grabbed more rags from the bin and sat down on the stool Chris usually occupied. With my head buried in my good hand, I felt the blood soak through the fabric, dripping down my arm and staining my pale uniform.

“She’s fucking dead,” I kept whispering to myself between sobs.

Who was Jessica, anyway? I asked myself as my frantic nerves finally began to slow. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how little I actually knew. She had suffered great pain and sorrow, but so had Cassie.

When I spoke to her earlier at the diner, all her emotions had been so raw, stripped bare. Yet her face, the angel wings—none of that could be real. She was dead, yet she felt more alive now than she ever was when I knew her.

My adrenaline faded, replaced by the sharp, throbbing pain in my hand. I tied a few more rags around the cut, using my teeth to pull the knot tight. I could taste the metallic tang of my own blood on my lips.

Standing up, I moved to a side booth and stared out the window. The red leather was smooth and cold against the back of my legs. Looking deep into the purple fog, I desperately hoped to see Chris running back through it, mouthing that it was all over.

The fog swirled outside the glass like heavy cream poured into dark coffee. I could just barely see the pink moon shining through the dense haze. Where is this place? I was in Red Hills, but it was a surreal, nightmare version of it. Some things were exactly as they had been, and other things were totally twisted.

“She’s fucking dead,” I whispered again, unable to fight back fresh tears.

In my mind’s eye, a flashback hit me. I saw Jessica standing here, screaming about moaning in the basement. The demonic look that had warped her face, the high-pitched, inhuman shriek, the absolute, paralyzing agony emanating from those words.

Dark purple tears fell from my eyes, splashing against the green Formica tabletop as I slouched back into the booth. This diner used to be such a nice place. It used to be full of joy and light. Serving Chris his coffee had always been the highlight of my day, and seeing the elderly couples holding hands had always made me smile. People came here to get away from their problems. Now, it felt like the epicenter for all the pain and suffering in the town.

I felt horrible, selfish, even, for wanting Jessica out of the picture. But still, a part of me, like Chris, wanted to help. The pain she went through had a way of infecting the whole world. David was trying to save her, Cassie was dragged into it, and I had tried to understand her suffering.

But there is no way to truly understand pain that deep. Pain like that shatters a person. It’s the kind of trauma that either unmakes you or alters you so completely that you aren’t even the same species anymore. David and Chris didn’t even know her until the dreams started, and yet that pain dragged them right along with her into the abyss.

Pain is an odd thing. We can read about a million people dying and feel horrified. Yet, we don’t fully grasp that sorrow because it’s abstract; our brains can’t picture a million people. But if we are shown the kind of concentrated, singular agony an individual like Jessica endured, we can’t forget it. That pain sinks its claws into you, ripping at every electrical current running through your brain. It digs into your soul and leaves a permanent scar, forcing you to question every aspect of existence.

I saw that look on Cassie’s face when she walked into the diner; I saw the same look on Jessica. It shows in a person’s eyes, if you bother to pay attention.

Thinking back to seeing Jessica over the years, I realized how her eyes had changed. When we were younger, you could see a light in them—that specific spark you see in a child’s eyes. They emitted the feeling that the world was a wonderful, strange, beautiful place where anything was possible. As we got older, her eyes grew harder. The bags beneath them grew deeper, and a terrible blankness set in.

It’s the look someone gets when they realize the strange beauty of the world is a lie. The possibilities die; the joy of what might come next is replaced by the mundane, purposeless motion of matter. Jessica’s eyes were the eyes of someone who saw the world for exactly what it was: gray, brutal, devoid of anything new, and ultimately pointless. It’s the look of a person whose soul has cancer, and she knows it’s slowly eating her away.

When Chris left, I felt that same cancer crawl its way into my own soul.

Where did being nice, being a shoulder to cry on, or truly caring about the people around me get me? I was abandoned in this nightmare, dragged down to drown in someone else’s misery. I always believed that the good we put into this world affects everything in it. I tried to put as much good out there as I could, but there is always so much more pain.

I slouched lower in my seat, feeling a crushing sense of defeat I had never known before. It was a numbing, hollow pain of total nothingness.

Those moments with Chris were gone. They would never come back. Even if Chris somehow returned from the fog, I would be happy, but it wouldn’t be the same kind of happiness. I would always know, in the back of my mind, that it wasn’t reality. The gray, the cancer in my soul, that was reality. Chris wouldn’t see it; Cassie or David wouldn’t see it. And it was in that moment of absolute isolation that I finally understood Jessica. She was alone. She had no one who knew her, and no one who would ever truly understand.

Then my mind turned to Cassie, sitting on my deck. She had ripped herself completely open, spilling every toxic, broken thing she held inside. It goes against human nature to expose yourself so bare, so vulnerable, in front of another person. I wished I could tell Cassie right now just how brave she was.

“I am sorry, Jessica. What happened to you shouldn’t have happened,” I whispered out loud, the tears still falling.

“I moaned,” Jessica’s voice echoed from behind me.

I wiped my eyes and slid out of the booth, turning to see her sitting across from where I had just been.

“I moaned,” she repeated, weeping quietly. Her black hair fell forward, obscuring her face as she leaned over the table. I struggled to fight back my own tears, wanting to appear strong for her, but the truth was, I was dying on the inside.

“I moaned,” she said again, her crying growing heavier.

I reached across the table and took her soft, delicate hand. She was wearing a white dress, and her dark hair was soaked, dripping onto the green laminate.

“I moaned,” she gasped, her fingers gripping mine with surprising strength.

“I can’t possibly imagine that kind of pain, Jessica,” I said, my composure breaking. Purple tears splashed onto the tabletop as we cried together, holding on to each other for dear life.

“I am sorry,” she said, breaking the silence.

“No, don’t be,” I struggled to reply.

“I heard what you said, and I understand,” she said. She raised her head, pushing her wet hair to the side. I didn’t say anything, just stared into her striking blue eyes.

“I am sorry Chris isn’t here,” she continued, her gaze piercing mine.

“Jessica, your pain has a way of infecting everything,” I admitted. My insides twisted with guilt the moment the words left my mouth.

Slowly, beautiful purple and pink angel wings unfurled from her back. She was the most beautiful person I had ever known, and her wings gave her a tragically majestic quality.

“I am dead, yet I am alive,” she whispered as purple tears tracked through the grime on her face.

“Can Chris save you?” I asked, gripping her hand tighter.

“No, he can’t. But that’s life; we are always trying to do the impossible.”

“I tried to bring as much happiness into this world as I could, and it didn’t make a damn bit of difference,” I sobbed.

“No, Val, you did make a difference,” she responded softly. She lifted my hand to her lips and kissed my knuckles.

“How? You’re dead. Your pain carries on. Chris is out there on a doomed mission. Cassie is lost somewhere. Everything has gone to hell!” I yelled, smashing my free hand against the table, sending drops of my purple tears flying into the air. “Chris isn’t even from here! He doesn’t remember a single thing!”

My hands shook violently.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered.

“Stop saying that!” I snapped, the immediate sting of guilt following close behind. “Sorry... I didn’t mean that.” I took a few deep breaths, trying to steady my racing heart.

“I don’t know what is real or not real anymore,” I whimpered, pulling at my hair.

“When you listened to Cassie, that was real,” she said, squeezing my hand. “When you listened to David, that was real.”

She leaned closer. “When you daydreamed about your life together with Chris... that was real.”

“When you listened to me, that was real,” she finished, tears flowing freely now. “You put so much good into this world.”

The dark purple tears began to fall faster, staining the bodice of her white dress.

“When does life give it back?” I asked, the salt stinging my cheeks.

“It doesn’t always work like that,” she said, looking away toward the fogged window.

“Are you happy?” I asked, staring down at the small puddle of tears gathering on the table.

“That’s hard to say.”

“I don’t think I can ever be the person I was before,” I admitted, watching my tears ripple in the puddle.

“You will always have that part of you,” she promised, squeezing my hand one last time.

My other hand throbbed mercilessly inside the makeshift bandage. I shut my eyes, desperately trying to imagine being at that pink beach again—the warm sand, the glowing pebbles. But all I could picture was a suffocating blackness and dead silence.

I slowly opened my eyes and looked down. In the reflection of the purple puddle of tears on the table, I saw a face.

It took me a second to recognize it, but once I did, I couldn’t unsee it.

Staring back at me from the puddle was Jessica.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I jerked my head up, but she was gone. The booth across from me was empty. I looked back down at the puddle. Jessica was still staring back at me.

My veins pulsed, and a rush of blood roared in my ears. I looked down at my shoulders. The hair dangling over my collarbones wasn’t dirty-blonde. It was raven black.

I was wearing a white dress.

“No, I am Val!” I screamed, slamming both hands onto the table. The impact sent the puddle of tears flying into the air. It looked like purple rain falling inside the diner.

“No, I am Val!” I shrieked. I frantically ripped the blood-soaked rags off my left hand. Blood sprayed through the air in wide arcs, raining down in fat, red drops onto the checkered floor.

“No, I am Val!” I screamed again, rubbing my bleeding, mangled hand across my face, smearing the blood over my cheeks.

“Why, for fuck’s sake, why?!” I screamed so loud the roots of my teeth vibrated in my skull.

“Where are you, Chris?!” I tried to yell, but my throat was shredded.

I forced myself up, but my legs gave out. I slipped on the fresh blood slicking the floor and went down hard. My dress, my arms, and my black hair were quickly covered in its cloying warmth. I struggled to stand, slipping again and again in the gore.

Exhausted, I gave up trying to stand and began to crawl through the spreading pool of blood and the jagged shards of the broken coffee cup. My hand wouldn’t stop bleeding, making it nearly impossible to gain purchase on the floor.

“I am Val,” I whispered to myself.

The diner was growing colder and colder. When I exhaled, my breath bloomed in the air as a vibrant pink mist. The blood soaking into my dress began to stiffen and freeze.

A few inches away lay a large, jagged shard of the coffee cup I had broken earlier. I dug my fingernails into the linoleum, dragging my heavy body closer to it. I am Val, I repeated like a mantra in my head.

My heartbeat began to slow to a dull, rhythmic thud as my fingers finally closed around the sharp porcelain chunk. I picked it up and squeezed it tightly, not caring as it bit into my palm, sending more fresh blood dripping down my arm.

It was so freezing now that the blood falling from my elbow began to crystallize into red icicles before it even hit the floor.

“I am Val,” I whispered, my pink breath floating lazily in the dead air.

Gripping the jagged shard of the coffee cup, I slowly raised it to my throat.

“I am Val.”

Chapter 60: Henry

We kept walking through the purple fog, and I was transfixed by the pink smoke dancing off his cigarette. As horrific as this man looked, he had a gentle touch and demeanor about him.

“How long has it been?” I asked, hardly able to see two feet in front of my face.

“Time doesn’t really matter,” he replied, looking straight ahead.

“How do you know Jessica?” I demanded, refusing to walk another step until I got a clear answer.

“I have known Jessica in all her lives,” he replied, his voice choked with emotion.

“She is dead,” I stated, the air growing noticeably colder around us.

“She is dead, yet she is alive,” he said, gesturing vaguely with a pale hand at our surroundings.

“If we save her, does this all stop?” I asked, wrapping my arms around myself against the biting chill.

“What does that even mean?” he responded, bringing the cigarette back to his black lips.

His response made me pause. Can you ever truly save anyone? What had happened to her had already happened; it couldn’t be undone, and even if it could, it wasn’t ours to undo. Is saving someone just being the ear that listens? Is it being the one who finally notices? Is it being a shoulder to cry on? Is it taking a moment to step outside yourself and try to truly understand another person’s pain?

“You’re right; I don’t know what saving means,” I admitted, a wave of blackness washing over me.

He pulled out another cigarette. As he lit it, I could see the flame reflected in the dark voids of his eyes.

“Everyone wants to save people, but we can’t do it the way most think,” he responded, taking a slow drag. The pink smoke formed little hearts that broke apart as they drifted away. The cold intensified, making my skin feel stiff and brittle.

“Come on. We have a place to go,” he said, walking forward.

As we walked, I couldn’t shake the deep depression that had penetrated my soul during our conversation.

“You saw everything, didn’t you?” I asked, grabbing him firmly by the shoulder. His body was ice-cold and stiff, like a corpse.

“Yes,” he responded, looking deep into my eyes. His off-white skin, black eyes, black lips, and jet-black hair didn’t scare me anymore.

“I have seen it all,” he continued, a single purple tear rolling down his cheek.

Looking into his eyes, I saw an image of him with Jessica on a beach with pink sand. She looked so young, so innocent. Shame washed over me, and I let go of his shoulder.

“You were that shoulder to cry on,” I said, watching my frozen breath turn pink in the air.

“Come on, we are almost there,” he said, taking my hand.

We continued walking, and the fog began to thin. Slowly, the pink moon came back into focus, and the town of Red Hills revealed itself again.

“It’s so cold,” I whispered, feeling my heartbeat sluggishly slow down.

The streets were wet, and every house along the road was flashing electric blue light from its windows. The streetlamps cast a pink glow. All these colors reflected off the damp concrete, creating a striking, surreal image. Up ahead, he pointed to a car; dark purple light was flashing from inside its cabin. My frozen breath gathered around the vehicle, wrapping it in a pink mist.

“Is that where I am supposed to go?” I asked, feeling a strange mix of dread and peace, knowing my journey was nearing its end.

He stopped and turned to me. “Once you get in that car, nothing will be the same,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. The pink smoke from his cigarette encircled my body.

“You had a daughter,” I said, watching his face visibly fall into despair.

“Yes. I lost her,” he responded, tears streaming down his face.

“You’re not who you think you are,” he added, pointing to the car.

“Who are you?” I asked, struggling to work up the courage to open the door.

“We aren’t all that different,” he replied, deep sadness etched into his features. “I lost her twice,” he murmured, taking a final drag of his cigarette.

“Twice?” I asked, watching the pink smoke swirl around me.

“Yes. Twice, in two different places,” he whispered.

I started walking toward the car, the purple light flashing painfully in my eyes. It was an older black Honda Civic, with a fair amount of rust eating away at the wheel wells.

Suddenly, a loud burst of electrical static erupted behind me, followed by a guttural male scream. The hair on my arms stood up. When I turned around, he was gone. The concrete where he had stood was scorched black. A mixture of purple, blue, and pink smoke hung in the air. Just like that, I was on my own again.

Part of me wanted to run, to refuse to get in that car. But what other choice did I have? I couldn’t turn back; things could never go back to normal. I had to find the courage to see this through to the bitter end. My pink, frozen breath mingled with the purple light flashing from the Honda, oddly giving me a sense of peace.

The door handle was so cold it burned my hand as the purple light flared brightly. There’s no turning back now, I thought. The hinges shrieked as I pulled the door open. Once I slid inside, the flashing lights abruptly stopped, leaving me in darkness. The steering wheel felt like a block of solid ice. I closed my eyes for a moment to mentally prepare myself for what was coming next.

In the blackness behind my eyelids, I felt a violent lurch, as if I were being transported to another world.

When I opened my eyes, I was racing down a highway, gripping the steering wheel of the car so tightly my knuckles were white.

Where the hell am I? I panicked.

I looked at the sky; it wasn’t purple anymore, but a normal, pitch black. I frantically searched for the moon—it wasn’t pink, just its usual pale gray. Did I just fall asleep driving to Red Hills? Was everything just a nightmare?

I yanked down the visor to look at myself in the mirror. What I saw sent me into a full-blown panic attack.

I wasn’t looking at myself, or anyone I recognized. My eyes were a different color. I had a beard. I was much younger. And looking down at my clothes, I realized I was wearing a janitor’s uniform.

My name tag, was blank

“What the fuck is going on?!” I screamed, gripping the wheel tighter.

Keep control. Keep control, I chanted internally, desperately trying to focus on driving.

I reached out and fumbled with the radio, trying to find a station, but no matter where I turned the dial, all I heard was harsh static and the sound of screaming.

“Keep it together. We will pull over at the next exit,” I said aloud, my voice trembling with panic. Other cars whizzed by, their bright headlights blinding me. I tried to shut the radio off, but the knob was unresponsive. All I could hear was Jessica, screaming and crying.

For a few brief seconds, the radio went dead silent. But my nerves didn’t calm; the silence was even more terrifying.

“Things would be different if my dad was here,” I heard her whisper through the speakers, her voice thick with tears.

“I’m here, sweetie,” I replied instinctively, the words tearing from my throat.

Her screaming erupted again, reaching a demonic, ear-splitting pitch. I started to sweat profusely, my blood boiling beneath my skin. Up ahead, I spotted an off-ramp leading to a brightly lit gas station. Sweat stung my eyes, blurring my vision.

Suddenly, headlights were rushing directly towards me. I slapped my indicator on, trying to swerve.

“You’re going the wrong way, you fucking lunatic!” I screamed as the headlights filled the windshield.

I frantically cranked the wheel, but it was too late. He smashed into me head-on.

The airbags deployed with a deafening pop. The horrific crunch of collapsing metal filled my ears, and I felt jagged steel driving deep into my legs. The continuous, agonizing blare of both car horns was the only sound left in the world. Hot blood poured out of my mouth as I stared through the spiderweb cracks of my shattered windshield at the yellow lights of the gas station.

This is how I die, I thought.

I looked down. The steering column had impaled my chest. The entire engine block and transmission had been crushed inward, trapping my crushed legs. All I could see was an endless, pulsing flow of my own blood. I forced my head to turn and looked out the side window. The other driver was a mangled mess, undoubtedly dead. Neither of our vehicles resembled cars anymore; they were just twisted monuments of metal and agony.

I was so close, I thought, my gaze returning to the glowing gas station lights. Only a few more moments now until I close my eyes permanently.

I looked down again, watching the thick, dark blood bubbling and geysering from my chest. The volume of it didn’t even seem real.

Then, I heard a ringing. Somehow, amidst this tangled ruin of metal and death, my cell phone had survived. The cheerful ringtone felt like pure evil, digging its claws in to ensure my final moments were spent agonizing over who was trying to reach me.

The visor hung loosely to my right, resting against the blood-slicked metal of the collapsed roof. When I looked into the small mirror, I saw who I truly was.

Staring back at me was the Man in the Red Suit. The black eyes, the pale, off-white skin, the black lips, and the yellowed teeth—they were mine now.

This is what he meant when he said he lost her twice, I realized with terrifying clarity. He lost her here in this moment, and he lost her again when she was murdered in the basement.

“I was so close,” I gurgled, blood spilling over my dark lips.

“I love you so much, Jessica,” I whispered as my eyelids grew impossibly heavy.

“I will always be the shoulder to cry on,” I choked out, a final, bloody bubble bursting on my lips. I stared at the visor as my vision began to tunnel.

“I will always be there for her,” I muttered, right as a thick drop of blood fell from my mouth and splattered against the mirror, obscuring my horrific reflection.

I closed my eyes peacefully, finally accepting whatever was to come. The brief moments of complete blackness that followed were tranquil as I waited for the end.

I found myself in a dark, freezing basement apartment, utterly paralyzed. I was staring at a television screen, watching my daughter.

She was hidden behind purple drapes, carving into her scalp and arms with a knife. The deep gashes on her head, where she was sawing her own hair off, poured blood down her face. The lacerations on her arms exposed thick, yellow fatty tissue as blood dripped steadily from her elbows. Her once-beautiful white dress was soaked crimson as she screamed, a non-stop, agonizing sound.

I knew how cold the apartment was because I could see my own breath freezing in the air, but I couldn’t feel it. My body felt dead. My joints were locked, and there was no pulse, no blood running through my veins.

When I shifted my gaze sideways, I saw Chris standing in the kitchen. He was staring at the television, looking sad, horrified, and deathly cold all at once.

I looked back at the screen, forced to watch my daughter butcher herself further. Then, the realization struck me: Chris had told me his entire journey started in an apartment.

Time doesn’t flow in a straight line; it bends, I thought.

The television snapped off, and the screaming abruptly stopped. A harsh red light flooded the apartment, banishing the shadows.

Sitting beside me was my daughter. In my rigid hand rested a folded piece of paper. She looked like an angel in her pristine white dress. I finally got to see my daughter all grown up. If I could have spoken, I would have told her what a beautiful woman she had become.

I managed to raise my arm, pointing a stiff finger at Chris, gesturing for him to sit in the beat-up chair across from us.

Jessica turned her face toward me and smiled, but the look in her striking blue eyes was a heartbreaking mix of joy and profound sorrow. Time didn’t function normally in this room; it felt as though it took Chris hours to cross the floor and sit in the chair I had indicated.

I looked down at the folded paper in my hand. It began to unfold itself, moving like an intricate magic trick. As the yellowed parchment flattened out, I tried to remember how I had even arrived in this apartment, but the details slipped through my mind like water.

Opening my eyes fully, I stared down at the open paper, repeating the scrawled, messy handwriting in my mind.

“We aren’t who we think we are.”

I read it as the paper crisply folded itself back up. Chris sat down, and my daughter rose in agonizing slow motion. She stood in front of me, leaning down to press her lips to my cheek. The kiss made my ice-cold, skin sting.

“You have always been so nice to me,” she whispered in my ear.

She plucked the folded paper from my rigid fingers before walking over to Chris.

I wanted, with every fiber of my paralyzed being, to tell her I was her father. But I couldn’t. I was physically incapable. In that agonizing moment, I resigned myself to the fact that I probably never would.

She kissed Chris on the lips, turned his hand over, and placed the folded paper in his palm. The paper erupted into a brilliant, silent flame as she whispered, “When you see me again, it won’t be me, but it will be me.”

We aren’t who we think we are, echoed through my mind.

How could I know for sure who anyone was anymore? When was this taking place? Did Chris know who I was? Did he know who my daughter was? Had he even heard of David yet? Was this even Chris, or was it just someone wearing his face?

Without even willing them to, words finally escaped my dead lips:

“Love transcends all worlds, but when a pain this great happens, everything turns to black.”

As soon as the final syllable left my mouth, I was plunged into a blackness so dense it stripped away all sense of distance, up, or down. It felt as if I were standing on thin air and solid rock simultaneously.

“It’s the pain that stays. It’s the pain that follows us. It’s the pain that never goes away, no matter how far and fast we run,” I whispered to the void, slowly closing my heavy, lifeless eyelids.

Thanks for reading from the bottom of heart and thanks for going on this journey. I hope I didn't break any hearts with this chapter but I probably did. It only gets more intense here on out so buckle yourself in. Please share around to anyone that you think may like the story and please leave a comment share your theories on what's happening! That was one of my goals to get people acting like detectives!

Previously On Burning Angel

Audio Version

Chapter 58: David

I found myself walking down a street choked with thick purple fog, heading towards a place I didn't know. I tried my best not to show it on my face or in my body language, but walking away from Cassie was the hardest thing I had ever done. It was harder than not seeing Ashley the last few weeks before she killed herself. I felt like I was ripping my soul in half, and I could feel the blood dripping from its torn edges.

What if Jessica didn't even want to be saved? The thought entered my head as I pictured that ripped heart. Cassie was right. I had her. Why did I need to save Jessica? She was already dead.

As I daydreamed, an image of a heart being torn in two appeared behind the man in the bloody apron. He was gigantic, scarred, and sweating profusely, his milk-white eyes staring through the haze. This was the man Chris had described seeing at Jessica's house. In my mind, he just stood there, breathing heavily as sweat poured from his body. His crazed smile exposed yellowish, slightly bleeding teeth, a face of pure madness. His arms were twice the size of mine, and his muscles pulsed as he squeezed a large, rusty hammer and a knife.

I closed my eyes tightly, trying to force that image of pure evil out of my head as I walked slowly through the thick purple fog. Were Jake and this man in the apron the same person? Did Jake know he was the man in the apron? Did Jake even know who he was? Or did he know exactly who he was?

These, and a hundred other thoughts, raced through my head. Cassie, Chris, Val, Henry, and I had all been told we weren't who we thought we were. Maybe Jessica was confused herself, not realizing the man in the apron and Jake were two different people. But for all of this to end, I had to bring Jake to justice, one way or another.

I heard faint screaming coming from the distance, but the fog was so thick I couldn't see two feet in front of me. Those screams were familiar; I knew they were Jessica's. Inside the fog, blue balls of light started to spark all around. Then, I heard the man in the apron's voice, grunting words like "slut" and "whore" over her screams.

I reached down to pull out my gun and saw it was dripping blood from the barrel. My shoes felt wet, and I realized a thin stream of blood was now running along the concrete. Sweat began to run down my forehead as her screaming made my hands shake.

"David," an angelic voice said behind me.

I spun around quickly, the blood dripping from the barrel flying through the air. My gun was pointing right at Jessica's forehead. I watched a single drop of blood slowly fall from the muzzle.

"Jessica!" I shouted, slowly lowering my weapon.

She was wearing a white dress, and stunning angel wings sprouted from her back. The flames coming off them were pink and purple, and so were the feathers. Staring deeply into her blue eyes, I forgot about my surroundings for a moment.

"That's you screaming," I said, pointing aimlessly behind me.

Her wings burned brightly, and slowly the fog started to thin, making my surroundings more visible.

"Yes, it is," she said, as bloodstains suddenly bloomed all over her dress.

"I came to save you," I whispered, still gripping my gun with both hands.

"Time just repeats," she said, stepping closer to me.

"I am going to get the man in the apron," I replied, sliding my gun back into its holster.

She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her face. Neon blue veins slowly lit up beneath her skin.

"I know you love Cassie. I am sorry," she said gently, kissing my hand with her warm, soft lips.

"I do love her, but why are you sorry?" I asked, feeling her neon veins pulsing gently against my fingertips.

"I can't explain. I don't even know who I am," she responded, pressing her face deeper into my hand. The flames from her wings burned brighter as more of the fog dissipated.

"I fell in love with her the moment I picked her up on the side of the road," I confessed, feeling my love for Cassie pulse throughout my body.

"She fell in love with you at that moment, too," Jessica whispered.

Looking around, the fog was entirely gone, and we were in Red Hills. The sky was still a dark purple, and the moon remained pink and luminous. The streetlights glowed an electrical blue, and all the houses along the street were flashing blue lights from their windows.

"Did she tell you that?" I asked, the warmth from her wings washing over me.

"I just know she was in a rougher spot than she let on," Jessica responded.

"She is safe with me," I said adamantly.

"You picked her up on the side of the road when no one else would have," she said. For a few seconds, I thought I saw Cassie in her eyes. "Everyone else drove off and didn't pay attention, but you stopped and helped."

Jessica whispered this as tears started to run down her cheeks. They were a deep, dark purple color, and I watched them stain her dress.

"Cassie told me a bit about how rough she had it," I responded, feeling tears forming in my own eyes.

"You showed her people still care," she said, more tears rolling down her face.

"How do you know all of this?" I asked, feeling a wave of confusion.

"I just know what Cassie was going through. I went through it myself," she replied, reaching out to give me a hug. The heat from her wings relaxed my frayed nerves.

"I did all the stuff Cassie did," she whispered in my ear.

I put my hand on the back of her head and pressed her tightly against me. Her tears were soaking my shoulder, and hearing her struggle to breathe was painful.

"You're safe now," I whispered.

"No one is safe. We just have to be thankful for the ones who take time to care," she responded in a tranquil voice.

"I will get who did this to you," I promised, looking deeply into her blue eyes.

"It won't matter," she said, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

"It does matter," I replied, struggling to understand why she didn't seem to care.

"Things just have a way of repeating themselves," she whispered, staring at me as her neon blue veins pulsed. Her wings were completely spread out now.

"Even if that's true, he needs to pay for what he did to you," I said, frustrated.

"It's just going to happen again," she replied, pulling away from me. She pointed aimlessly at the sky. Faintly, in the background, we could hear the man in the apron's voice grunting "whore."

"He is going to rape me again and again!" she screamed, her wings flashing brilliantly.

"He won't. I can stop it," I responded, stepping towards her as she backed away.

"It already happened," she screamed, tears streaming down her face.

"I can keep it from happening again!" I yelled back.

When I said that, she screamed so loudly that all the glass windows nearby blew out, raining down shards around us. Little cuts formed on her arms and face from the shattered glass coming down on her like raindrops, yet it somehow avoided me.

"You can't stop it!" she screamed as blood poured from the cuts on her face and arms.

"Look at how far I have come. I won't stop!" I yelled in frustration. Her wings flashed as a puddle of blood formed around her feet.

"It's not yours to stop! It's not yours to save! It's mine!" she screamed. The sheer volume of her voice made the cuts on her body split open wider.

"I will never stop," I responded in a whisper, trying to walk closer to her.

"You're so dumb and sweet," she whispered back as I approached. Standing in front of her, my feet grew wet from the puddle of blood beneath her. The cuts all over her body pulsed, and her blue eyes were wide and bloodshot.

"Jake is going to pay for what he did to you," I said quietly, holding her hand as her neon blue veins pulsed with blood.

"He will just end up doing it again," she whispered, crying.

I didn't care about the blood or the cuts. I grabbed hold of her and pulled her to me, feeling her blood soaking into my shirt and jacket. She leaned her head onto my shoulder, and I put my hand on her head. I could hear the sound of glass grinding under our feet.

"I am going to get him," I whispered, looking up at the pink moon. "You're safe, Cassie," I said, instantly realizing my mistake.

Before I could correct myself, Jessica put her bloody fingers to my lips and looked up at me.

"It's okay. I know what you meant," she whispered.

I kissed her bloody forehead, tasting the warmth of her blood on my lips.

"I know what you're going to do, and I can't be there," she said, and I stared into her beautiful blue eyes.

The image of her striking blue eyes and her blood-covered face summed up my experiences with her better than any words could. As she pulled away, I watched her turn her back. Her wings shining brightly, she walked down the street. The sound of the glass grinding under her feet and her quiet crying felt like a dull knife stabbing into me. I wanted to yell out for her to come back, but I knew it would be pointless.

Looking down the endless street, all I could see faintly was the fire coming off Jessica's wings as she walked away. I turned and walked in the opposite direction, unsure where I was going, but knowing I would end up where I needed to be. Jessica's blood was drying on my clothes; I must have looked like I had just committed a murder. The crunch of the glass was the only sound I heard as I walked past what seemed to be the same houses, again and again. The blue flashing lights from their windows shone on the glass and the wet concrete. I stopped to catch my breath and stared up at the pink moon and its craters.

"I am going to stop this," I said out loud. The pink moon had become a substitute for Cassie in my mind. "It's all going to end, and we can get away from it all," I promised before resuming my silent walk down the street.

Where was Chris? Where was Henry? Where was Val? These questions raced through my head as I walked towards nowhere. What was real or not real at this point? Was Jessica real? I had seen her body at the cabin, but she was just here, bleeding enough to kill any normal person. How did she know about me and Cassie? I knew they had been friends, but she was already dead when I picked Cassie up from the side of the road. It was Jake who started all of this, and once he was taken care of, everything would be normal I tried to convince myself.

Closing my eyes, I imagined him standing in front of me—the man in the apron. Standing on the broken glass, the blue lights flashing from the houses would light up his body for split seconds at a time. His muscles flexed and tensed as he gripped a rusty hammer and a large kitchen knife. His dirty apron, streaked with old, dried blood, moved gently in the wind. His body was covered in thick, greasy sweat, and his short hair looked like it hadn't been washed in weeks. The smile of madness on his face exposed his slightly yellow, bleeding teeth. But it was his milk-white eyes that made him truly unnerving. Those eyes expressed a horror and pain that penetrated your very essence. We stared at one another, huffing and puffing, while the blue lights flashed around us.

"Why?" I demanded, pulling out my gun. Cold blood poured from its barrel, and the metal was so cold it felt like it was burning my hand. He just stood there, breathing heavily, his muscles flexing and tensing.

"You were supposed to take care of her!" I yelled so loudly it tore at my throat. The veins all over my body pulsed and boiled with rage. My eyes felt like they were bulging out, and my teeth chattered with fury. The blue light flashing across his face made him look even more demonic.

"You hit her, you raped her, and then you killed her!" I roared, spit flying from my mouth.

Between the flashes of blue light, all he did was smile, blood dripping slightly from his teeth. He started to slowly walk towards me, the glass crunching under his feet. Each step was followed by a flash of blue light, then darkness. His laughing grew louder as he approached. My hands were shaking so badly I struggled to pull the trigger.

Then, in my mind's eye, I heard Jessica's voice: "He's going to rape me again and again."

In a flash, all my nervousness vanished, and I started firing. Each bullet was followed by a stream of steaming blood, and time seemed to slow down. My first shot hit him in the shoulder, causing an explosion of blood and flesh to fly into the air, reflecting in the blue light.

Bam!

My second shot hit him in the leg, sending a stream of blood down to the broken glass beneath our feet. Crunch, crunch. I heard the glass as he continued his relentless march towards me. My shots hadn't stopped him; they barely slowed him down.

I fired off more rounds, hitting him directly in the chest and neck. He dropped his large, rusty kitchen knife to the ground as he grabbed the wound on his neck. Blood sprayed out between his fingers, but he continued to smile. Looking into his milk-white eyes, I could tell he felt no pain from the bullet wounds. The hole in his chest sprayed blood as he reached down to retrieve his rusty knife. He walked until he was within arm's length of me and stood still, staring into my eyes.

His neck was missing a chunk of flesh, and blood poured down his tree-trunk chest. I could almost see through the hole in his shoulder from my other shot. Greasy sweat covered his face as he stared at me with that bloody, toothy grin. The flashes of blue light were the only thing illuminating our faces.

He grabbed my gun and pressed the hot barrel to his own forehead. The dry ice cold, pouring from it burned his face and lips, but he didn't flinch. I pulled the trigger, watching as pieces of his skull and brain flew into the air like snowflakes behind him.

Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in my side. When I looked down, he had stabbed me with his rusty knife. I brought my face close to his, so close we were practically touching. Through the bullet hole in his head, I could see the glass-covered streets and the purple sky.

He laughed, his milk-white eyes widening further. I could feel him dragging the rusty knife across my stomach. I kept staring at him as my warm intestines spilled down my legs. I refused to look away as he killed me.

"You raped her again and again!" I yelled as he dragged his knife deeper.

He just smiled, pressing his greasy, blood-soaked face to mine.

I snapped out of my daydream with a deep sense of depression and weakness. Even in my fantasies, he still won, and he was going to kill again and again.

I shook my head and wiped my sweaty forehead. Walking towards somewhere, but nowhere, through the darkness, I finally saw pink lights up ahead. There were four lights, and they looked like they were coming from a house.

I started to run, gripping my gun firmly. The shattered glass made the ground treacherous. As the lights grew brighter and clearer, I tripped, putting my hands out to brace my fall. Shards of glass pierced my skin, embedding themselves deeply. Picking myself and my gun up, I saw that the edges and palms of my hands were bleeding. I tried to pick out the glass, but I didn't have time to get it all. I knew those pink lights marked the place I had to be.

Running at full speed, the lights slowly grew brighter. My lungs burned with pain, and my muscles felt weak. The outline of a house was coming into focus, and I knew immediately which house it was. I slipped one more time, crashing hard, tearing my pants and embedding glass into my knees. I could feel the shards grinding against my kneecaps as I forced myself to stand and move forward.

Standing at the bottom of those long concrete steps, I looked up, and my soul filled with terror. I was standing in front of Jessica's house, the place where all this pain and suffering began.

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Previously on Burning Angel

Audio Version

Chapter 57: Jessica

I laid on the couch, watching a movie called Burning Angel. My parents were gone for the weekend, leaving me with the empty house. My face and body still throbbed from my last client. The deep, violent bruises on my ass and thighs were finally fading into a sickly yellow-green, but they still stung like a swarm of wasps whenever I put any direct pressure on them. I’d gotten into the habit of lying on my side, shifting most of my weight onto one hip just to relieve the agonizing ache. It was difficult to explain away the fresh bruising on my face, so I lied and said I caught a stray punch trying to break up a bar fight at work. A heavy layer of foundation and concealer hid the worst of it, but the bone-deep ache in my cheek remained.

I had a lineup of beers, a couple of thick lines of coke, and a pack of smokes waiting on the wooden TV tray in front of me. This movie, Burning Angel, was practically my own life projected onto the screen. It was as if the director had stalked me from the shadows, distilling my misery into a manageable runtime. I paused the film to snort a line. The chemical burn scoured my raw nostrils, but the searing pain had dulled over time, replaced by a desperate, hollow numbness. Taking a heavy swig of beer, I pulled out a cigarette and took a deep haul as the cocaine hit my bloodstream. These three things in combination gave me the illusion of control. The coke made me hate myself slightly less, the beer mellowed out the jagged edges of the high, and the smoke just glued it all together. Jake would beat the shit out of me if he caught me smoking in the living room, but fuck him, I thought with a bitter laugh. I hit play.

Burning Angel was unlike any horror film I had ever watched. Usually, it’s just a group of stupid kids being chased by a guy in a mask, just cheap thrills built around creative ways to die. I rarely cared about the characters, waiting only for the gore. Then there were the ghost movies, where the lead has to solve some ancient injustice to break a curse. Burning Angel wasn’t any of that. Every single scene dripped with melancholy and raw, visceral trauma.

The lead character was being hunted by a spirit that constantly shifted shapes. The girl even looked a bit like me, with her long black hair and piercing blue eyes. You knew something unspeakably traumatic had happened to her, but the film never explicitly spelled it out. Instead, it forced you to watch her change, from a young girl filled with love and hope into a twisted, rotting shell of a human being. In one scene, she looks at herself in the mirror and symbolically sees the monster she is becoming.

Her reflection drags long, rusted, tetanus-stained nails down its own arm, flaying the skin open to release a thick, brownish sludge instead of blood. Even through the screen, I could almost smell it—the putrid stench of meat left out to rot in the sun. The reflection's eyes rolled back into solid, milky-white voids, radiating a suffocating aura of anger, confusion, and profound depression. Her face was a roadmap of deep, jagged scars, the most gruesome one carving a trench from her ear down to her chin, exposing the bone and sinew beneath. She was smiling, but it was a smile of pure, unadulterated madness, her mouth lined with rusted razor blades instead of teeth. The scene ends with this symbolic, demonic version of herself methodically chewing off her own lips, the razors shredding the meat into a bloody pulp as she swallows it whole.

In the movie, no one believed her when she confessed what was stalking her. Most thought she was just an attention-seeking whore. The few who bothered to listen didn't believe the demons were real; they just wanted to pump her full of pills and lock her in a jacket. Taking a drag of my cigarette and washing it down with beer, I watched what was probably my favorite moment in the film. The protagonist collapsed on the bathroom tiles, right after hallucinating the razor-mouth monster in the mirror. She was dressed in a baggy gray hoodie and sweatpants. There was no sweeping orchestral score, no jump scares—just the agonizing, wet sounds of her sobbing as the overhead lights flickered. Most directors wouldn't dare attempt a shot like this. The audience is forced to sit in the suffocating silence, watching this broken girl weep for four continuous minutes. The actress was phenomenal, performing an impossible role flawlessly. In my mind, she must have survived some extreme, soul-crushing trauma in real life. No one could mimic that kind of hollow devastation without a baseline of pure agony to draw from.

I had lived that exact scene more times than I could count—sitting alone on cold bathroom tiles, crying until my ribs ached and my soul felt scraped clean. Tears pricked my eyes as I watched her, seeing myself mirrored in her misery. The entire movie hovered in that liminal space between reality and a fever dream. One moment was grounded in hyper-realistic misery, and the next, it plunged into the surreal.

In one striking sequence, the girl wanders through a field of grass that glows with a radioactive, neon green light. The sky above is a pitch-black void, sliced open by bleeding, neon-red shooting stars. Breathtaking, bioluminescent blue flowers are scattered through the tall grass, emitting a harmonic, resonant hum whenever her fingers brush against the petals. I had never seen a horror film transport the viewer to a place so stunningly beautiful, yet so thoroughly saturated with creeping dread. Horror movies rarely used vibrant, neon palettes like this, and virtually none dared to tackle the psychological rot this film was exposing.

This neon field was her sanctuary, the mental escape where she daydreamed of a better world. The beach with the pink sand and the purple waves was my version.

Taking another swig of beer and a long drag of smoke, I closed my eyes, trying desperately to transport myself back to that pink shore. But I hadn't been able to reach that beach in a long time; it was a fading, distant memory. Squeezing my eyes shut and straining to conjure the image was pointless. There was no going back. That innocent, hopeful part of me had been butchered after multiple times being dragged into the basement. Now, there was only me, the coke, the liquor, and my cancer-riddled soul.

I used to draw what I thought a diseased soul looked like. One sketch was of a human heart, bloated and necrotic, primarily pitch-black with sickly, jaundiced yellow bruising along the ventricles. There were tiny, struggling patches of healthy red tissue, but you could visibly see the black cancer aggressively chewing them away, poisoning the meat. Instead of clean blood, a brownish-red sludge pumped from its valves—the exact same rotten, contaminated sludge I imagined coursing through my own veins right now.

Opening my eyes, I leaned over the coffee table to snort another line, wincing as the powder scoured my nasal cavity. I wished to God I could become that Angel of Death I had fantasized about in the hotel room. If the world refused to understand my agony, I would carve it into them. I wanted to take everyone who preyed on the vulnerable and flay the skin from their bones, letting them choke on their own blood while I watched. But it was just a pathetic, impotent fantasy. I wasn't an angel of vengeance. I was just a broken drug addict who loathed herself and everything around her. I was a dime a dozen—a bruised, faceless victim drowning in the masses.

As the movie reached its climax, the female lead made her choice: she was done fighting. She was going to let the demon take her. The final sequence takes place in the dark, dank basement of her own home. She sits in a metal chair, watching a VHS tape she discovered hidden behind a rotting cabinet. The director never shows the audience the footage on the screen; we only see her reaction. She grips her hair, ripping it from the scalp as her eyes widen in absolute, unadulterated horror. But then, the terror melts into a hollow, depressed acceptance. It’s the look of someone who finally has confirmation that she isn't insane—but realizing the truth is infinitely worse than the madness.

A slight, broken smile touches her lips as she begins to cry. Suddenly, bright blue strobe lights begin to violently flicker in the basement. In the strobing darkness, the demon materializes—a massive, hulking shadow creeping up behind her in dead silence. The only sounds are the hissing static of the television and her soft, resigned whimpers. The dark figure looms over her, grabbing a massive handful of her hair. She is violently yanked backward out of the chair. We hear her screaming in the flashing blue light, but the director spares us the visual of the slaughter. The screams slowly warp into hysterical, unhinged laughter, signaling her complete surrender to the butchery.

The final shot is a slow fade-in on her corpse. She has been ripped to shreds, the concrete floor painted in thick swaths of gore, as the blue lights finally burn out. The haunting melody of Portishead's "Roads" plays over the carnage. The film leaves the audience wondering: who really killed her, and what was on that tape? Personally, I knew exactly what she saw. She saw footage of her stepdad raping her for most of her life. The "demon" stalking her was just her fractured mind's way of processing the abuse. Her stepdad butchered her because she found the evidence. Maybe I was projecting my own trauma onto the screen, but it made perfect, terrifying sense to me.

I took another swig of beer, my eyes heavy, when I noticed the smoke curling from the cherry of my cigarette. It had turned a brilliant, neon pink. I watched, mesmerized, as the pink vapor swirled through the dim living room, naturally forming the shapes of fractured, broken hearts before dissipating.

Suddenly, the temperature in the room plummeted. It was an unnatural, penetrating cold—the specific kind of freezing dread I had felt so many times in my nightmares. It was the cold that forced your heart to a sluggish crawl and made the blood throb painfully in your veins. Time dilated, grinding down to the sluggish, faint thump of my slowing pulse. I brought the cigarette back to my lips in agonizing slow motion, taking a drag and closing my eyes, wishing for the blackness to finally swallow me whole.

Faintly, through the ringing in my ears, I heard a rhythmic knocking at the front door.

I struggled to peel my eyelids open. The entire living room was now bathed in an electric-blue glow, contrasting sharply with the pink smoke dancing lazily in the air. A heavy, synthetic humming began to vibrate through the floorboards. I looked down at my hand. The beer inside the brown glass bottle was glowing with a bright, radioactive blue light. As I swallowed the cold liquid, I looked at my arm and gasped. The veins beneath my pale skin were lighting up, coursing with the same neon-blue energy. As I took another drag of the pink smoke, I watched the luminescent veins pulse in time with my slowing heart. It was terrifyingly beautiful.

The TV had cut to pure, hissing static. I followed the trail of the pink smoke as it drifted past the furniture, snaking its way directly toward the front door, where the persistent knocking continued.

My limbs were stiff and aching as I forced myself up from the couch. The knocking grew louder, synchronized with the deafening, synth-like hum invading my skull. Why couldn't I go to the beach anymore? I thought bitterly. The only realms my mind allowed me to access now were places like this, where oxygen was replaced by death and despair.

Once on my feet, I walked painfully toward the entryway, every step feeling like wading through deep water. All the pink smoke in the room had gathered at the door, dancing up and down the wood in a hypnotic, dream-like wave. Inching closer, my heart felt like it was racing and failing all at once. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the hallway mirror and stopped dead in my tracks.

Bright, neon-blue lines mapped the anatomy of my face, glowing beneath the skin, pulsing in a slow, rhythmic tide. The agonizing cold didn't matter anymore; if it was going to freeze me to death, I would welcomed it. I stripped off my heavy gray hoodie, leaving only my thin white tank top. I stared in absolute awe at the luminescent blue veins branching across my chest, shoulders, and arms. The light traveling through me was breathtaking. I exhaled, and my freezing breath plumed into the air as a vibrant, neon-red mist. My ice-blue eyes, normally dull and exhausted, were shining with an inner, ethereal fire. The combination created a macabre, dream-like beauty. I wished I could look like this forever. The knocking at the door grew frantic, but I didn't care. I was captivated by my own glowing reflection.

A sudden, deep itch began to burn between my shoulder blades. It felt as though the flesh was splitting open. I watched in the mirror as brilliant pink and purple flames erupted from my back. Massive, majestic angel wings slowly unfurled, their feathers composed entirely of ethereal, roaring fire. The vibrant flames danced and cast sweeping shadows behind me. For the first time in my life, the image reflecting back at me was one of absolute, undeniable power.

Whoever or whatever was waiting behind that door, I didn't care. In this moment, I wasn't afraid of anything.

I walked to the entryway, the heat from my flaming wings trailing gently behind me. I stood in front of the heavy wooden door—which had inexplicably changed to a deep, bruised purple. The pink cigarette smoke wrapped around my body like a comforting embrace. As bizarre as the situation was—the oppressive humming, the frantic knocking, the glowing blood in my veins—I felt a profound, settling peace. Whatever was coming, I was ready.

I reached out. The brass door handle was so cold it burned the skin of my palm. As my fingers wrapped around the metal, the neon-blue veins in my hand flared so brightly they stung my eyes. Gritting my teeth against the freezing pain, I found the strength to slowly twist the knob.

As the door creaked open, the gathered pink smoke rushed out into the void, making way for a brilliant, pulsing neon-green light that flooded into the hallway.

My hand felt like it was burning, but once I wrenched the door open, a familiar face stood on the other side. The Man in the Red Suit stood there stoically, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The deep lines etched into his pale face seemed more pronounced as he reached out, gently pulling my hand away from the freezing brass knob. Behind him stretched an endless field of neon-green grass and bioluminescent blue flowers—just like the ones from the movie.

“Where have you been?” I asked, squeezing his cold, wrinkled, rigid hand.

“You're ready to find out,” he replied, thick pink smoke pouring from his black lips.

“Find out what?” I asked. I could feel the intense heat radiating from the flaming wings at my back.

“Find a part of who you are,” he said. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, and I couldn't help but stare at his off-yellow, bleeding teeth.

"I know who I am," I replied, my voice trembling on the verge of tears. I pointed back into the house at the lines of coke and the spilled alcohol cluttering the table. Then, I turned and pulled down the waistband of my sweatpants just enough to expose the deep, dark, violent bruises on my hip and ass.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me. I buried my face into his shoulder and finally broke down, sobbing. As they fell, I noticed my tears were a deep, dark purple color. The roaring flames of my wings settled into a gentle, rhythmic flicker as I felt his icy breath against my neck.

"I am sorry, Jessica," he whispered, his words thick in the freezing air.

"You were always so nice to me," I whimpered.

"I wish I could take all your pain away," he replied, squeezing me tighter. His body was incredibly stiff and freezing, but in that moment, it provided the most human warmth I had felt in years.

"I want to go to the beach where we would hold hands," I whispered into his suit jacket. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed with everything I had that once I opened them, that's exactly where we would be.

"We can't go back there," he responded softly. I felt his own tears hit my shoulder.

I opened my eyes, and the endless field of neon-green grass remained. Deep down, I already knew. No matter how hard I prayed, I wasn't going back to that beach. I was too far gone for that kind of peace now.

"Where are we going?" I asked, watching my freezing, neon-red breath dance in the air between us.

"We have to walk through that field to get back here," he said, gently stepping back to break the embrace.

"I trust you," I replied. I reached up to wipe away the tears that were already freezing against his pale cheeks.

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out two cigarettes, offering one to me. "We can take a minute," he said, flicking a lighter to ignite the tip of my smoke.

I watched the flame reflect in the void of his pitch-black eyes. Even without pupils or irises, I could see the heavy reluctance in his gaze. He didn't really want to take me where we were going, but there was no other choice. We stepped out onto the wooden deck, and I stared up at the dark purple sky and the massive, luminous pink moon.

"I feel like my soul is being eaten away," I said. I took a drag from my cigarette, watching the pink smoke swirl into the shapes of little broken hearts.

"I just want it to end," I continued. Looking up, I could faintly see the reflection of my own crying face etched into the craters of the moon.

"A pain this great destroys everything," he replied. He took my hand again, leading me down the steep cement stairs and into the tall, glowing grass.

I reached down and plucked one of the blue flowers; up close, it resembled an oversized dandelion. When I brushed my finger against its petals, it emitted a resonant, beautiful humming sound. I handed the flower to the Man in the Red Suit, its bioluminescence casting a soft, blue glow over his sharp features.

"It's so beautiful here," I said as he held the delicate stem.

"It is," he replied quietly.

I looked back at my house, staring up the concrete steps, and then out at the endless neon expanse ahead of us.

"Let's get going. There's nothing left here for me," I said, shaking my head. I felt the heat of my wings shift behind me as I turned away.

"Come to the basement," a guttural voice echoed from inside the house.

It was Jake.

I whipped around. Harsh, electric-blue strobe lights were now violently flashing from every window of my home.

"No," I muttered to myself. The Man in the Red Suit tightened his grip on my hand, and we began to walk away.

Jake's voice kept repeating on a loop, "Come to the basement... Come to the basement", but a strange numbness washed over me. I didn't care anymore.

The tall grass brushed against my legs. It was slightly damp, and looking closer, I noticed a faint, electric-blue current pulsing through the individual blades.

"Is it bad that I don't care anymore, hearing him say that?" I asked, his vile voice finally starting to fade into the background.

"I don't know," he said, staring into the distance.

"He's been raping me since I was a little girl," I said. It shocked me to hear the words aloud. "You're the only person I have ever told." An overwhelming mix of contradictory emotions washed over me—shame, relief, and a strange, hollow peace.

"It's good you said it out loud," he replied. His eyes remained fixed forward, and I watched his red breath freeze and shatter in the cold air.

"I tried to be a good person, but I failed," I whispered, running my fingers over the petals of a humming blue flower. "Good people don't daydream about the things I do."

He squeezed my hand tightly and slowly turned his head to face me. "We dream about a thousand different worlds, yet we only focus on the ones that hurt the most," he said, a profound sadness etched onto his features.

"I liked the world where I killed my mom and Jake," I admitted.

"Extreme evil creates evil worlds," he responded. Dark purple tears ran down his cheeks, the color striking against his off-white skin.

"Will Michael be there, wherever we are going?" I asked, a sinking hole opening in my stomach.

"Yes and no. But you won't be you," he said, staring up at the pink moon.

Time in this place didn't exist, or at least, it didn't run like normal time. My house was no longer visible, replaced by a thick blue fog in the distance. I had no clue if we had been walking for five minutes or five years. The way our bodies moved felt slow, deliberate, and when we spoke, our voices carried an ethereal, dream-like quality.

"That's probably a good thing," I whispered.

We kept walking. The ground beneath us grew wetter. Looking down, I saw that my bare feet were covered in fresh, wet blood.

"We are getting closer," he said, pointing to the blue, electrical fog looming ahead.

"What's in that fog?" I asked, feeling the thick blood squelch between my toes.

"Like everything in the universe, it goes back to where it started," he replied.

"Can we stop and have a smoke?" The anxiety was rushing back, threatening to drown me.

He let go of my hand. Even though his grip was rigid and ice-cold, I missed the anchor it provided. He reached into his jacket, pulled out two cigarettes, and lit mine first. We stood in silence, and I stared at the dark beauty around us. The blue fog ahead, combined with the neon green grass and the deep purple sky, felt like a masterpiece painted by a nightmare.

The smoke from our cigarettes formed a perfectly straight line, acting as a guide pointing us toward the fog.

"I started selling myself," I said. I could feel the cancer eating away at my soul, taking greedy, wet bites. I took a massive haul off my cigarette and looked at him. "I'm not saying this lightly."

I reached out to hold his hand again and threw my cigarette away. I listened to it sizzle as it hit the bloody grass beneath us.

"I want to die," I said. Instantly, a massive weight lifted off my shoulders. My angel wings burned brilliantly behind me, the purple-pink flames reflecting in the absolute blackness of his eyes. Seeing my own fire mirrored in that void gave me a strange, terrifying strength.

"I don't care how," I continued, squeezing both of his hands. "I live in a world of dark blue that's turning black." I couldn't stop the tears; I was crying uncontrollably now.

He didn't say a word. I watched the purple tears roll off his cheeks. Even I can render someone like this speechless, I thought to myself.

"If I keep going, I'll end up hurting people the way he hurt me," I admitted, feeling a dizzying mix of relief and self-disgust.

He pulled me in, holding me tightly against his ice-cold chest. The smell of cigarette smoke clung to him, filling my nostrils, grounding me.

"I can't ever let that happen. I can't hurt people like he did; if I do, he wins," I sobbed into his jacket. "I already feel myself changing, and it can't happen. I know you understand."

"You will always be better, and you are stronger than you will ever know," he whispered, his tears falling into my hair.

"I just want to be in a nice, warm bed and dream a dream that never ends," I replied. I turned my head. The blue fog was slowly dissipating, revealing my house behind it.

I pointed toward it. "I'll find the truth in there, but the dark blue will become all black, won't it?"

He squeezed me tightly for a long moment before answering. "Yes."

He let go, and we started walking toward the house. As we drew closer, the sky shifted from dark purple to a blinding, blood-fire red that consumed all other colors. We stopped at the bottom of the long cement steps. The orange-red glow bathed us completely.

"I know I need to go in," I said, holding his hand. "This color is beautiful, isn't it?"

"It is," he responded, squeezing my hand in return.

The world around us was no longer freezing; it was warm, like a stifling summer day. It was as if speaking my darkest truths aloud had banished the cold. Looking up, the pink moon still hung above the house, surrounded by the blood-fire sky. My veins were shining a vibrant, neon pink now, pulsing visibly as I took the first step up.

The pain and suffering radiating from the house was so thick it made the air difficult to breathe. With each step, my feet grew heavier, until I had to drag them upward.

"I know I need to go in," I gasped, fighting for air.

"Yes, you do," he said, supporting my weight.

My heart raced, and my skin felt like it was burning. Warm, sticky blood began to pour down the concrete steps like a waterfall, washing over our feet. It made the climb treacherous. It was an odd sensation; it felt as though the house was actively trying to reject me, much like I had spent my life trying to escape it.

I glanced over my shoulder. The neon green grass was gone, replaced by a roaring wall of intense fire that stretched as far as the eye could see. My wings burned fiercely, looking more stunning and powerful than ever before. Standing on the wooden deck, I watched the blood flow steadily from underneath the purple front door. It cascaded down the steps, and I could hear it hissing and steaming as it met the encroaching fire in the distance.

"Can we just sit for a minute before we go in?" I asked, pointing to the patio furniture.

"Yes," he responded, sounding impossibly tired.

We sat on the wooden lawn chairs, sinking into the soft black cushions. He reached into his jacket, pulled out two more cigarettes, and handed one to me. As he lit it, I caught my reflection in his pitch-black eyes. My neon pink veins pulsed brightly, but the heavy bags under my eyes betrayed my exhaustion.

I took a haul and watched the smoke dance. The fire in the distance was mesmerizing as it slowly crept toward us.

"I am not crazy," I said dreamily, letting the smoke roll over my tongue.

"You're not," he said, placing his cold hand over my burning one.

"Is this real?" I asked, pointing at the wall of flames.

"We dream about a thousand different worlds," he said softly, rubbing the back of my hand.

"Why are the ones I dream about so sad?" I asked, watching the blood turn to steam as the fire drew closer.

"When a heart is filled with love, it cries the hardest," he replied, taking a slow drag.

"It hasn't been filled with love in a long time," I whispered as the fire finally reached the bottom of the stone steps.

"You will always have love in you," he said. He butted out his cigarette and slowly stood.

I did the same. We stood in front of the purple door as the blood rushed continuously over our feet. The heat from the flames at our backs was intense, and the sound of boiling blood grew louder. I looked back once more; the fire had stopped just inches away from the deck. Its heat was blistering, yet it didn't burn us.

"Guess there is no turning back now," I said, squeezing his hand as he reached for the doorknob. His pale skin began to smoke and blister as he gripped the freezing metal.

"You don't want to turn back," he said, slowly twisting the knob.

"You're right. I don't want to," I said firmly, holding his gaze.

He opened the door, and a flash of electric blue light erupted from inside, so bright it blinded me entirely.

I gasped, my eyes snapping open.

I was back on the couch, wearing my gray hoodie and sweatpants. Burning Angel was still playing on the television. I gave my head a hard shake to clear the fog. The beer and the lines of coke were exactly where I had left them on the wooden tray. Other than the flickering glow of the TV, the house was pitch black.

"What's going on?" I asked the empty room.

I reached for my lighter and smokes. My body was incredibly stiff and sore, like I had just survived a brutal car wreck. As I lit the cigarette, I stared at the smoke, half-hoping it would turn pink. It didn't. It was just dirty, gray ash.

Did I just fall asleep? Did I dream all of that? I wondered, a spike of panic hitting my chest. Where was the Man in the Red Suit? I needed him, right now.

I took a drag, feeling the harsh smoke scrape my lungs. I looked down at the lines of coke on the table. For the first time in years, I didn't want it. Just looking at the white powder made me furious. I grabbed one of my open beers, took a small sip, and then poured the rest of the bottle directly over the lines.

I didn't know if what I had just experienced was real or not, but it had fundamentally changed me. Before that dream, I would have snorted that coke and drank until I was comatose. Now, I just sat there, taking drags of my cigarette, watching the dry powder dissolve into a muddy, pathetic sludge.

I looked down at my hands, wishing the veins were still pulsing with that beautiful neon light.

Then, a creeping, unnatural cold began to seep into the living room. It was that specific, bone-deep coldness I was all too familiar with.

Am I still dreaming, or is this real? I thought.

I exhaled, and the smoke drifting from my cigarette turned a brilliant, neon pink. I watched it curl and drift behind me, moving deliberately toward the closed basement door.

Faintly, from the depths of the house, I could hear my own voice.

I was crying.

The crying warped, pitching higher until it became a demonic, ear-splitting scream. The sound of my own voice screaming from the basement was so loud I thought the windows would shatter. My hands began to shake violently; ash from my cigarette fell onto my clothes. I remembered the crying. I remembered the screaming. And no one had ever acknowledged it.

I'm going to acknowledge it, I thought.

I ground out my cigarette in the soupy mixture of coke and beer and stood up, every inch of my body aching. I lit another and followed the trail of pink smoke through the pitch-black house. The screaming from the basement grew more intense; I could feel the vibrations rattling in my bones. As I drew closer to the basement door, I saw a harsh, electric-blue light flashing from the crack underneath it.

"Bend over," I heard the Man in the Apron's voice rumble, layered over the sound of my own screams.

My thoughts turned to the Man in the Red Suit. I stood in front of the door, watching the pink smoke from my cigarette get sucked underneath it. Tears started to stream down my face. The screaming made my eardrums throb, and I shivered uncontrollably from the cold. I wish he were here now, I prayed silently.

Then I felt his familiar, ice-cold hand holding mine.

My breath misted into the air as a bright blue cloud. I slowly turned my head toward him.

"I got rid of my coke," I whispered. My tears began to freeze against my cheeks.

He cupped my head in his other hand and gently pressed his rigid, cold lips to my forehead in a fatherly kiss. "I always knew you would," he whispered as he pulled away.

The gesture made me think of what my real father's kiss would have felt like. When I reached for the doorknob, the screaming from the basement suddenly stopped, replaced again by muffled sobbing. I felt my own throat tighten, hearing my past self's despair. The blue light from under the door pulsed brightly as my heart raced. I turned the knob.

The door creaked open, and I started down those familiar, creaking steps, surrounded by the flashing blue light. The screaming and crying stopped entirely. Now, the only sound was the groan of the old wood beneath our feet. My hoodie was already soaked with sweat, and my hands trembled as we neared the bottom.

"No, I don't want to," I whispered as we made it halfway down.

I turned to him, my face slick with sweat and tears. "I know you can," he said, placing his cold hand against my hot skin.

We continued down the stairs. When we reached the bottom, I saw it. The dirty mattress. Staring at its yellow stains and the dark, crusty patches of old blood made the memories rush back in a torrent.

"So much pain is in that mattress," I choked out. He just rubbed my back and said nothing. "If hell had a symbol, it would be this mattress." I was struggling to speak through my sobs. He handed me a cigarette and helped me light it; my hands were shaking too badly to hold the flame steady. The air in this basement tasted of pure evil, making it difficult to breathe. I closed my eyes, gagging on the taste.

Behind my eyelids, I felt the light in the room shift.

When I opened them, the blue strobing was gone. The basement was now dimly lit by a single, bare bulb that swung slowly back and forth, casting long, dancing shadows. The steel chair I remembered from the cabin sat in the middle of the room. In front of it, an old TV and a VHS player rested on a rusty metal table. The pink smoke from my cigarette gathered around the chair, forming little circles before dissipating. I glanced behind me and saw the Man in the Red Suit fading in and out of the shadows with the swinging light.

I took one last drag of my cigarette, watching the sweat from my palm soak into the white paper.

"I need to watch the tape that's in there, don't I?" I asked, my hoodie now completely drenched. He didn't say anything; he just squeezed my hands.

The pink smoke swirled around me as I sat down in that ice-cold chair. One moment I was burning from the inside out, and the next, I was freezing to death. On the armrest was a remote for the TV and VCR. When I picked it up, my fingers went numb. I could feel the malevolence of the object seeping into my body.

The sudden flash of the television screen turning on was so bright it felt like a stab wound from a rusty knife to my soul.

I saw myself on the screen, naked, lying on the mattress. My crying was muffled. I think I was fourteen. The footage was grainy and black-and-white, making it difficult to make out details. Off-camera, I heard Jake's voice yelling at me to get on all fours. I just kept crying, clutching my midsection. This must have been one of the times he'd kicked me in the ribs repeatedly.

"Get on all fours," he grunted, stepping into frame.

He took long swigs from a bottle of liquor. Even through the television screen, I could smell his sour, disgusting reek. He unbuttoned his shirt; sweat glistened across his chest and stomach.

I watched myself obey—going onto all fours, ass raised in the air. My own crying filled the speakers, raw and broken, sending a sick throb through my nervous system.

"Touch yourself," he demanded, tipping the bottle again. I heard him gag on the mouthful of alcohol, fighting the urge to vomit. When I refused, he lurched toward me and drove his foot into my ribs. Pain exploded; on-screen, I screamed and sobbed.

It was strange, seeing Jake stumble like that—barely able to walk straight. In that moment he looked smaller, less terrifying. I still knew what his size and strength could do: tear me apart limb from limb. But watching him sway, choking back bile, he no longer felt like the embodiment of evil. He was simply pathetic.

He leaned down, shoving his face between my legs. The memory of his thick, rancid sweat slammed back into me. He pulled away long enough to take another swig, the bottle trembling in his hand looking, pathetic and weak.

I heard him grunt and retch as he yanked off his pants and forced himself inside me. So many nights like this—his sweat seemed to seep in and never leave. Even weeks later I would be sitting quietly, reading, and feel it moving inside me, trickling out. His grunts of pleasure mingled with my cries until my stomach churned with acid and nausea.

His hand slid toward my other hole.

"Please don’t," I begged.

I still don’t know why he stopped that night. There were plenty of others when he didn’t. Instead he flipped me over, slapped me hard across the face, and wrapped his hand around my throat as he kept going. He rarely hit my face—too obvious, too many questions from other people. When he did, I simply wouldn’t go to school for a few days. My mother would tell everyone I’d done it to myself. Insane.

His grunting grew louder. Sweat dripped from him onto me in heavy drops. My head was twisted to the side against the filthy mattress; blood trickled from a cut on my scalp. My lips were split and swollen from the slaps.

He reached for another swig, found the bottle empty, and hurled it across the room in a rage. His thrusts quickened—that familiar rhythm that meant he was almost finished. Relief and horror twisted together inside me. Soon he would stop… but I would still feel him leaking out of me.

Tears streamed down my cheeks as he pulled out abruptly and finished across my stomach.

“You’re a dirty fucking slut,” he snarled, delivering one last slap.

For years I believed him. I was filthy, diseased, a pus-filled wound. My soul deserved every second of it.

He stood over me, still dripping onto my skin, dry-heaving again but never quite vomiting.

“There isn’t any hope for you,” he slurred, turning toward the camera.

I heard him rip it from the wall. One final shot: me lying naked on that stained mattress, covered in him, face bruised purple, ribs marked with dark blooms. I tried to curl in on myself, to hide. Then the screen cut to static.

The ceiling light swayed gently back and forth.

I have a tape of what he did to me. There must be more.

Behind me, the man in the red suit offered a cigarette and a lighter. My hands shook so badly I couldn’t get the flame to catch. He stepped forward, steadying my fingers, and lit it for me.

I took a deep drag. An unexpected strength settled in my chest—like I’d finally passed through some brutal rite of passage. I’d destroyed the coke. I’d poured out the alcohol. And I had seen Jake for what he truly was: a pathetic, trembling thing.

“Where are the other tapes?” I asked.

He pointed with one long finger. My cigarette smoke drifted lazily toward the narrow space behind a cabinet.

“It’s good to know the truth,” I said, voice cracking.

Purple tears slid down his cheeks. I reached up and wiped them away; his skin felt cold and rigid beneath my fingertips.

“I know I’m not crazy now,” I told him, smiling through my own tears.

He lifted a hand and brushed my cheek, catching the wet streaks.

“Without you, I never would have done it,” I said. The cancer that had been gnawing at my soul for years seemed to loosen its grip.

“I know I’m going to die,” I added, not with despair, but with something closer to peace.

“Time repeats itself,” he murmured, resting his palm against my face.

“He knows I know,” I whispered, watching my tears fall onto his icy hand.

I touched my own chest. “I finally beat the cancer.”

Thank you for continuing to read Burning Angel and taking this twisted surreal ride. I promise it only gets more mysterious from here on out! Thanks again for all the support and kind words. There is a lot more to come in the Burning Angel universe!

Previously On Burning Angel

Audio Version

Chapter 55: Jessica

The visits to the basement have stopped, but I know it won't last forever.

Since my last entry, I’ve found new ways to cope. Drugs and alcohol are the only things that keep me barely functioning. Sex is something I have taken control of, for better or for worse. As much as I hated the person I was, I hate myself even more now. When I’m not high or drunk, I feel the blackness in my soul the most. My hands shake, my stomach turns inside out, and my brain fills with terrible, rotting thoughts.

The Man in the Apron, I see him everywhere: lurking behind trees, sitting in the back row of the movie theater, standing in the corner at parties. Sometimes I see him on the couch next to me while I'm watching television. The drugs and alcohol used to make him go away, and sometimes they still do. But every once in a while, I’ll feel him again, breathing heavily down my neck, his cheap alcohol and sour sweat filling my nostrils.

People don't know the real me; they never have. I'm just a quiet, weird girl to them. They don't see the blackness festering inside.

I got a job at O'Reilly's to help pay for my habits. The tips aren't enough, but a place like that provides other opportunities. I see him at the bar sometimes, watching me from the shadows as I pocket crumpled bills to show some random guy a good time later. Every time I do that, I feel sicker than before, like I'm carving out little chunks of my own flesh and handing them over. If I keep it up long enough, and there won't be anything left but a hollow shell.

Fuck, there are some real creeps out there. Guys who want to hit me, guys who want me to hit them, guys who force my head down after they’ve been in places I don't want to say. The worst one was just a few weeks ago. He was slapping my ass, hard. I told him to ease up, but his hand kept coming down like a hammer, the sting radiating into my bones. When I yelled at him to stop, he balled his fist and punched me so hard in the face my vision went black.

I woke up to the sickening wet slap of his flesh against mine as he kept pounding into my limp body. When he finally finished, he threw a wad of cash onto my bruised ass. I lay there in the cheap hotel bed, weeping silently into the sheets, listening to the shower run. My face was a throbbing, bloody pulp. When he finally stepped out of the bathroom, wiping a towel over his fat gut, I asked if I could go clean up.

He just snarled. "Yeah, do whatever you want, dumb slut."

Before going in, I paused, watching him slouch into a chair. I slipped into a daydream.

In my mind, I step out into the hallway and knock on the hotel door. When he turns the knob, I kick the door with the force of a battering ram, sending his fat, pathetic body flying backward onto his ass. I step into the room wearing a pristine white dress. Brilliant angel wings sprout from my shoulder blades, gorgeous plumage of pink and purple, radiating ethereal flames of the same colors.

He scrambles onto his hands and knees, blubbering and begging me not to hurt him. I spot a cluster of empty brown beer bottles on a wooden table. I sweep them onto the floor, shattering them into hundreds of jagged, razor-sharp pieces. I demand he place his left hand directly over the broken glass. He puts up a pathetic fight, whimpering like a wounded dog, but I possess a terrifying strength. I grab his thick wrist and force his palm down into the jagged pile. The flames cascading from my wings, cast dancing shadows on the walls. I am an angel of death.

"Please, don't do this!" he wails. His disgusting body is slick with sweat, his dingy underwear stained yellow and brown with his own filth.

The cheap hotel lights snap to a blinding, electrical blue, pulsing like strobe lights. I let out a scream, a high-pitched, demonic shriek that vibrates through the room, shattering the screen of the television into a million pieces. With his hand pinned over the glass, I raise my heel and stomp down with all my weight.

Crunch.

The shards slice through his palm, severing tendons and grinding against the bones of his hand. I stomp again and again, my banshee wails drowning out his agonizing shrieks.

"You like to hit girls!" I roar, the sheer volume making the glass fragments rumble against the floorboards. My eyes bleed into a hollow, milky white. My teeth lengthen into serrated, bleeding razors. The ecstasy of turning into a monster to inflict my suffering onto him is intoxicating. I stare down at the thick, jagged glass, embedded between his knuckles, blood geysering from the wounds. His fingers bend at sickening, impossible angles, the flesh rapidly swelling purple and black.

"Lift your head!" I scream, as the flames on my wings spark like wood in a bonfire. Crying in pain like a pathetic animal, he lifts his head.

"Show me your teeth!" I demand, the strobe lights flashing blindingly fast now. A fine mist of my own dark blood sprays from between my razor teeth, coating the walls. In one swift motion, I drive the toe of my shoe squarely into his mouth. The impact shatters his jaw and completely caves in his front teeth. Blood and ivory enamel explode from his lips, splattering into the puddle of gore and glass beneath him.

"Pick them up!" I command, pointing at the shattered teeth floating in his blood. He reaches for them with his one good hand. I instantly bring my heel down on it, grinding it into the glass. I twist my heel, digging the sharpest pieces deep into his muscle and veins.

"No, use that hand!" I scream, pointing to the first hand, the one that is essentially just pulverized meat and bone. Making him pick up his teeth with broken, flayed fingers seems like a fitting torture before I end him.

He shrieks, sobbing hysterically as he tries to pinch the slick, bloody teeth with fingers that no longer work. His broken digits flop uselessly, pushing glass deeper under his fingernails. I throw my head back and laugh uncontrollably. It’s a masterpiece. It's art.

It takes fifteen agonizing minutes. Finally, trembling uncontrollably, he holds up a palm of mangled flesh cupping three broken teeth. The blood is thick and coagulating. I don't even care about the teeth. I stomp on his hand one last time, driving his own shattered teeth deep into the meat of his palm. He collapses. I grab his sweat-soaked shoulder and forcefully flip him onto his back. Even in my fantasy, his greasy sweat makes me want to vomit, but my wings blaze gloriously, illuminating the carnage.

I snatch up a massive, dagger-like shard from the broken glass, littering the room. I stand over him, straddling his chest.

"I am not going to stop. You're dying tonight!" I hiss, inches from his face. My blood drips from my chin into his mouth, forcing him to choke on it.

I lean down and sink my serrated teeth directly into the meat of his bicep. I tear a raw, bloody chunk of flesh right off his arm and hold it in my teeth, letting him watch his own blood run down my chin before I spit the meat over my shoulder with a wet thud.

The glass dagger slices open my own palm. I don't care. The warm blood rolls down my forearm, dripping steadily from my elbow. I raise the makeshift blade high above my head. One stab for every sickening thrust he forced into my unconscious body.

I bring it down, plunging it so violently into his bloated stomach that my knuckles sink past his skin, burying into his hot, wet gut. Screaming like a lunatic, I rip the glass up and down, carving his torso into ruined ribbons. I stab him fifty, maybe a hundred times. Blood fountains into the air, soaking my face and my pristine white dress. My wings beat gracefully through the mist of gore. I am the Angel of Death, and it is beautifully grotesque.

Dropping the glass, I plunge both hands deep into his eviscerated stomach. I grab hold of his slippery, purple intestines and rip them out, the steaming heat of his organs wrapping around my forearms. I hurl his entrails against the wallpaper, intoxicated by the wet slap and the massive smear of crimson they leave behind. Finally, I look down into his lifeless, wide-open eyes.

"You like hitting girls," I whimper, weakly punching his ruined chest. The strobe lights die out. The demonic features melt from my face, and the flaming wings dissolve into nothing. It is just me, sitting atop a butchered corpse, sobbing.

My dress is saturated, clinging to my skin, dyed a heavy crimson. I smear the blood across my face. "You like to hit girls," I whisper to the slaughterhouse I've created. My hot tears carve clean tracks through the gore on my cheeks. I stand up and slump onto the couch, feeling the thick, sticky blood pooling under my legs. "You like to hit girls," I repeat, rocking back and forth like a weak, pathetic child.

"Are you going to use the bathroom, bitch, or what?" he growled from the chair.

The illusion shattered. The butchered room vanished. I was back in the sterile hotel room with this breathing, sweating pig. I kept my head down and rushed into the bathroom.

The bathroom walls were blindingly white. I stood in front of a large mirror, staring at the wreckage of my body. My nose was leaking a steady stream of blood. My eye was already swelling shut from his punch; the skin was a mottled dark purple, and I knew by tomorrow it would be pitch black. It wasn't the first time a trick had done this to me. There was a crust of dried blood flaking on my cleavage—it must have dripped from my nose while he used my limp body.

I turned slightly to look over my shoulder. The bruising on my ass and thighs was a terrifying patchwork of violet and blue. Just shifting my weight sent sharp, agonizing spikes of pain up my spine. Sitting was going to be impossible for a week. I knew because I had bruises like this before.

My coat was hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I dug into the pocket with trembling fingers, pulling out a small glass vial of coke. I scooped out a heavy bump on a key, leaning forward until my reflection blurred, and snorted it hard.

The chemical burn seared my raw sinuses, sending a violent shudder through my entire nervous system. For a minute, time just froze. I stared blankly at the ruined girl in the mirror. Blood-stained bra, black eyes, a battered ass. This is what I had become. A cheap, broken coke whore.

Tears spilled freely now, mixing with the blood on my face. I looked at the twisted, hollowed-out thing I was and wondered if I even counted as human anymore. I scooped out another bump. It burned like battery acid.

Maybe I should just end it, the voice in my head whispered. I didn't want to go on like this much longer. My suicidal daydream returned, the familiar, comforting thought of plunging a jagged piece of glass deep into my own jugular, watching my life pour down the drain.

I sobbed quietly as I struggled to dress. Dragging my tight jeans up over my battered ass was torture; the stiff denim scraped against the bruises, sending electric shocks of pain up my spine.

When I finally opened the door, he was standing right there, his fat belly hanging over his belt. Looking at his disgusting, smug face made my stomach heave. I had sold a piece of my soul to this monster.

"Come back soon, baby," he laughed, a wet, guttural sound. I kept my face turned away, terrified of letting him see the fresh tears.

I limped out of the hotel room. In my mind, I overlaid my fantasy onto reality, visualizing myself stepping over his mutilated, gutted corpse. I slammed the heavy door behind me and made it a few yards down the dimly lit hallway before my legs gave out. I slid down the wall, hitting the carpeted floor. I broke down completely, sobbing uncontrollably into my knees as fresh blood dripped from my nose and my body throbbed with unyielding agony.

When a pain this great happens, all can turn black, I thought to myself.

This was my reality now. Just an endless, suffocating blackness. There wasn't even a single dying star left to point to and say, See? There is still some light.

Chapter 56: Cassie

I lit another cigarette, watching the pink smoke twist into fragile heart shapes that shattered as they drifted away. A bitter resentment began to curdle in my stomach. I found myself starting to hate Jessica. Who was she to take David from me? He had never even met her in person, yet here I was, alone, while he charged off into the nightmare to "save" her. How do you save a dead person? What happened to her had already happened. There was no undoing it. I was the one he’d just held, kissed, and told he loved.

Dark purple tears streamed down my cheeks. This was different from all the other times I had cried. It struck me then that I had never wept for someone else, not really. That was love, wasn’t it? The sudden, shocking realization that you cared more about someone else's well-being than your own. In the short time I had known David, his every action screamed it. He was trying to find the Man in the Red Suit, trying to find who killed Jessica, and now, trying to save her. He didn't have to do any of it, and it was putting his life in danger. That's why these tears were different. They were the tears of potentially losing someone who was the living embodiment of love itself. I took a slow sip of the beer beside me, took another haul of my smoke, and listened to the whisper-like rustle of wind through the leaves.

I closed my eyes and let myself fall into a daydream, a perfect reunion with David.

We were on a beach of brilliantly colored pink sand. The air was mild, perfect. The sand felt like fine silk beneath my bare feet, nothing like the coarse, gritty stuff of the real world. Its color was so beautiful I wanted to scoop it into my pockets and take it back to Val’s house. Time on this beach moved differently, slower. It silenced the noise and the useless, looping thoughts, distilling everything down to what was important.

I walked to the shore, the ground littered with glowing pebbles of bright pink, blue, and red. They shone like neon lights, filling me with a deep tranquility. The air was so clean that with each breath, I felt my lungs being repaired from years of abuse. Blissful, I sat at the water's edge. The ocean was a deep, dark purple, its waves gently lapping at the shore, creating a beautiful, ambient melody. I scooped up a handful of the glowing pebbles. Swirling within their beautiful light were visions of me, smiling. This is what I must look like when I think about him, I thought.

The moon was a perfect, bright pink. Looking at its craters and bathing in its soft energy, I wished it could always be this way, not its usual lifeless gray. The sky was a dark purple, filled with even darker purple clouds that swirled like cream in coffee. I took a deep breath, letting the ambient music wash over me. I was at peace.

I picked up a red pebble that was especially bright and looked deep into its light. The image of David’s face appeared. It was the same mixture of awe and awkwardness a man gets when he is struck by the beauty of a woman. The exact same face he’d made when he first saw me.

"Cassie," a dreamy whisper said behind me.

My heart raced, it was his voice.

"David," I responded in the same whisper, turning my head. Moving my body here felt like running my hands over silk. There was no pain, only smooth, slow movements that worked in perfect harmony. He walked toward me, handsome and resolute in his brown duster.

"Isn't this place perfect, David?" I asked, tears of pure joy running down my face.

"It's heaven," he said, sitting beside me. He wrapped a strong arm over my shoulder, and we watched the waves roll in.

"Look at these," I told him, grabbing another handful of pebbles. They showed us kissing, holding hands. One even showed the moment he’d looked at my ass in the car, which made him blush. Seeing him get so awkward and red-faced filled me with a pure, innocent joy.

"One day, we're going to be on this beach forever," David whispered, kissing my head.

"I hope we are," I responded, resting my head on his shoulder. He gently played with my hair, and I fell into a trance, my eyelids growing heavy. I could see the soft glow of the neon pebbles through my closed lids. "Keep talking, David," I said dreamily.

"My punk rock angel," he responded lovingly.

"My Narc," I replied with a small laugh, descending into a deep, peaceful sleep. He laughed quietly and kissed my head again. This is heaven, I thought. Or at the very least, our heaven.

"Your black hair is so soft," David said, his fingers still twisting through it.

It took me a few seconds to register what he’d said. "David, my hair isn't black," I laughed.

"Yes, it is," he responded, his voice filled with confusion.

My heart began to thump against my ribs, and I was violently pulled from my tranquil paradise. I snapped my eyes open. Black hair was draped over my shoulders. I was wearing a white dress. I pushed myself off David, my entire body trembling.

"Jessica, what's the matter?" he asked, his voice thick with empathy.

"I am Cassie!" I yelled, scrambling away. The man holding me was a stranger. His face was more square, his eyes were blue, not gray, and his build was all wrong.

"David!" I screamed, fresh tears streaming down my cheeks.

"Jessica…" the man started, but I cut him off.

"No, don't! Just don't! I am Cassie!" I screamed, the life draining out of me.

He slid closer, and I crawled backward as fast as I could. "Jessica, I am Michael. You know this," he said with a mixture of confusion and concern. I looked down at the pebbles by my feet; the images of me and David were gone, replaced by visions of Jessica and this stranger, Michael.

"Jessica," he said, reaching out with rough, calloused hands.

"I am Cassie! Just stop! Just fucking stop!" I screamed so loud my whole body shook. Every fiber of my being pulsed with pain. My heart felt like rusty nails were being driven into it.

"Who's Cassie?" he asked as I violently slapped his hand away.

"I am Cassie! Can't you see me?" I shrieked, grabbing a handful of my own hair.

"Stop, please," he said, his own eyes welling with tears. The sadness on his face was genuine. He looked like a man who had had this exact conversation a thousand times, a man whose soul was being stepped on over a floor of broken glass.

I gripped my hair tighter and pulled, hard. I felt the sickening tear of roots from my scalp, a sound like Velcro ripping, followed by the hot, wet sting of blood. He grabbed my hand, but it was already full of a thick clump of black, bloody hair.

"I am Cassie," I whimpered, pushing him away. "I am your punk rock angel," I sobbed, watching the blood drip in thick, dark stream, staining the pristine white dress.

"Yes, you are," Michael responded, his voice a calming balm.

"You found me on the side of the road," I said, hoping the images in the pebbles would shift back to that moment. But as the blood dripped into my left eye, it became clear they wouldn't. I lifted my head. It was still Michael, not David.

"David loved me, right?" I asked, feeling my insides turn black and swollen.

"Yes, he did, Cassie," Michael said, placing a hand on my shoulder. He was so genuine in that moment, so desperate to help, but I knew he was just telling me what I wanted to hear.

"What was I wearing when we met?" I asked, a futile last attempt to prove this was all just a mistake.

Michael was at a loss for words. His blue eyes showed a desperate, agonizing need to know the answer.

"Please, just stop," I pleaded, watching my dress become soaked in my own blood. All the pebbles were filled with images of Jessica and Michael. It made me cry so hard I couldn't breathe. The memory of him looking at my ass in the car, him telling me he missed me on the phone, our first kiss, all of it raced through my head as my heart beat faster and shallower, a frantic bird trapped in my chest.

"Please just stop, please just stop, please just stop," I kept repeating, watching the blood mix with my tears.

"Don't do it, Cassie," Michael said, his voice struggling to reach me through my tear- and blood-filled eyes.

My fingers tightened around something cool and sharp on the sand. I looked down. It was a broken beer bottle with jagged edges. The thought was so familiar it felt like an old friend.

How many times had I fantasized about this? Who was I anymore? Did David actually love me? What memories could I even say were mine? Where the fuck was I?

Gripping the bottle tightly, I imagined it. The final image: my own blood streaming out of my neck, mixing with the pink sand as I fall backward, staring up at the pink moon with a smile, my lips forming the words.

It's finally over.

Thank you for reading Burning Angel and continuing to take the journey into this twisted surreal story! There is more to come and it only gets more mysterious and horrific from here on out.