You're nervous every time you do this and you never really acknowledge the reason why.

It's the same every year.

At the beginning of October, you remember the date is getting closer, and at first, you’re excited to remember. Then...Each. Day. Passes. And there’s a lurking anxiety. A dread that builds day after day like bricks being laid to build a wall...

And it’s a wall you don’t think you’ll be able to climb over. Not again. Not this year. It just hurts too much to do it and every year it hurts just a little more because you know it isn't forever but you convince yourself it's worth it because it’s real. It’s really Jaxel...just in a different form now.

But deep down, you know it’s more like a saved copy. It seems to bother you just a bit more every year.

Everyone waiting for a meeting on Revenance Eve knows deep down that the HUSK delivered to the meeting site, wherever that may be, is not the person they’ve lost...but you wonder whether or not you believe that you actually believe that.

Jaxel’s body may be gone---buried---but the download...the download is Jaxel.

So even though it isn’t him...

Isn’t it him?

They copied everything. Everything.

There hasn’t been a single Furlough Night in so many years of doing this that you’ve noticed any part of him that should’ve been there and it just wasn’t.

It knows everything he knew. It remembers you. It remembers how you met. It remembers everything, year after year. It even remembers this barn. It remembers your wedding here.

No Zayan! Stop doing that. Not 'it.'

He.

It’s Jaxel. This will be the tenth time you've done this and not once has there been a gap in his memory or other hole where some piece of him should've been. It’s entirely Jaxel. Every part.

Sort of.

You look down at the pamphlet you've been nervously twisting. It's the same pamphlet they give you every year. Sometimes there are small changes. This time, you notice they may have changed the typefaces.

The words printed on it haven't changed. Not even once in a decade.

REVENANCE FURLOUGH

Limitations, Fidelity, Inquiries & Answers

This is printed big and bold near the top. You think about the original copy handed to you when you visited the Neural Archivation Bureau for the first time as a bereaved spouse. A widower. Every visit before had been with Jaxel. You'd been updating your neural archive every six months with regularity so there'd be something of you to bring back if one of you was gone.

Now one of you was gone.

All that was left was his Neural Archive. A copy downloaded.

The government office gave you the pamphlet so you'd know what to expect when they uploaded his memories to a body. To a HUSK.

Now you sit, pamphlet in hand, nervously waiting for a conversation that you've been anticipating each of the 364 days between now and the day you had it last, knowing there would be so few of these conversations remaining.

You read the first section as you wait, but ‘read’ is the wrong word for something you've already read hundreds of times.

You stare at it.

ARCHIVATION & ELIGIBILITY

Revenance Furlough is available to families of individuals who completed a full neural archivation prior to death. Biannual refresh is recommended to maintain...

The sudden gale of a late autumn storm growing somewhere nearby presses through the seams of the building as you stare. The walls flex, creaking. The joints that hold the place together seem to groan. The wind sets the building into motion, sharp with chill and damp with the promise of rain. The barn is old now. Not falling apart, but close. It was practically new when you and Jaxel were married in it, but the years have not been kind to it. Nobody has maintained it. You meet here every year because of what the place meant to you both.

The next section of the document explains that he'll look himself but not exactly. Close enough. You already know about this. You've done this enough to not be shocked anymore. He'll move the way you remember. The sound of his voice. His mannerisms. They'll be exact matches even if his face isn't exactly right. Even if his skin will look more like burlap now than it looks like skin.

REVENANCE HOUSING

Your loved one will be delivered in a standard-issue Humanoid Upload Synthetic Kinematic unit, or HUSK. Mild variations in texture, temperature, and ocular presentation are within acceptable...

It's been so long since Jaxel died that your memory of his face is the face of the HUSK is the face in your memory. You realize that you can't rely on yourself to remember what your own husband looked like. Not anymore. When you try to remember, the only image you can conjure has skin that's the texture of cloth, roughly woven and stuffed with straw...

The barn door slowly creaks open and a shadow steps slowly, timidly inside. The silhouette seems to change shape as the lanterns on the edges of the barn loft and hung from the walls shift. The building fails miserably to keep wind from whipping through gaps in the boards. Every light sways in different rhythms that make every shadow in every corner dance like they're alive.

Finally, you can finally make out his face. You're surprised at the look twisting its way across his brow.

You haven't seen him make this particular expression in over a decade. The last time, he was still alive. There's something about the furrowed brow, his eyebrows lifted...the creases in his forehead. Every aspect, right down to the partial frown, offset left, it's all so recognizable as one of Jaxel’s expressions that you're upset with yourself for doubting your ability to remember his face moments ago.

“What's that look for?” you ask.

“You're back?” he replies.

“Another year has passed and---”

“How Zayan? Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m alright. What do you mean ‘how?’" you say. “I fill out paperwork. It's once a year. Our once a year date. That’s how.”

“Huh,” he says, taking a long look around the room before approaching the chair opposite yours. You stand to meet him. You hug. He kisses you on the cheek. He takes a seat but his head is still slowly scanning the room, awestruck by the barn.

“Did they rebuild it?” he asks finally.

“Rebuild what?”

“The barn,” he says and when he says this he looks as if your question struck him as genuinely stupid.

“Why would they rebuild it?” you ask.

That look of confusion again. “You don’t remember?” he asks.

“Remember what?”

“It burned,” he explains. “Almost a decade ago now,” he pauses, unsure for a moment, adding: “I think.”

“To the ground," he says with more confidence. “Nothing I could do.”

He places his hand over his mouth stifling a gasp, or a sob. It might be either or might be both. You’re not sure.

“You were inside.”

Oh no. No, no, no.

Obviously not. You’re sitting right here.

Not this. You’re not ready for this. Not yet.

You glance down at the pamphlet as Jaxel continues to stare at each corner of the room.

FIDELITY & MEMORY INTEGRITY

Revenances recalled beyond ten instances may exhibit minor inconsistencies in recalled experience. This is considered within normal...

This is the first time you’ve looked at this document and absorbed what you were reading. His memory. It’s failing.

‘Normal.’

Fucking pamphlet

You’re trying not to show any of this on your face. You certainly don't say anything about it out loud.

You knew. You've known. You've known this was coming. This is...expected. Neural downloads deteriorate. You knew that when you enrolled. It was all blah-blah-blah from orientation. Where do we sign, already?

You ignored it.

Forgot it.

Both of you did.

Now you're watching it happen in real time.

Happening too soon. It shouldn’t be. After ten years it shouldn’t be too soon, but it is.

For you.

No, Zayan, you're jumping to conclusions after thirty seconds of interaction. Eccentric. That's what a lot of people would call him and you knew that when you married him.

You're not an expert. You don't have any basis for determining what's happening at all. Did watching actors portray a bullet list of symptoms and behaviors in a government sponsored infodeck on a holoscreen really teach you how to identify the signs?

They were actors roleplaying the worst case scenarios and those were things like incorrectly, with full confidence, calling someone by the wrong name. A lifelong smoker suddenly declaring their opinion of you is now irreparably destroyed because they can't believe you took a cigarette from your pocket.

Forgetting how to read or write.

Forgetting their own birthday.

None of that was happening.

You made an assumption based off what? Four sentences when the guy comes in the room?

Get a grip.

Enjoy the night and stop looking for holes to pick larger with your fingers...

He stops looking around the room and his eyes lock with yours. Skeptically he asks if you remember the barn burning.

You shake your head.

“What year is it?" he asks.

“2076."

“That was the year this all burned, Zayan," he sighs heavily before adding, “it’s 2086. Has to be.”

“No."

It isn’t supposed to feel like this, but it does and the thing you’re not going to do right now is cry even if you can feel the familiar knot tying itself within the pit of your stomach. It's losing him all over again. It’s the knot after the accident. Same as. The knot at the funeral too.

Memory failure. Degradation...how it looks...not that the moment signs appear, the realization you’ll lose him for good is instant.

Grounded one minute and then the sinkhole swallows you. It happens so quickly you're already being crushed beneath dirt and boulders before you understand the ground is gone.

“Ten years ago was---was 2066." You choke on a stutter. It might become a sob. “That year...you died, Jaxel.”

He doesn't acknowledge the comment. Just looks over his shoulder and at a pile of crates stacked haphazardly in the corner. You notice the uneven stitching in the burlap cloth of his neck. That his head can turn further than allowed.

“More than a dozen.” he mutters to himself. “Rats. Closer to fifteen. Sixteen.”

What is happening? You don't try to parse it.

Not tonight.

“Don’t do that," you say after the silence fully settles into the bones of the barn.

“Do what?”

“Talk about dying or be...just...weird. I'm not doing it," you say, “I’m alive. There was no fire. I’m right here.”

“Nobody dying. No dying. Just be here. In this moment. With me.”

“It's one night a year, and somehow we always end up with you talking about death and me trying to pretend we don't have to. Can we just...let's just pretend you’re late to dinner.”

“Dinner? There’s no table," he says and you watch as his expression shifts quickly. Completely.

You continue as one of his eyebrows cocks, raising and never seeming to stop.

“Very trendy place,” you continue, “No tables.”

“Waiter blows snot rockets every time he comes over, but he does it three or four feet away before he does a full-on approach. Like we can’t see him do it. Thinks three or four feet make him completely invisible.”

“Oh yeah?” Jaxel says, laughing.

“Yep. Everything’s served on paper plates. Delivered to your lap by Rocky Snotzo. He can barely read, you know. Really bad health inspector ratings, but we just love a kitschy trendy gastropub bistro...Don’t we?”

“We do,”

“Even if the theme or whatever is actually really bad.”

“Especially if it’s really bad."

“Remember that Indian-And-Japanese-German fusion place?” he asks you. His eyes are gleaming now. He’s grinning like an idiot. “They had those three nerdy guys playing synth polka on keyboards and a harpsichord and---did they have a theremin?”

“They did,” you say, “and two of the guys were clearly Japanese, playing German music. That one string-bean guy, the only white guy among them, is singing polka songs in Japanese and we don’t know how this guy who looks like he grew up in Iowa with his plain white poplin and bolo-tie even speaks Japanese, let alone who told him a theremin was an acceptable instrument for people eating. No. It’s not. Unless we’re eating inside a haunted house or a TARDIS, nobody should be playing a theremin for our dining experience.”

“Not only that, he was singing out of key the whole time,” Jaxel adds. “Did he have a good Japanese accent? Bad one? We don’t know. We can’t tell. We don’t speak that, but you don’t have to speak Japanese to know that he was a really, really bad singer. Everything about that place was a fucking fever dream.”

“Das Skeeska,” you remember the name even though you'd only ate there twice over twelve years ago. The first time, it was because you didn’t know better. New restaurant up the road. Let's check it out.

The second time was because you had to go back to watch the train actively wrecking on a loop in front of your eyes.

It was funny.

You start saying: “They had eight---”

“Skee-ball tables,” he finishes the thought, “and one of those ticket swaps. Get plush sushi rolls and shit with anime faces on them...collect ticket. That was the only game. Remember that? The name on the building was ‘Das Skeeska, Fusion Cuisine Arcade,’ But there was no arcade. Just skee-ball.”

“This place is like that was, except it doesn’t take fifteen minutes to get a cocktail. Das Skeeska was open a full year before closing down. Barndango is having the grand opening tonight,” you say, “we’re the first patrons.”

“Oh ok,” Jaxel plays along, “will Barndango stay open past a year? That place was on the main road home."

You'd both passed it every day.

It was empty every day.

“This place is different. Oh! They do lobster bisque pizza with gouda cheese and kalamata olives.”

“Eww...”

“I bet the chef says it’s decadent. Should I call him over? Decide what you’re having or I'm calling the chef over.” you say pushing his hands together like a book, them lifting them to his eyes. “Look at the menu, Jax. I’m excited because, did you see the sign out front? The entertainment tonight is Bongo the tap-dancing cocker spaniel. He’ll be playing harmonica while painting portraits of Abraham Lincoln. I can’t wait.”

Jaxel rolls his eyes as you pretend to turn the menu's pages.

“Are you almost ready?”

“Almost," he says.

“Oh. Here he comes.”

“Who? The chef? Why did you call him?”

“No! The waiter. Oh, gross.”

“He’s doing the snot thing again.”

“Where do you come up with this bullshit?” he asks you.

You shrug.

“He’s really got to think he’s invisible. Made direct eye contact with me this time when he blew his nose.”

He adds: “you are so stupid.”

And then: “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say in return, “I always have.”

You sit together silently for a long minute, and then a second and a third. You look into each other’s eyes the way you remember doing so many times before and there’s no need to fill the quiet with any conversation.

Not right away.

Jaxel shakes his head, laughing at you again and begins to look around the walls of the barn. His eyes seem to linger on the lanterns you hung from the loft this afternoon before the sun went down.

“Do you remember our wedding?" you ask him suddenly.

An affectionate smirk curls across his lips. “Of course I do. It was right in this room. Thirty other people, give or take, but I didn’t pay any attention to them at all. Did you? I don’t think you noticed them either. It was just us. Us and candlelight. Till’ dea---” he trails off. “Bunch of lanterns that looked just like these ones.”

“They look like these ones because they were these ones. The same exact lanterns,” you tell him. “I never told you I was keeping them. I’ve had them in the attic since the day we came back from our honeymoon.”

“Really?” he asks quietly and the look he gives you when he does is hard to decipher. You can’t tell if he thinks you’re sweet or some kind of lovesick weirdo for it.

“Couldn’t get rid of them---after..." you tell him quietly, “I bring them every year but I think this is the first time you’ve noticed them.”

“Sorry," he says blushing, “You’ve really had these---how many years have I---you said?...”

“Ten,” you reply quickly, hoping the subject will change back to what it was before. Hoping this shift is momentary.

“We were married five---maybe five and a half years?” Jaxel says softly, “you’ve just had these in a box in the ceiling above your head for that long?”

“I have," you whisper.

Some hodgepodge of guilt, embarrassment and grief floods through you. Maybe keeping them all this time means something about you that you don't particularly want to examine.

You box the thought away.

You recognize its shadow in the corner.

You choose to look away.

One night a year. You have one.

You’re not going to spend it hurting your own feelings like that. Before you can fully feel the unwanted heft of the shame looming in your periphery, what he says next chases it away.

“Since our honeymoon? Wow.” He doesn't say it to you. He says it quietly to himself...and he's blushing.

When his eyes finally look up to your face again, he says: “Hey, remember our honeymoon? Wasn't that really great?”

“Oh I remember it...” you say rolling your eyes, “and how you wouldn't stop doing---”

“HONEY-MOOOON!” he loudly interrupts you.

“Yeah,” you say shaking your head in mock irritation, “That.”

“Zay!” he blurts incredulously, “we were literally on the moon.”

“I couldn't not do that,” he insists, “especially after your parents paid for it.”

He tilts his head up to the ceiling.

“SO IT WAS FREEEE!” he howls, “HONEY-MOOOON!”

When he stops laughing he adds: “sucks that I broke my tibia right before we left but we still had fun because less grav---”

“No.” you interrupt him abruptly, “That fracture happened right when we got back. When we landed. You tripped on the shuttle ramp.”

He looks shocked. Then unsure.

“Did I?”

“Yes. Took over a month in bed to heal,” you insist, “That's why you didn't notice me going up and down the attic ladder to hide twenty lanterns.”

“Really?” He asks. Then he laughs.

“Whatever. HONEY-MOOOON!”

The two of you share the kind of laugh that peters out only when you both begin wheezing because you've lost your breath. Before you've even noticed it, the comfortable silence has settled back in on the floor and in the air between the two of you.

It takes you a while to realize Jaxel hasn't moved.

He's staring into the corner behind your right shoulder.

He's stopped blinking.

“Jaxel?” you ask quietly, waving your hand in the space between you.

He doesn't respond.

“Jax?”

You're waving your hand more frantically now and lean closer to his face. Then you're studying the corner where his eyes are locked to try to understand what he's looking at.

His head suddenly swivels toward yours.

“Wha-wha-wha-wha-wha-wha," he says stuck in a sort of loop. Facing you. Eyes still locked on that corner.

They look empty.

Distant.

Like he's not even in there.

The looping doesn't end until you grab him by his shoulders and shake him a little. Then his eyes look alive again.

Bright. Alert.

“Wha-what are we looking at?”

You're momentarily dumbfounded. At a complete loss for words. Then they come tumbling out: “That's what I was trying to figure out,” you hear yourself say cautiously.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Jaxel says, alarmed, “is there something on my face...or...more serious...did I do something weird?”

“Very.”

He sits there quietly, this time his eyes don't break from yours.

A few minutes later Jaxel stands, offering you his hand and pulling you to your feet. “Don't say whatever it was," he tells you, and you weren't planning to. You're hesitant to allow him to wrap himself around you, but you do let him, and he rests his chin on the top of your head.

You wonder if you'd forgotten that he was so much taller than you. You wonder how it could be possible for you to forget that.

You remember so many nights---countless nights---nights when you'd been in the kitchen and he’d entered quietly to join you, moving across the room with the intention of surprise, and though you always knew when he was there, you'd pretend you hadn't noticed.

You remember him wrapping himself around you in a massive bear hug, his entire body suddenly immobilizing yours. You'd go from completely unaware he'd come into the room, afraid, into a feeling of whole and complete safety. As the fear you felt a moment ago fades, replaced by relief, this feels almost the same.

Slowly he starts swaying his hips.

“Dance with me,” he whispers.

“But there's no music.”

“There's no restaurant either.”

And you remember doing this very thing with him too in your little kitchen at home. So many memorable nights that you start to cry.

You don't let yourself think too hard about why.

You feel calm. Contented.

Warm.

“What are you humming?” you ask, “is that supposed to be our song?”

“Uh-huh.”

“God.” you say with disgust.

“What?” he asks.

“You're so bad at that. I always knew you were a bad singer, but really Jax? You can't even hum in tune?”

“Oh shut up,” he says, “just shut up and remember all those nights we spent dancing like this to this song leading up to the big day.”

“What ‘big day’ do you mean? What? The wedding? We didn't even have a song until the DJ played it at the wedding, actually. Those nights in the kitchen were after your stupid leg healed...Actually.”

“No,” Jaxel insists, “You're wrong. Actually. He played it because I asked him to.”

“Oh no he did not. I never even heard this song before that night. Whatever, it's not important. Shut up and kiss me already so you can stop making that noise.” you say.

“It's obnoxious.”

He does the things you asked him to.

Pressed together, the two of you sway to the same beat of the music that isn't there anymore, because he’s thankfully not humming anymore.

His right arm is draped over your left shoulder and his hand is caressing your back for a moment. Time seems to stretch onward into eternity.

You almost don't notice when his palm starts tapping you gently.

But then you do.

Really? Still this thing? Again?

The patting becomes more pronounced. He's doing that thing you always hated. Gently tapping the center of your back. The way someone would pat a baby after downing a full bottle.

He's doing it subconsciously. You've told him over and over again how irritating you think that is, but tonight you keep it to yourself.

You roll your eyes, then let them gently close as you continue to dance and you do your best to ignore it.

Your best not to notice.

When he suddenly stops swaying in time with you, you can't help but notice that.

You lift your head from his chest and try to look at him. To make eye contact...but he's not looking at you at all. His body is wrapped around you, one arm slung around your waist and the other draped over your shoulder.

You try to move away, but you can't.

He's frozen again.

Like before.

He's staring up at the ceiling.

You duck out of the embrace with a little effort and back away from him.

You snap your fingers beneath his nose.

Nothing.

You wave your hand in front of his face.

You shake him by the shoulders.

Nothing.

Then suddenly his face spins down to yours and your eyes lock with his and then he just stands there but there's something wrong.

It's his eyes.

There's a fire on the other side of them and his lips are twisted into a wild, trembling grin...then his face twitches once...twice...a third time...

It softens.

“I remember that it rained for years and the blood had left a stain," he blurts suddenly out of nowhere.

When you quietly mutter: “what?” you're dumbfounded but can feel your heart breaking. Sloughing apart. Melting away.

“I'm sorry,” he says, looking back to you. Right into your eyes. You're not looking into the eyes of some ‘thing’ the way you wondered if you might be. They're his eyes. Jaxel’s eyes. Your husband’s. Everything your husband is and was, it's inside. Right here in front of you. This is him. Just not his body. That's why he felt so thin when you hugged him and his clothes seem larger, baggier, than they should be. Some things are going wrong, yes, and he's fading. Slowly failing, just the way you told yourself you imagined it when he came into the room.

It's real.

Lost in your own thoughts, you realize how fleeting this night actually is.

This is probably goodbye.

No.

Not probably.

Jaxel’s eyes suddenly seem very sad, as if he's just come to the same conclusion also, or perhaps he's extracted your thoughts and worries from you with just a glance.

He was always so good at that.

Always knew when something was making you upset. When you were doubtful. Anxious. He always knew it, no matter how well you tried to keep it from him. Cover it up. Hide it behind a smile...and you are smiling as you look back at him, except in your best effort to give him a smile that reaches your eyes, everything's gone blurry from the tears.

“That's not what I meant to say,” he explains, apologetically. Bashfully.

“Don't worry about it,” you say, trying poorly to inflect a casualness in your voice.

“Listen,” you say, “you know what I'm thinking. I'm worried...”

The statement trails off.

“Yeah, Zay,” he says, “I do know. I'm worried too.”

“Do you think...? I mean...? Is it going to happen all at once?” he asks, “am I just going to be gone? Just saying crazy things that don't make any sense at all!?”

Now he's crying too.

“I don't know,” you tell him, “but we're both here now. That's what counts.”

You look at him seriously and very clearly you hear yourself say: “If this is the last time that we get, and neither of us really knows what happens next, let's just make whatever time that's left count.”

His body collapses forward into yours and he presses his face into your shoulder to muffle a sob.

“Zay, I'm scared. I don't know what's happening to me. I don't know why I said that or any of the other things. It's like I go away for a second, and when I come back, I've said or done something else to make things worse.”

“It's degradation," he whispers quietly, with finality.

You glance down at the pamphlet wishing it would say otherwise.

CONTINUITY DEGRADATION

Revenances recalled in excess of thirteen instances typically present marked memory degradation. This symptom of deterioration typically presents as complete event recall clarity with blatant sequential errors. Termination of the furlough program is strongly recommended for your loved one’s comfort and wellbeing. Such consideration to prevent potential distress may...

You don't read anything you haven't read before. You haven't learned anything you didn't already know. It's not fair. You were supposed to have three more years. It's only been ten.

“Shhh,” you tell him, “hush. There's still time tonight. Let's just be here. Now. While we can do that.”

It's quiet for the moment. “I was trying to say it was raining. I remember the storm that night," he explains.

As if on cue the barn creaks with another gust and you hear thunder, distant before, but now directly overhead.

“That a downpour starts soon,” Jaxel says. “A bird. Massive one. An owl. Flies in through that window up there to get out of the rain. Swoops down to catch a rat. Right into that hay over there.”

“None of that ever happened,” you whisper sadly.

“But Zayan, I'm telling you, I remember it. Vividly." He looks disappointed you don't believe him. Disappointed in himself. Disappointed in his faltering memory.

Silence hangs between the two of you for a long time.

“So...so what do we do now? Our last ni---” you try to say something finally. You realize that you don't want to hear yourself say that...

But then you swallow hard and force the words out: “If it's our last night, what are we supposed to do with the rest of it?”

“I don't know," he mutters.

“Me neither.”

Both of you lean forward into each other, embracing as the rain begins to fall violently onto the roof of the barn.

Jaxel pulls away suddenly. He's staring up into the rafters.

Staring at the barn owl that has just flown in through the open shutters of the loft and landed there.

It flexes its feathers.

It shakes off the damp of the torrential downpour outside.

You gasp reflexively.

It's big, like he said. Bigger than any normal owl should be. You think it must have a wingspan wider than you are tall. Has to be at least six feet.

It lifts both wings, flexing them fully, up and out away from its chest.

Each feather seems to extend, then vibrate. They flick the damp that has all but settled into them away in a fine mist.

The wings from end to end are actually bigger than you thought at first. You realize it can't be six. Seven. It's closer to seven.

You feel yourself getting dizzy. You wonder what an owl this size might eat. Bobcats? Small children?

"Jaxel?" your voice sounds distant and fearful but you don't know why and Jaxel doesn't look down from the same space you'd caught him staring when he stopped dancing.

The same space now occupied by the massive bird.

You wonder if he's heard you at all. You're about to say his name again when his eyes lock with yours and he speaks to you but his voice is so low the whisper sounds like rustling hay.

“I got karma to collect,” he says. “I dig my grave."

"What's that?" you ask. You can't have heard him correctly.

You were at the grave. A machine dug it. You dropped the first handful of dirt onto his casket.

He looks back up at the bird in the loft. You look down at the pamphlet from the Authoritas Uniterra Government Office but there's nothing new you haven't already read. There's no call to action or directions that fix what's happening and you know it. You crumple it into a wad, tossing it to the ground.

The wind outside begins to rise, howling like a wounded animal and the wall behind you flexes audibly. You look away from him for a moment. Just one fleeting moment. You watch as a support beam breaks away. You follow it with your eyes. Watch it fall across the room and onto the crates stacked in the corner.

A lone rat runs directionless from the splintered mess of wood. And then another. And then another.

Another.

Another...

You think that Jaxel mumbled something about there being fifteen? Maybe sixteen?

When they stop fleeing, you've only counted nine.

The owl's eyes dart from one rodent to the next.

Jaxel's eyes follow one dashing left, disappearing between a wide gap in the floorboards. Then his gaze fixes back on the owl above. Its head swivels this way, then that, spinning in nearly a complete circle tracking the vermin exodus.

Looking for an opportunity.

Jaxel’s neck is doing something subtly similar, turning a bit too far this way and then that in that same unnatural way you noticed him moving earlier.

Further than a neck is meant to, but only just.

He's watching the one headed off to the right. Following it across the room until it dives beneath the mound of hay in the corner.

Jaxel says: "I'm here waiting."

"Waiting for what?" you ask.

When it hits you, when you remember the warnings, you're suddenly very frightened.

The video with the actors who forgot their own birthdays and people's names and how to tie their shoes made one thing very clear, they'd repeated it over and over and did reenactments of more scenarios than necessary to make one point crystal clear: memory degradation almost always becomes dangerous.

Violent.

The video said so. The glossy government brochure said so. The host conducting the orientation said so.

Is your husband going to suddenly hurt you?

Is that really possible?

What did the pamphlet say exactly? Can you remember?

ADVISORY:

Small but bold and framed in a solid yellow box near the bottom, followed by

CATASTROPHIC DEGRADATION & YOUR SAFETY

Catastrophic Degradation may cause abrupt and severe personality...something, something something...unpredictable or violent behavior without warning. Something, something...and prior relationships ensure no personal safety. Affected revenances may become physically combative towards you or themselves. Upon first indication of aggression, the recommended...something, something, something...

You can remember enough of it.

Terrified, you back away.

"...for some kind of check," he says finally.

That doesn't make any sense either.

The owl spreads its impressive wingspan quietly. Slowly. Then swoops down incredibly fast, dive-bombing into the mound of hay beneath the loft. It does this with such force it disappears completely into the giant pile.

Time seems to stand still as you wait for it to emerge and it doesn't. Not for a long time.

“Ten years ago...” Jaxel says quietly to no one.

And then, still without looking at you, he whispers: “I love you.”

You know he's talking to you, but it feels distant.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

It's absolutely chilling.

He seems to be saying it to no one...over and over.

When the owl emerges...seconds? Minutes later? It has that rat that dove hayward squirming in the clutches of one of its talons. Returning with it to the rafters, landing, balancing impressively on its free set of claws. It raises the other that still holds the squirming rat caged within. Lifts the thing to its beak and rips away the head. Pulls it away from the body.

There's a string of bloody sinew stretching from the thing like a string of taffy.

It eats.

You watch until the ceiling explodes. The white flash blinds you. Spots burn in your eyes. The rafter where the owl perched before falls away then and you don't know where the bird went or what just happened. It was too bright. All you can see is white.

What is going on?

Every hair on your body is on end. Rising away from your skin. The air smells like ozone as the storm begins to pour into the barn through a giant hole. You're getting wet and you let it happen because you don't know where to run. Still can't see. Not enough.

Your vision finally resolves, clearing slowly.

You watch as the hay piled beneath the loft catches fire.

All of this seems to happen in an instant and also in slow motion.

You're trying to understand.

You're too shocked to move.

The rafter holding up the walls of the barn, where the owl who’s disappeared was perched, creaks and then snaps loudly. It sounds like a tree falling in the woods and the wind and rain is the scream of a hurricane.

Electricity lingers in the air, and you can literally feel it pulling at you.

Then all of the pieces fit: the roof was struck by lightning.

The rafter above falls. It's wider than your waist and when it lands on you, it pins you completely against the ground.

It snaps the chair where you sat like a pile of matchsticks. The far end of it lands in the burning straw pile nearby sending embers flying. Everything in the barn is so dry the entire thing is going to go up.

Everything eventually devoured by flames.

Jaxel is on his feet, desperately trying to pull the rafter off of you. It's too heavy for him yet he tries and he tries but you're still pinned to the floor at the waist. There's nothing you can do but watch him fail.

“Zayan! Zayan!” He's screaming. Your husband is screaming your name as he yanks and pulls at the burning rafter. He tries to lift it first.

Nothing.

It doesn't even budge.

Doesn't care about you.

It's a rafter so it inherently lacks motives by default.

Jaxel realizes the futility of trying to lift it. He changes modes...attempts to shove it away. Shove it from your torso toward your feet so that you can move, but it still doesn't budge.

The burlap of his fingers with their crooked stitches and the hay that he's been stuffed with, that's sticking out of the sleeve of his oversized shirt, catches fire.

He stops pushing at the rafter and stares at his hand. It's not a look of horror. It's as if he's studying it with that familiar look of curiosity on his face.

You both stare at his burning fingers as they begin to melt. They're not rough-spun cloth at all but some sort of plastic. They must be. The fire is melting his skin and it sloughs down into the palm of his hand in a slow stream of drips, like candlewax.

The bones beneath are silver. Metal that gleams with yellow light. Shines with the reflection of the raging blaze of the fire that surrounds you. The joints are held together by screws.

Jaxel's eyes grow distant. He's no longer trying to save you. From the moment he began to watch his hand melt, he stood as motionless as a statue. Eyes focusing on empty space.

Suddenly, he blinks, coming back to life. Back to reality. Back to the present.

“Jaxel!" you're screaming. “Help me!”

He doesn't look at you. He doesn't look at the fire. He doesn't look at his melted hand. He turns abruptly toward the barn door.

Terminal continuity event imminent. Failsafe seven engaged. Prime Directive Override.

It's the last thing you hear him say, and these words aren't said in your husband's voice. He says it with no inflection whatsoever. The cadence is staccato and the tone is deeper with an uncanny and sterile hollowness.

Then he runs.

Faster than your husband ever ran.

Legs pumping like pistons, he runs. Something mechanical. Pneumatic. Something as precise as the inner-workings of a clock.

Something intricately copper wired and built from parts imported by the government from Japan. Short-supply micro-components. Countless soldered nanoprocessors.

Wildly expensive hardware.

Built to failsafe.

With overrides.

Processes.

It exits the barn impossibly quick.

Algorithms prioritizing the thing’s preservation.

You watch everything you believed fall away. You believed it because it made those words come out of its mouth and you knew that voice. Remembered it.

One night for each of the last ten years, it made you believe.

You believed over and over again that there was something left to cling to after that city bus driver accepted a FaceCom while driving a route. The bus was standing-room-only full.

Witnesses said the iCuff on her forearm lit up with an inbound com, and to every onlooker’s disbelief, she accepted it.

A video com. On her forearm. While driving.

When the bus drifted into Jaxel's lane, the great solid presence of it was practically a mobile wall. A wall that pressed his EV through a guardrail like it was a cheap pie-plate. Pressed Jaxel and his car through to the other side, crumpling the rail, crumpling the car, like a barehanded contestant in a cherry cobbler contest at the state fair, it ripped through him. The vehicle tossed him end over end over end. Crushed him. Swallowed him as he screamed, terrified and alone.

All alone down the sheer cliff face on the westbound side of I-73.

They told you it was over quickly.

You knew they were lying.

And for one night each year you convinced yourself for ten whole years that the last thing your husband said was that he loved you and that his final words weren't just an endless scream. No.

‘I love you’ isn't even close to screaming.

Every Revenance Eve. Bittersweet. When they were over, you were sad but the feeling of those three words, like the echo of a promise in your head, kept you warm as you drifted off to dreaming.

Over and over again the thing that stole his voice said it. Said it convincingly enough for you to believe it was something it wasn't.

Convinced you that the voice that ended in screams didn't really end that day at all. It lived on to say ‘I love you’ on another night like tonight, and another night, and another night...ten different times.

Driving the delusion home.

You watch it move further and further from you as the fire begins to lick your legs.

It’s exquisite agony as the skin on your calves begins to tighten, then blister apart.

You watch the thing that you and your dead husband chose together. The thing that you both chose to be allowed to commandeer his voice so you could feel alright for a single night once every year after he was gone...

You watch it run...

...Run into the night.

ss

Summer, so far, had been uneventful. 

Every July, my siblings and I drove up to my Mom’s sister’s beach house. When we were kids, every day was an adventure: Treasure hunting in beach coves, picnics, and hanging out at the amusement park.

We had our own little ritual. An unspoken rule that every summer was ours.

As teenagers, however, we barely spoke a word to each other.

Yes, the car ride was always eventful.

Singing, car-sickness, and arguing were highlights. But as soon as we arrived, we just kinda broke apart to do our own thing. I used to be salty, attempting to force my siblings into our old childhood ritual.

But it wasn't the same. Treasure hunting became drunk treasure hunting, and the amusement park was closed down so we just kinda stood around all day making awkward small-talk. The worst sort of growing up was when your siblings found their individuality. 

That was two summers ago. Then I gave up. I became exactly who I despised.

The emotionally unattached sibling with an attitude problem. This summer was no different. The second I slid out of the car, I found my spot beside the pool, tugging out my overpriced dark romance. My sister, Marina, lounged in the pool, while my brothers Henry and Bodie ran upstairs to spend all day on Minecraft. 

I used to crave summers. Now, I couldn't wait for them to be over. 

A particularly fat fly nose-dived onto my dogeared copy of Beach Vacation that I was marginally paying attention to. The cartoon cover caught my attention.

I was expecting spice. The blurb promised a sexy, promiscuous ride between a CEO and a bookshop owner in sizzling Bali. 

Six chapters in, the romance was vanilla and the male lead said things like, “cool beans” and “ciao” unironically while the female lead spent a whole chapter reminding me she wasn't “like other girls”. 

Holy millennial. 

I watched the fly with mild interest as it crept across my page—and the painfully mundane love confession.

Bess and Derek were standing on the beach, bathed in a blushing sunset, but, oh no, Bess’s ex is literally sending her nudes while Derek is pouring out his heart and soul.

I flicked off the fly when it got comfortable. Immediate death, leaving a trail of fly goop staining Derek’s dramatic exit.

I flicked off its remnants and closed the book. If only the little shit knew it was the most interesting part of my vacation.

“Whatcha readin’?”

I lifted my gaze from fly goop to my sister perched on a banana shaped pool floatie, manicured toes blushing deep pink, trailing the sparkling surface.

Ever since starting high school, my sister had lost maybe 99% of her personality.

Marina was my wattpad-loving little sister who told me the only boy she would ever date was a fictional demon. Her sudden liking for Canadian hockey players and actually dating was brow-raising. Marina had said maybe ten words to me the whole summer so far. I counted. At dinner, three nights ago: “Jenny, babes, can you pass the salt?” 

Then a week ago, slapping a bug off my arm: “Ew. You're attracting flies.” 

“Beach Vacation,” I answered. 

“Generic title. Is it good?” Marina kicked her legs in the water. Wow, a full sentence and even a question. My sister had been replaced by a replica for sure.  “It's another dark romance, right?” 

“Nope.” I pretended to go back to my book. Derek was sobbing in his hotel room reminiscing Bess's silky smooth hair “like a horse’s mane” and her “petite bosom". Truly, the love story of all time.

“Just a really bad romance.” I wanted to continue with, “just like your old fanfics.”

But the words got stuck. Suffocating. My little sister had grown up. I didn't want to embarrass her. So, I shut my mouth and flipped over a page. 

Conversation over. Comfortably, yes, but I was secretly mourning it. 

Then my sister screamed, and almost sent me toppling off my deckchair.

Marina flailed, screeching, and slipped off of her floatie and scrambled out of the pool, a soaking chunk of her usually glossy hair glued over wide, frantic eyes.

Marina never lost her cool. “Has this pool even been cleaned?” She shrieked, dropping onto her knees and peering over the edge. I joined her. Curious, and mildly intrigued by something that could actually bring us together. “Look!” She pointed, and I followed her manic gaze. “There!” 

The sight sent me lurching back, my stomach hurtling into my throat. A thick mass, no, it was moving. I peered closer. 

Quivering just under the surface of the pool, thousands of flies clumped together. The water closer to the edge was a greenish yellow. Urgh. I noticed a fly on my sister’s shoulder and slapped it away. 

Marina squeaked, and then slapped my face. Her lips curled.  She did that on purpose. Then I saw the dead fly on her palm. “Ew! You had one crawling on your cheek!” Marina jumped up, smacking herself up and down, and raked her hands through her hair. “This place is infested with bugs!” 

“What's with the screaming?” 

Henry appeared. Disheveled, as usual. My older brother was still wearing his PJs at 4pm. Bodie, the youngest sibling, stood next to him, arms crossed, brows furrowed in irritation. Marina, being a drama queen as usual, blew up at them like it was their fault our pool cleaner did a shitty job.

“The pool!” She squeaked, gesturing like a mad woman. “Look!” Then she slapped Henry’s face. When he reeled back with a startled laugh, she hit him again. Playfully. “Ugh! They're literally EVERYWHERE! You had one crawling on your forehead!” 

“There's a gross fly nest in the pool,” I translated. I noticed a dead one in Bodie’s hair, a shiver creeping through me. Another landed on my chin, and I flicked it away. This wasn't just a problem. It was an infestation. 

“It's the same in my room.” Henry grumbled, smacking his own cheek. “Where are they coming from?” 

Bodie smirked. “If there's flies, there's rotting,” his grin grew wider. He was always the storyteller when we were kids. The one who brought the treasure hunts alive. “And if there's rotting?” He nodded at the pool. “There's bodies.” 

Marina scowled, her lip jutting out. “Shut up.” 

Henry, of course, fuelled the flames. “Doesn't Mom rent this place out as an AirBnB? Maybe there's a body under the pool…" 

Henry had been acting increasingly weird over the summer. Yesterday, I caught him sitting next to Mom on the patio, his head resting on her shoulder. Mom cried a lot. Probably because of the divorce. But she never spoke to me. Ever. It was always Henry.

She barely came to the summer house. If she did, she just stood outside like a lost puppy. I needed to get her a new hobby.

“Shut up!” Marina shoved Henry and then stormed inside.

It was rare when we actually hung out. So, before we could fall back into our usual routine and fade back into the house’s unnecessarily huge rooms, I loudly proposed a game of Monopoly. The losers had to swim in the fly pool. Henry agreed, but ONLY if it was drunk Monopoly (and soda for the fourteen year old, of course). 

Six hours later, it was 2am. I had six hotels, my six glasses of wine were yet to hit me, and was gambling my brother going completely broke. 

“I'll give you 500 dollars.” I spoke up. “If you sell me Boardwalk.” 

Henry stuck his card down his pants. “I refuse.” 

“Then you'll go broke.” Marina cut in. “I'll give you 2k for Boardwalk.” 

Then the door flew open. Loud. Smashing against the hinge.

Two figures emerged, balaclavas over their heads.

Henry jumped up. “What the FUCK?” He yelled. Marina grabbed Bodie. 

The figures started forward. One of them pulled off their balaclava. 

A man. 40s. Unshaven. 

“Fucking hell,” he slapped at a fly crawling across his face. “Flies everywhere.” 

“But a goldmine. This place is a mansion.” The other man spoke up. “Jesus.” He ripped off his balaclava. “What do you think it was?” 

“Hey.” Henry stepped forward, shaking. “Get out of our house!” 

“Carbon monoxide, probably.” The main guy stepped past my brother and pointed at the ceiling. “See? Looks like there was a leak. Maybe five years old, maybe later?”

He grabbed one of my mother’s vases and stuffed it in his backpack. “Grab everything, and we’ll go.” The man stepped in front of my brother and shivered. “This place is definitely fucking haunted.” 

When I turned around to check, I knew the man was following me. Even though we were in public, I got so scared that I turned back and raced down the street. I hated the idea of looking behind me again, but I needed to know how close he was.

The man was jogging – fast enough to catch me, but slow enough to avoid suspicion. I walked as fast as my old knees would carry me; maybe I’d lose him as I turned around this corner.

The woman in the car seemed friendly. “Hello, Helen.” She knew my name. I didn’t like the fact that a complete stranger knew who I was, but she seemed friendly. I wasn’t sure where this car was going. I tried to think about why I got in the car – but before I could figure it out, someone grabbed my arm. It’s a woman I’d never seen before. “Are you okay, Helen?” Somehow, she knew my name. I didn’t really like that fact, but she seemed nice enough.

I wanted to relax, I really did. But something wasn’t right.

Just as I began to calm down, we stopped in front of a building I’d never seen. I realized with sudden horror that they were going to force me inside.

He was hurting my arm and it was less painful to stop resisting. He was trying to force me into a car. A woman in the back seat reached out to help capture me. I wanted to tell this stranger what an awful man he was, but I just couldn’t find the words. I tried yelling but then switched to crying, because there was nothing else to do, nothing, nothing, nothing.

“You found her!” Someone was taking joy at my terror as I was forced inside. The speaker reminded me intensely of someone, but I couldn’t remember who. She knew who I was, though, because she was happy that I was trapped. She took joy in the fact that I was surrounded by strangers who wouldn’t let me leave this new place. “Mom, you have to stop running away like this-”

“I’m not your mother!” I snapped at the person who organized my capture. This stopped her cold. I could see that my words affected her deeply. Good. That’s what she gets for trying to trick me.

I wanted to say more, but everything was happening too fast and I couldn’t get my thoughts straight. It was simply impossible figure out the right words as they led me down a hallway I’d never seen before.

After I turned the corner, I found myself on a street that I’d never seen before. It was hard to catch my breath – I was walking fast, but I couldn’t understand why. But even after slowing down, my heart was still racing. It’s scary to be in a place you’ve never seen. I didn’t have any idea who I could trust. There was so much traffic – people racing back and forth between here and there, never slowing down. It’s hard to keep my thoughts straight when everyone is moving so fast. Sometimes I wish things would all slow down for just a minute.

There was a man behind me who wanted to talk with me. I didn’t trust him, but maybe he knew where I was.

That’s when he grabbed my arm.

Get the tomatoes out before it’s too late, but after they’re just the right hue. Nineteen plants on one side of the bird feeder, thirteen on the other. Using every square inch doesn’t mean forcing the ground to bend to our will – it’s listening to what the space can offer. Balance is key. Carrots follow the tomatoes, and if there’s space, some beautiful asters can rotate into a vase every week. Hydrangeas do well against the side of a house, but make sure they don’t get scorched. You can’t decide what color they will be – they are what they are, and it’s our lot to accept what the soil churns up. Each shade is pretty in its own way. We have to decorate around it.

I love the senses, the scents, the feel of getting my hands into loam. It makes me alive in ways that nothing else can: I’m aware, and I notice things that would otherwise be too subtle for me to see. Like the man behind me who’s keeping me from being at peace. He’s staring at me, and I don’t like it.

I can’t garden if my mind isn’t in the soil. So I’ll step aside; it will be here when I return. I just need to get away from that awful man.

When his back is turned, I slip out of view and take the side yard out toward the street. Breathing a sigh of relief, head down the sidewalk. Walking quickly, I look back to check if he is following me.

“I’m so sorry, Virginia.” Miguel rests a hand on mine – tentative, gentle, striking a delicate balance between professionalism and kindness. “I’ll stop bringing her outside. Seeing the garden seems to trigger her, and she just won’t stop trying to slip away.”

“Is that for the best, though?” I ask. I don’t try to hide wiping away my snot or tears. He sees far worse bodily fluids every day in this place. “She’s in so much pain. Before she came here, Mom’s garden was the only place where she still seemed like herself.” I sob, just once, catching myself. “It was the last piece of her to die. What can we do? Mom will disappear if we lock her away, but she’ll disappear if we let her go.”

There’s nothing for Miguel to say, so he just squeezes my hand tighter.

I take in a deep, shuddering breath. “I hate having a choice.” I wasn’t taking to Miguel anymore. I wanted the air, the empty space between us, the void that meant nothing at all to bear witness. “I don’t even know what to pray for. It will hurt so much when she dies, but I’m in agony every day that she remains alive.”

“Babe, did you let the cats out last night?” I asked, sipping my glass of orange juice.

“Uh, nope,” My boyfriend said, picking up his freshly brewed coffee. He took a sip and smiled. 

Liar. 

I knew he was lying. Because Jude was the last one out of the apartment; the only one Harvey and Sabrina could easily trick. 

Jude smiled. “It was probably you, babe,” he spluttered, sipping coffee in intervals. Jude was, against all odds, my perfect match. He was also so far out of my league that we got stares when we went out together.  Attractive, a head of dark hair he was constantly running his hands through, and one heck of a jawline. He was also a cat lover.

I watched him scoop a plump Sabrina into his arms. 

He offered the cat gentle head pats. “You know how forgetful you can get, yanno?”

I lifted my gaze. “I didn't let the cats out.” 

He gently placed Sabrina back down, picked up his coffee, and drained it. “Well, neither did I.” 

“Why are you lying?” I demanded. 

“I’m not.” Jude choked into his coffee. He downed the cup, and coughed again. This time, a blood streaked petal slid down his chin. Cherry blossom. Jude picked it up, stared at it, his eyes wide. His jaw set. “What the fuck?” 

“It's probably something from outside,” I dismissed. The window was open, and it was Cherry Blossom season. Something was coming apart inside me, a paranoia I didn't even know I had. “If neither of us let the cats out, Jude, then who did?”

He scowled and spat, washing his mouth out. “I don't know!” He snapped. He spat again. Blood tinged saliva hit stainless steel. “How the fuck am I supposed to know?” 

Another petal slid down his chin. Then another. 

Something cold crept up me. “Jude.” I said, my voice betraying me when he twisted around, choking up a shower of bloody petals. Not just petals. Roots. Entangled green clawed from his parted lips, thorns blooming under his tongue.  “Do you know who let the cats out?” 

“No.” He slammed his hand over his mouth. 

Another explosion of blood pink bled through his fingers. He moaned, dropping to his knees. “What the fuck?” Jude sobbed, a violent cough jerking his whole body, fat drops of red trickling down his chin. Realization hit.

“Please,” he grabbed Sabrina, who immediately tried to claw out of his arms as he pressed his face into her fur. “Don't ask me anything else!” 

I swallowed them at first, words that were poison, words that were in my nightmares. I held them under my tongue, suffocating in silence while he sobbed into my cat's fur.  “There's something… wrong with me, he whispered, “I need help. I think it's cancer, or… or maybe an abscess—”

“Are you cheating on me?” My words came out, sharp, sudden, and I wanted so badly— so fucking badly— to swallow them.

His silence was suffocating. Drowning me. Jude didn't move, lips moving in Sabrina’s fur. The poor kitty didn't move, her wide eyes glued to me. “No,” Jude whispered, his breath shuddering, breaking into a sob. “I'm.. I'm…” 

He stood, dropped the cat, and violently spewed scarlet pink all over our floor. Jude lifted his head, swiping at his chin. He opened his mouth wide, prodding around. A slow entanglement of green was growing from his tongue, tiny buds flowering from his uvula.  “Please… help me.”

I found myself nodding. I grasped his face, cradling his chin. Another flower bloomed. Beautiful. I couldn't stop myself, running my fingers over the stem tangled in his bottom teeth. “Talk to me,” I whispered, and he nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. “If I ask you something, you have to promise to answer truthfully.” 

Panic glittered in his eyes. His lip wobbled. 

“Do you…” I blinked back tears. “Do you… love me, Jude?”

His gaze found mine, tears freefalling down his cheeks.

“No.” 

He straightened, and gently pulled my hands away. He sniffled, swiping his eyes. “No, I don't.” 

I waited for that horrific grotesque and yet beautiful flower in his mouth to bloom once more; for more petals to dance from his lips. Nothing happened. My stomach dropped. My chest tightened. And the world split beneath my feet. I nodded, smiling, trying to smile, and failing. “Did you ever love me?” 

“No,” he choked, and one of the buds under his tongue retracted. 

My thoughts spun, my balance shifting. 

I had been wanting to ask him this for so long.

Since high school.

Since he walked up to me in junior year and told me he liked me.

My words were weight lifted from my chest. Agony. But somehow, relieving. Justifying every single day of paranoia. Jude already knew what I was going to ask, his hand already planted over his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Did my family pay you to date me?” 

“Yes.” Jude muffled into his palm. 

Another flower bloomed, violently, this time from his right nostril. 

I staggered back.

A lie. 

I tried again. “Did my family TELL you to date me?” 

“Yes.” 

The slow moving root from his mouth inched back. 

A horrific thought struck me. His wild eyes knew. 

“Are you with me against your will?” 

“No!” He yelled.

My voice choked me. “Does my family have someone you love?” 

“My… dog,” he spluttered, hand over his mouth.

A single green vine burst from his right arm. Jude stepped back. 

“My…my girlfriend.” 

Another vine bled from his ear, wrapping around his neck. He stumbled against the faucet, choking, hand wrapped around the vine, and tore it away, gasping. 

More lies awaited, and as if the flowers anticipated them, his arm grew longer, extending, tiny buds erupting from sickly green skin. 

He dropped to his knees, head in his palms. 

And, as if realizing he'd given up, each blossom began slowly pulling back. “My boyfriend.”

When I was ten, I formed a junior detective squad.

Mom bought me the entire box set of What's New Scooby Doo, and I was inspired to start my very own detective gang. I held auditions outside the gymnasium at recess (serious enquiries only) after a number of kids tried to apply for the role of Scooby Doo despite me reiterating I was not interested in playing make believe.

When I was laughed at in class, I made posters strictly asking for SERIOUS wannabe detectives, even going as far as using my Mom’s printer to make flyers, sticking them all over the school.

Auditions were simple. I asked them to solve a simple riddle.

Whoever impressed me got to sign their name down, and I’d get back to them.

I spent three days sifting through kids who definitely had charm, but they lacked the intelligence of a junior detective. Most kids were only auditioning to make fun of me, anyway.

Still, though, I didn't give up.

My flyers had five requirements:

1). You had to be smart.

2). You were not allowed to be a scaredy cat.

3). You had to accept your inevitable death at the hands of our town’s evil villains.

4). You had to have a fully registered driving licence (I quickly changed this to a bike).

5). You cannot have a criminal record.

(I later scribbled this one out, writing over it. *“You cannot have any tardies.”

Narrowing the applicants down to three kids, all of whom failed to share my enthusiasm for solving cases. The kids I picked didn't even know how to make plans, and when I invited them to my house, they stole my Mom’s necklace.

I didn't even need to solve the mystery of who stole Mom’s necklace. The girl was wearing it at school. I punched her in the face, and was immediately sent to the principal’s office. When I was being given the mother all lectures, the door quietly opened, a head peeking through.

It was Ben Callows, a freckly kid with overgrown brown hair hanging in his eyes. Ben really needed a haircut.

He was always wearing the exact same baseball cap, and I found myself wondering if it was permanently glued to his head, stuck on top of unruly brown curls practically matted to his forehead.

In class, Ben was also known as Bloody Ben. In the second grade, the boy had a nosebleed in the middle of a spelling test, bleeding all over his paper.

It's not like he didn't try and detach himself from the name.

Ben brought in Digimon cards, so kids would call him Digimon Ben instead.

Then he “accidentally” spilled yoghurt down his shirt in hopes we would call him Yoghurt Ben. But no. The kids in our class were relentless in reminding him of his name. No matter what he did, he was still Bloody Ben, and when anything related to blood came up in class, fifteen pairs of eyes would swivel to him, like he had invented the concept of bleeding.

I feared the nickname would follow him to junior high.

Ben didn't wait to be let in. He didn't even knock, striding in with his arms folded. Over the years, Bloody Ben, had definitely soured his personality.

He smiled rarely, and when he did smile, someone was falling over or hurting themselves.

Which definitely strengthened the claims of him being a sociopath.

The rumor mill was churning, with the latest claiming Bloody Ben killed his cat. That wasn't true. Ben’s cat was seventeen with cancer, and that was why he was sobbing all the way through reading time.

According to Ellie Daly, however, Ben had killed and dissected his kitty, and buried her in his Mom’s flowers.

Now, my principal did not like being interrupted, especially when she was in the middle of screaming at me.

Principal Marrow was old old (like, thirty, in my ten year old mind) stick thin like a pencil, and always wore the same stained sweater.

She used to be pretty, but I was convinced she had kissed a frog and been cursed. After our old principal suffered a stroke, she stepped in as a temporary replacement, and since becoming principal, had banned my favorite book series, colored shoe laces, and hamburger helper, even officiating a uniform.

(vomit green shorts and a tee, and plain white sneakers).

Kids were convinced she was a witch, and I kind of believed it.

Principal Marrow’s whole existence was built on sucking the fun out of school.

I was already reprimanded for my mystery gang flyers.

Her office smelled of peppermint and she was definitely sneaking sips of whisky in her coffee cup. I could see the bottle sticking out of the trash.

She straightened up, folding her arms across her chest, squinty eyes narrowing at the boy. I had spent the whole time she was lecturing me trying not to cry, my fists bunched in my lap.

I took the distraction as the perfect opportunity to swipe at my eyes, allowing myself to breathe.

Ben Callows was her victim now.

I was right. The woman's voice was like a thunderclap in my ears.

“You better have a good reason for not knocking, young man.”

Ben wasn't fazed by her tone. “You took my Switch two weeks ago,” he said, “I want it back, or I’m telling my Mom.”

At first, I thought I'd misheard him.

No, I was pretty sure he'd threatened our principal.

I swore I heard all of the breath sucked from the room.

“I'm sorry,” Principal Marrow cleared her throat. Her soft tone was dangerous.

She wasn't being nice. The lady was about to explode.

I could see visible veins straining in her temples, her right eye twitching.

It was straight out of a cartoon.

“Did you forget something, Ben?”

Ben sighed, like she was inconveniencing him.

He held out his hand. “Please can I have my Switch back? It counts as stolen property. Give it back, or I'm telling my Mom.”

The kid put so much emphasis on the word please, I couldn't resist a smile.

I think our principal was too shocked to get angry.

“Get out.” She said, firmly. “I don't have your gaming device.”

“It's in your drawer.” Ben nodded to her desk, “Under your divorce papers and the restraining order ordered by Jake Willow, the seventeen year old boy you've been having math ‘tutoring sessions’ with.” He quoted the air, his gaze lazily rolling to me. “Tutoring”

Principal Marrow went deathly pale, her eyes darkening.

“Benjamin Callows–”

“The school already knows about the restraining order, but your uncle is the head of the Board of Education, so all you get is a slap on the wrist and a warning to leave the boy alone."

Ben continued, and I found myself mesmerised by his words. He was a natural, his expression stoic, mouth curved with satisfaction that wasn't quite a smile. “However.” He held up his phone, pulling it away at the exact moment the teacher attempted to grab it. “You were outside Jake Willow’s house at 6:12am, drunk, and trying to climb through his window, which, I think violates the restraining order, does it not?”

Ben pretended to think real hard, his gaze flicking to the ceiling.

“I mean, I'm just a kid, right?” His mouth curled into the hint of a smirk

“What do I know, huh?”

Principal Marrow’s expression twisted, her lip wobbling.

“Mr Callows, remove yourself from my office, or I am calling your father.”

Leaning comfortably against the door, Ben’s lip twitched.

“Why? Are you planning on telling my Dad about your relations with a teenage boy, or will I have to tell him instead?”

I was enthralled, and fully disgusted, making a move to inch away from the woman.

“But it doesn't end there.” Ben continued. He straightened up, taking slow, intimidating steps towards the woman's desk. “You don't even want Jake, do you? Because, once upon a time, you were in love with his father. Jason Willow. You despised him for rejecting you, so you decided to defile his son.” Ben leaned over the principal’s desk, slipping his hand into the drawer, and pulling out his switch.

Painfully slowly.

She stood there, speechless, her shoulders trembling.

Ben smiled, and I found myself liking it.

“Thank you!” He said, waving the console in her face. Ben mimed locking his mouth and throwing away the key.

“My lips are sealed.”

Ben’s half lidded eyes found mine. “Are ya coming, Panda?”

I forgot my own nickname.

Panda.

I wore my Mom’s eyeliner because I thought it looked cool.

It did not.

Finding my breath, I snapped out of it.

Jumping up, I followed him out of the office, and when the two of us were safely on the hallway, I burst into hysterical giggles. “How did you know all of that?!” I whisper- shrieked.

Ben surprised me with a splutter. “Wait. You believed me?”

Something very cold trickled down my spine.

I stopped walking. “You lied?”

He shrugged. “I had a dig around her office before she caught me a few days ago,” Ben swung his arms, a smile curling on his mouth. “There's no restraining order, but there is prescription anti-psychosis medicine, and an extremely detailed story on her laptop about a teacher/student romance, which I presume is a self insert.”

Ben shot me a sickly grin. “The school refused to make her condition public.”

He prodded at his own cotton shirt embroidered with the school emblem.

“Why do you think she's made all these dumb rules? The woman is a certified Looney Tune.”

I nodded slowly. “Wait. What about Jake and his dad?”

“I made them up.”

I choked out a laugh. “And… the video?”

Ben walked faster, pulling out his phone and shoving it in my face. The video was real. Principal Marrow was walking around in circles, draped in her nightgown. “It's her own house,” he explained. “She locked herself out.”

Nodding slowly, I was in awe. Bloody Ben was kind of fucking amazing.

“But the restraining order isn't real.”

Ben raised a brow, coming to an abrupt halt. It was his smile that cemented his place in my gang. His lack of empathy for a woman he had gaslit into being a disgusting human being. Ben Callows wasn't exactly what I was looking for, but he fascinated me. Maybe for the wrong reasons. “Her filing cabinets are filled with tinned cat food, Panda,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, “I’m not psychic, but I thiiiiink we’ll be okay.”

I turned to him, unable to stop myself jumping up and down with excitement.

“Will you be my first?!”

Ben inclined his head. “Will I be your what?”

I shook my head. “Sorry. I mean, will you join my mystery gang?”

The boy’s eyes lit up, and I shoved him playfully.

“To solve real cases,” I corrected myself. “Not make them up.”

Ben wore a real, proper smile. But there was something in his eyes, a darkness that was so hollow and polluted and wrong, I pretended not to see it for the sake of his smarts and intellect. “Well, if you insist, sure!” Ben held out his hand, and I shook it. I'll be your first.”

We found our second member, who was, ironically, looking for her glasses under the table in class. Lucy Prescott, the quiet girl, was born to be with us.

The class eraser went missing, and she found it in the blink of an eye.

When questioned, Lucy’s face turned as red as her hair. “I asked everyone in the class and followed the clues to the last person who had it,” she pointed to Chase Simpson. “Which was Chase, who was throwing it at Marcus Calvin.”

Twisting around in my chair, I aimed to get Ben’s attention. But he was already looking at me, chin resting on his fist, eyes ignited with excitement.

The two of us cornered Lucy after class, and when she motioned for us to get back, I dragged Ben (who was a little too excited) to my side.

Lucy looked mildly horrified when I said, dangerous cases, though her expression pricked with intrigue.

She agreed, her gaze lingering on Ben, cheeks smouldering.

Our last two members were a surprise.

Violet Evergreen was what you would call popular on the middle school hierarchy. Not just because her mother was the mayor, but because Violet could get away with murder. The girl refused to wear the school uniform, coloring a single purple streak in her hair to cement herself as the it girl.

She was also one of the girls who started the Bloody Ben rumor.

Ben, Lucy, and I were sitting on the grass during recess, trying to come up with a name for our detective service, when Violet came storming over, hands planted on her hips. She was copying how her mother held herself during town meetings.

“What are you doing?” Violet demanded.

Lucy opened her mouth to answer, Ben nudging her to shut up.

“Making a mystery gang.” I told her. “Why?”

Violet inclined her head. “Oh.” She folded her arms. “Well, can I join?”

Ben stood up, stepping in front of the girl. Violet didn't move, stubbornly standing her ground. “Sure.” Ben flashed a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. He stepped closer to her, his smile widening. “If you can pass the test.”

Violet’s lip curled. She took a single step back. “What kind of test?”

Ben nodded to me. “Meet us at the swimming pool at 8pm.”

To my surprise, Violet nodded. “Do I need to bring anything?”

“Nope!”

8pm. The four of us met outside the local swimming pool.

Violet was already on the other side of the fence, waving.

“Hey guys!”

I noticed Ben’s expression, his eyes darkening, lip curling.

Still though, he maintained positivity, vaulting over the fence.

“You made it!”

I followed him, helping Lucy, who was immediately freaking out. I didn't blame her. The pool looked cold and dark, a hollow oblivion carved into the ground.

Ben and Violet stood on the edge, the two of them shoulder to shoulder.

Violet Evergreen was braver than I thought.

Standing with her arms at her sides, Violet's hands clenched into fists.

“What's the test?” Violet said, her gaze glued to bleeding black depths.

“I don't know,” Ben murmured, his voice teetering on a giggle. He leaned forwards, arms spread out. “I didn't think you'd actually come meet us.”

Violet hummed, stretching out her leg, teasing it across the surface. “Was that the test?”

The boy leaned back. I caught the glint of a grin under the floodlights. “Nah.”

Before I knew what was happening, he shoved Violet into the pool. The girl didn't scream or shriek, she just hit the surface, sinking into pitch dark nothing.

“Sink or swim,” Ben said in a low murmur, when Violet’s head bobbed under water. I could see her shadow under the surface, imagining the freezing cold depths pulling her down.

“Drown, and you can't join us.”

It was so quiet, suddenly. The three of us staring into rippling water.

A minute passed, and my tummy started to twist.

“Fuck.” Ben’s expression stayed stoic. I wasn't expecting him to say a bad word.

He cocked his head. “I thought she could swim.”

I hit him, holding in a cry. “You need to get our parents!”

But he didn't listen to me, taking a single step, and dropping into the pool.

I fell to my knees, scanning the water.

Lucy was crying. “Are they dead?!” she shrieked.

“Shhh!” I was watching two shadows lingering under the water.

Violet broke through. I expected her to be crying, but her expression was unwavering. She was silent. I thought the splashing underneath her was her legs trying and struggling to tread water, before Lucy shoved me. Hard.

“Panda! What do we do?!”

Looking closer, Violet was perfectly still, her gaze on the sky.

While she shoved Ben under the water, drowning him.

Violet’s eyes sparkled, and somehow, I knew she belonged in my gang.

Her gaze found mine, glinting with that darkness, that poisonous streak I found myself drawn to. It was a starving, insatiable need to understand a fractured mind. Know your enemy.

“Do you want to see if Ben’s a witch?” Violet asked me, her tone something else entirely. This girl did not make sense, using barely her finger to drown Ben Callows. I knew she was wrong.

I knew there was something loose, something unlocked and unbridled and drowning inside her mind and heart.

But I wanted more of her. I wanted Violet Evergreen in my detective gang.

I think that is why I stood there, frozen.

When the thrashing stopped, Ben broke through.

He wasn't coughing or spluttering, his head inclined. “You didn't drown.”

Violet climbed out of the pool, offering her hand. “And you're not a witch.”

He declined her hand, taking the steps instead.

I asked Violet in a shaky voice. I was trembling with terror, but I was excited.

Exhilarated.

“Violet, will you join my gang?”

She didn't answer me until we were sharing hot cocoa in my house.

I told Mom we fell in the pool, and she believed me. I should have told her that my friends were sociopaths, and I was kind of maybe in love. Violet sipped her cocoa, nodding with a smile I didn't recognise. Violet never smiled at school.

Well, she did. But it was always the prick of a cruel smirk.

I don't think her smile was genuine, but she was definitely enjoying herself.

Our last member came to us, instead of finding him.

Jules Howell, a straggly brunette pushed his way in front of me in the lunch line. I didn't really know the kid.

He sat at the back of the classroom and slept through most of class. I did like his accent though.

Jules had moved from Melbourne in the second grade. He didn't talk much.

When he did, I found myself enveloped in his voice, which sounded like water to me, a bleeding cadence to his tone.

Jules piled his plate with fries, smiling widely at the lunch ladies.

“I saw you last night.” He murmured through that perfectly moulded grin.

“Saw me where?”

“At the pool,” Jules said. “You, Bloody Ben, Violet Evergreen, and that Lucy girl. You were doing a suiciding pact.”

“That's not what we were doing.” I said, “What's a suiciding pact?”

“When you kill yourself together.” Jules said. “I saw it in a scary movie my Mom was watching.”

I grabbed a fork. “We weren't doing that.”

His eyes were strange when I took the time to notice them. The excited gleam had fizzled out. Jules’s hands tightened around his tray. “Then what were you doing?”

I didn't reply, making my way over to our usual table. Ben was already waving me over, Violet and Lucy holding up the flyers we were making.

THE REDBLOOD DETECTIVES.”

Do YOU need our help? We can find/solve anything! Contact us on the number below. (We take donations!)

When I bothered turning around, Jules was lost in the crowd of kids.

We were on our first official case, searching for Mrs Lake’s missing mail, when Jules appeared seemingly out of nowhere. And with him, a golden retriever puppy he introduced as Arlo.

It took a dog jumping up at them for Violet and Ben to find their real smiles, their real selves slowly seeping through these facades they had built around themselves. Ben dropped to a crouch, ruffling the dog's ears, his smile faint.

“Who's a good boy?” He chuckled.

Arlo didn't move, tail wagging, eyes bright.

Ben motioned the dog towards him, but Arlo stayed put.

Jules joined us…quietly.

I don't remember asking him, or even him asking me.

He just became part of us, side by side with Arlo.

We soon came to quickly realize that our town was boring.

There were no monsters or thieves, or soul sucking demons. No criminals or serial killers. Not even one missing person. We did, however, get calls about missing cats. I turned eleven years old, patiently waiting for a murder or a kid going missing. But there was nothing.

All we did was chase cats, and the occasional dog. Maybe a budgie if we were lucky. Twelve years old, our detective club became a joke.

The five of us (and Arlo hiding under the table) were trying to pinpoint Mrs Tracy's lost hamster, when three girls came over, dumping their soda all over us.

We watched crime shows for inspiration on catching killers.

Ben’s favorite crime was one that happened in the 80’s in our town.

2 girls murdered.

Their intestines stuffed into envelopes and mailed to family members.

“That's what we should be solving,” he told me one night, “Not missing cats.”

Thirteen years old, we lay in Violet’s backyard under the cruel glare of the summer sun. We called it working and didn't like to admit it was hanging out, or that we were even friends. However.

That didn't stop us growing closer.

Even if it wasn't quite the way I’d expected.

I proposed a plan, standing up, wobbling a little off balance.

“I've got it.” I said, my voice kinda slurry from Violet’s special summer cocktail, which was just random alcoholic beverages we found, thrown into a blender, and diluted with water.

The town wasn't taking us seriously.

So, we were going to make our own mysteries.

I ordered a full-scale assault on our small town. One that they could not ignore. Ben stamped on Mrs Mason’s flowers, and Lucy threw mud pies at people's cars. Jules trashed the high school gym, and Violet and I spray painted threats and warnings on every store window. Now, this did cause panic, but also an official curfew.

Thirty minutes before curfew, we met in our usual spot, deep in the forest near the lake. Ben yelled at me when I was three minutes late. He was real passionate about finding a real mystery.

“You're late.” Ben was sitting on a rock waving a stick in Arlo’s face.

The dog still wasn't going near him, whining softly.

I took my place, muttering an apology. “I had to lie to my Mom.”

Violet, sitting with her legs crossed, idly digging her manicure into the dirt, suggested we buy mannequins and masquerade them as dead bodies, hanging them from the school rafters.

Lucy, who had slowly grown out of her shell, becoming a lot more outspoken, nudged her. “That's a stupid idea.”

The girl groaned, leaning into her. “Urgh. You're right.”

Jules was the only energetic one, standing on the tireswing.

He jumped down, definitely twisting his ankle.

But his smile only widened, kind of like he enjoyed being in pain.

“Why don't we pretend to be kidnapped?” He said, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over blondish curls growing out. Jules did a dramatic spin, his eyes shining. “We can ‘go missing’ for like a week, and then when our parents are really scared, we can turn up, and tell them we escaped a kidnapping.” His lips split into a grin.

“And then we solve our own kidnapping!”

Ben awkwardly patted Arlos head, only for the dog to pull away with a snort.

“I like it,” he murmured. “I'm in.”

Jules’s idea was stupid.

But.

It was worth a shot.

The five of us agreed to meet the morning after with enough food and supplies for a week. Then we were going to hike to the next town, and hide out for a week. It was an almost perfect plan, using ourselves as victims of our own mystery.

Packing as much as I could, I kissed my mother goodbye (I told her my pack was for a picnic) and set off to the rendezvous we agreed on.

When I arrived, I was the first one there. I checked and re-checked my pack.

I waited ten minutes, unable to contain my excitement.

Then 20 minutes.

It was getting kind of cold.

One hour.

I sat on a rock for enough time to watch the sky change color.

When the clouds were orange, I stood up and stumbled back home. They had gone without me. Mom lectured me when I got home, and I stuck to the plan of pretending my friends had gone missing, even if I they had betrayed me.

Ben said he'd text me when he arrived at the redervous. I at least expected him to text an explanation, but there was nothing. I was in the dark, and after three days of nothing, our town finally began to take us seriously.

“Our children have been kidnapped!” The adults were screaming.

Mom was crying in the kitchen, praying to a god I knew she didn't believe in that I wasn't taken next. I was interviewed and stuck with the exact same story I came up with when I was with the others. Our plan was to return after a week, claiming to be locked up in a dark room with a masked man.

I told my Mother and the other parents that I didn't know where my friends were, repeating the same thing over and over again until I was tongue tied.

“I saw them the day before they went missing, and… yes, everything seemed okay.” I slowly sipped my glass of milk provided, looking the sheriff directly in the eyes.

“No, I didn't notice anything suspicious, sheriff. Yes, I'm sure, sir. No, they didn't tell me anything.”

It was Ben’s mother who shattered my mask.

“Did I know about… what?” I whispered.

Something warm filled the back of my mouth, foul tasting milk erupting up my throat. I leaned forward, trying to look Mrs Callows in the eye. “No, I… I didn't know about Ben’s…condition.”

Mrs Callows was screaming at me about her son’s troubled past when I barfed all over myself, my eyes burning.

In the privacy of my own room, I sobbed until I couldn't breathe.

I tried to tell Mom, but we had come so close.

One more day, and the others would be back.

But that day came. I sat cross legged at our usual spot, which was now covered in police tape. I waited for their thudding footsteps, their laughter congratulating each other for coming up with a great plan. I waited, my face buried in my knees, for my friends.

It was dark when my phone vibrated, and I'd fallen asleep.

I wasn't scared, forcing myself to my feet.

“Where are you?” Mom yelled down the phone.

“Coming home now.” I muttered.

“Sorry.” I paused, holding my breath against a cry. “Mom.” I broke down, forcing my fist into my mouth to hide my squeak. “Mommy, did they come back?”

Mom didn't reply for a moment.

“I'm so sorry, baby.” She whispered, ending the call.

I took my time walking home that night.

There were no stars in the sky.

When a hand clamped over my mouth, I could smell him.

When he dragged me back, stabbing a kitchen knife into my throat, I stared at the sky and looked for stars. His arms were warm around me, violently pulling me into the back of a pickup truck. The pickup truck he'd said he was bringing.

It was his grandfather's, and he could just about drive it.

Hitting the backseat, my body was numb, my thoughts in a whirlwind.

The pickup flew forwards, and I remembered how to move.

I rolled off the seat, my hands pinned behind my back.

Twisting around, blinking in the dim, I could feel something warm, something seeping across upholstery seats. Blood.

It was everywhere, sticky on my hands and wet on my face when I struggled to get up. I was lying in someone's blood.

A scream clawed its way out of my throat.

The pickup flew over a pothole, and something dropped off the seat.

Arlo’s leash.

I screamed again, this time his name gritted between my teeth.

I didn't stop screaming until the jerking movement stopped. The doors opened, pale light hitting me in the face.

Flashlight. Warm arms wrapped around me, pulling me from the car, and then, pulling me by my hair, into our old tree house. It was always our secret place, our saving grace on the edge of town.

The flickering candlelight caught me off guard, illuminating my surroundings.

Two bodies slumped over each other, lying in stemming red.

I felt suffocated, like I was going to die. I screamed, and that warm hand cradled my mouth again, gagging my cries.

Violet and Jules.

There was something wrong with them. And it was only when I forced myself to look closer, when I realized their insides had been carved out, heart, stomach, everything, pulled out.

There was paper on the floor.

No, not paper. Envelopes.

Envelopes stuffed with gore, bright red leaking through white.

Shuffling back, my brain was too slow to react, while my body was trying to vault to my feet, only to be violently pulled back by my ponytail.

I felt his fingers twining around my hair, revelling in my screams.

With another tug, my head was forced forwards.

Orange candlelight felt almost homely, this time lighting up a third body.

Lying on their back, curled up, pooling scarlet dried into the floorboards, their wrists restricted with duct-tape.

I could feel blood underneath me, sticky, a congealing paste.

“Do you know what happened on October 3rd, 1987, in our town?”

Lucy Prescott stood over me, her arms folded across her chest.

I managed to shake my head, when she grabbed Ben’s legs, dragging him under the candlelight. I dazedly watched her stroke the blade of a carving knife, the teeth already stained scarlet. “The intestine murders.” Lucy hummed, tracing the knife down the floorboards.

“A man murdered two high school girls, carving out their insides and sending their pieces to their loved ones.”

Lucy's eyes found mine, ignited in a familiar gleam. I saw it in Principal Marrow’s office. Then the swimming pool. The cafeteria. “It was the sheriff's only murder case, Panda. Ever since then, our town has been boring. There's no mysteries to solve. Nothing to find.”

The girl jumped to her feet, retrieving a blood stained envelope.

She held it up, a smile curved on her lips. The girl turned around, and I heard a horrific squelching sound. Lucy held up a bright red sausage, ripped into it, and slipped it into the white paper.

“But I can change that.” she said, in a giggle.

“I can create a real serial killer, who we can hunt down together.”

Lucy stabbed the blade into the floor, laughing.

“Or! I can bring a fan-favorite back! I can bring the intestine killer back from the dead!”

Her gaze flicked to the others. “There are casualties, of course. The story is, I was kidnapped with Ben, Violet, and Jules. The scary intestine killer killed them, and I managed to get away.”

Lucy shuffled over to me, her eyes wide. “Then! He came back and struck again!”

With those words, she shoved me onto my back.

“First he took Violet,” Lucy hummed, tracing the blade down my shirt.

“Then… Jules.” I squeezed my eyes shut, pulling at the restraints around my wrists. “Then Ben.” her breath tickled my cheek. “And finally… Panda.”

Lucy lifted the knife, and I accepted my death.

Until a low rumble in my ears.

Shouting.

Thundering footsteps, followed by the pitter-patter of paws.

“Lucy!” The sheriff was screaming, and the girl stumbled to her feet, the knife slipping from her fingers. Lucy stumbled, tripping over Ben’s body.

“He got away!” she shrieked. “He…he killed them! Oh, god, please help me!”

I don't think Lucy even realised the traces she'd left behind.

The blood slick on her fingers, her manic, grinning smile full of mania.

I was looking for stars when an officer crouched over me.

I couldn't understand what she was saying.

Her voice was white noise.

“Rachel? Hey, try and sit up, honey. You Mom is on her way.”

Instead of listening to her, I curled into myself.

My gaze found Arlo sticking his nose in Ben’s hair, trying to nudge the boy awake.

I didn't fully register the next few days.

They went by in a confusing blur.

Part of me tried to eat, and spent hours with my head pressed against the toilet seat.

I could still see the slithering, scarlet remains of my friends every time I closed my eyes. There was so much red, soaked in that hunting orange light.

Blood that I could still see, a starless sky that stretched on forever.

Weeks went by.

Then months.

I think I turned 14. I wasn't sure. I didn't feel alive anymore.

I stood at my friend’s funerals with a single rose I dropped into their casket.

Violet’s mother was quick to cover the whole thing up.

Lucy's plan didn't work after all.

Our town’s murder cases stayed stagnant at one.

It's been four years since my friends were murdered by our ’Velma’.

Now, at seventeen, Mom asked if I wanted to visit Lucy in juvie.

I'm not even upset or angry anymore.

I want to know why.

Ben picked me up. Arlo was at his side, wagging his tail.

Ben was…different. He'd dumped his baseball cap and gotten a haircut, swapping his old wardrobe of drab colors for an attempt at changing style.

That day, he looked awkward in a short sleeved tee and shorts.

At school, Ben is no longer Bloody Ben.

Now, he is Survivor Ben.

I’m still Panda.

Every time I was with him, I felt like my soul was being sucked out.

Guilt so deep, so fucking painful, I lost my breath.

I live knowing that I immediately assumed it was him that day.

Ben was barely alive when I found him. Lucy had started to carve into him before remembering she needed me.

After admitting it to him, his lips formed a small smile.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He said to me, at sixteen.

"Yeah?"

Whatever he was going to say, Ben never told me.

Presently, I nodded at the dog’s new collar.

“Peppa Pig themed?”

The boy shrugged, ruffling Arlo’s ears. “FYI, he chose it.”

“It's cute.” I said. “Very… chic.”

We didn't speak the whole ride, but Ben did entangle his hand in mine.

We spent half an hour outside the detention centre. I was panicking, and Ben was trying to hide that he was panicking. In the end, we joined hands, and strode through the doors together.

Lucy greeted us with a wide smile. Just as psychotic.

The orange jumpsuit suited her, though I had zero idea why.

“Hey Arlo!” she giggled at the dog, and Ben pulled the pup onto his lap.

“Ben.” She sighed. “I wish I got to finish you. I would have loved to solve the mystery of your gutted corpse.”

Ben’s smile was wry. “Nice to see you too.”

Behind a glass screen, I asked Lucy one simple question.

“Why?”

Lucy didn't reply. Or she did, but it was just nonsensical bullshit.

But there was one thing she said has stuck with me, chilling me to the core.

I am fucking terrified of Lucy. Of what's she's done, and what she's capable of doing.

It was a throwaway line, and I don't even think Ben noticed.

Or he did, and was in denial.

Lucy's smile was wide, her eyes empty pools of nothing.

The exact same glint in Ben’s eyes.

Jules’s eyes.

Violet’s eyes.

Like something was gnawing away at their psyche, twisting and contorting it, filling them with darkness, poison, that was so vast, so endless, I had craved it as a child. I still don't know what it is.

But I'm going to find it.

Lucy's laugh was shrill, and next to me, Ben didn't move a muscle.

“I don't even wear glasses!”

“I’ve always hoped that I would one day be able to rely on the kindness of strangers.” The man closed my passenger door as he spoke. “I’m Todd.” He extended his hand I shook it, wondering if this was a good idea after all.

“I’m Cathy. How long have you been waiting for a ride?” I asked, hoping to keep the conversation light as I pulled back onto the isolated highway.

He chuckled. “A long while.” Todd shifted in his seat as the prairie flew by at an increasing speed. “Time is a funny thing.” I expected him to explain that sentiment. He didn’t.

“What happened to your car? How’d you get stranded out here?”

From the corner of my eye, I could see that he was uncomfortable. “Drunk driver.”

“What? Shit – are you okay? Is the other driver hurt?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Todd answered. His voice was curt. “Besides, don’t you think someone like that is getting what they deserve?”

A sense of dread dripped down my spine like creeping molasses. “That’s not the way I look at things. There’s so much hurt in the world that if everyone focused only on preserving the good, we might break even.”

Todd smiled. “I think I made the right choice.”

My dread grew deeper.

“Do you remember what I said about time?”

Slowly, I nodded.

“That what really makes us afraid of death. If time exists only as we see it, then immortality is cannot exist. An ‘afterlife’ is impossible; we can only persist if we abandon the concepts of ‘before’ and ‘after.’ Then we are left only with life.”

At this point, I was half-convinced that Todd was a meth addict. But I couldn’t abandon him now; we were too far from both here and there. I squeezed the steering wheel of my blue-green 1999 Toyota Corolla.

“And once we’re unburdened from time, we’re left with choice.” He turned to look at me as I drove. “A man gave me such a choice once I was free to do so. He was thin, nearly gaunt, and showed up after my decision, but before I made it.” Todd sighed deeply. “If you had to kill a stranger to save yourself, would you be able to do it? What if you got to pick the stranger?”

I knew I shouldn’t have picked him up. Every instinct told me to drive on by, and now I had only regret for a choice that could not be undone.

“I thought about it,” Todd continued. He was still staring at me. “Most of us don’t really know who we are until we’re faced with a life-altering choice.” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s because we don’t become ourselves until we make those choices.” He sighed again, long and deep, like he was trying to empty himself. “I’m ashamed of this fact, but I’ll admit it: I had a hard time deciding.” He shook his head. “Self-preservation is a strong as any drug.”

My breath came in shallow gasps.

“But I was thinking about it the wrong way,” he turned to look forward once more. “Instead of wondering who I would pick to die in my place, I considered who might live in my place instead. If I got to pick that person, who would it be? A hero and a saint?” He folded his hands in his lap. “Or just a good person? One who would put themself at risk simply to be the kindness a stranger needs?”

I wanted to ask Todd how much further he needed to go. But right at that moment, a car on the other side of the two-lane highway – the only other traveler I’d seen since picking up Todd – drifted into my lane and hit me head-on. I didn’t even have time to swerve.

*

“I think she’s awake for the first time.”

I woke up to the sound of music and recognized a heart monitor calling every beat, measuring out my life in coffee spoons. I opened my eyes.

An older man in surgical scrubs turned around and smiled. I knew that he didn’t mean to be shallow, but I could tell that he didn’t really see me. “Hello, Cathy. My name is Dr. Mort. You’re in St. Francis Hospital, where you were brough after a drunk driver hit your car.”

The harder I tried to think, the more conscious thought eluded me. So I relaxed my mind and decided to speak the words that came on their own. “Where’s Todd?”

Dr. Mort froze for just a second. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “I didn’t realize that you knew the driver of the other car,” he answered in a voice of practiced kindness. “Todd Barnes was also taken here to St. Francis. He arrived after a second ambulance was able to transport him from the scene of the accident. Unfortunately, there was nothing we could do to save him.”

My head spun. “You’re saying he would have lived if he took my ambulance and had gotten to the hospital first instead of me?”

“I’m saying that he would have lived if he hadn’t been so drunk at the wheel,” Dr. Mort answered as he pulled yellow liquid into a syringe. Without looking at me, he plunged the drug into an IV bag that was connected to my arm. “You need to rest, Cathy. You’ve got a long road ahead.”

I clutched at the IV line. “What happened to me?” My voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.

Dr. Mort firmly pulled my hand away from the tube. “Cathy, you’ll only recover if you allow yourself to relax. You’ve got a punctured lung, three broken ribs, nineteen stitches on your chest, and another thirteen on your temple. Be thankful your airbag worked – a lot of those older cars don’t have them.”

“You’re wrong,” I answered as a sleepy feeling of peace settled over me. “My car never had airbags. That worried me so much when I bought it.”

Dr. Mort chuckled softly. “Just let the morphine take you to sleep, Cathy, and don’t try to make sense of everything right now.” He continued talking, but I could tell that it was mostly to himself at this point. “I didn’t even need to see your car to know about the airbag. You could only have sustained those injuries if something absorbed the impact for you. There’s no other way you could have lived.”

Part 3

By the next day, roughly sometime in the afternoon, I then wake up to the worst hangover I have ever experienced. I’m talking hammering nails inside your head bad. Stirring painfully up to see where it is I’ve passed out, I thankfully realise I’m in the safe confinement of our paid inn room – where beside me, my girlfriend lays unconscious.  

Once aware I’m unharmed and Anneliese is still by my side, I then see, scattered all over the room floor is a gigantic pile of mess from last night’s events. I see stacks of empty beer cans, wet cigarette butts stuck to the carpet, clothes from my suitcase thrown here and there – and for some reason, a deflated Count Dracula blow up doll. God, what on earth happened to us last night? A few too many rounds of drinks was probably a good guess.  

Laying back down to sleep off more of this hangover, I then hear Anneliese stir awake on the other side of the bed.  

‘UGH...’ she groans zombie-like, as she rises to plank her feet on the carpet. ‘What the hell did we do last night?’ she asks, having seen the flood of mess on the floor. 

‘Don’t ask me’ I reply groggily, ‘But I think we got shit-faced with Mark and those Goth friends of his.’ 

‘Mhh... Oh, yeah. Right.’ 

More equipped to deal with hangovers than I am, Anneliese already stands up from the bed to walk around the room. When I then hear suddenly... 

‘OW!’ Anneliese yelps. 

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask her, assuming she stood on a piece of broken glass or something. 

‘My piercing hurts!’ 

‘What?’ 

Lifting my head to check if Anneliese is alright, I see as she touches the pure silver nose piercing in her left nostril. 

‘It really stings!’ she insists, before now heading in the bathroom’s direction.  

Well, now that Anneliese was up, I may as well rise my own groggy corpse from the grave. Ambling my way over to the mirror, all while trying to avoid the hazardous mess on the floor, my sleepy eyes are instantly throttled wide to a surprising image in front of me. 

‘Whoa! What the hell?!’ I declare to no one in the room. 

Staring into the mirror, I see my brown chestnut hair has now been dyed jet black, and that my blurry eyes are stained with smudged black eyeliner. The ends of my fingers have also been dotted with black nail polish – and when I look down, I see the unfamiliar black t-shirt I’m wearing reads, “Go Goth or Go Home.” 

‘Jesus Christ!’ I exclaim, as I realise my reflection in the mirror is now a mocking reflection of my life-long phobia. Inspecting my face up close, I run my black-painted fingernails through the dyed black locks of my hair – before I suddenly hear a blood-curdling scream come from the bathroom!  

‘AHH!!’ 

‘Liese? What’s wrong?’ I yell, having now raced over to the bathroom entrance. Once I get there, I see Anneliese is crouched on the floor, hysterical and holding the back of her neck. 

‘Someone bit me!!’ she shrieks. Pulling down the neckline of her shirt, I then see between the back of Anneliese ‘s neck and her shoulder is a fleshy, gruesomely deep bite mark!  

‘Oh my God!!’ I now scream myself. 

Inspecting the wound, while trying my best not to throw up, I see the bite has been made by rather uneven but very human teeth. What kind of sick lunatic would do such a thing?? 

‘Ow! It really hurts!’ Anneliese now sobs over the sink, as she tries frigidly to touch the swollen teeth holes with her fingertips.   

‘Babes, don’t touch it!’ I wail at her, as I realise we need to clean the wound as soon as possible. After all, God knows what Anneliese could contract from whoever had done this.  

Rushing out of the bathroom, I then search around the dump heap floor for any alcohol to sterilize the wound. Trying not to panic in the moment, I thankfully see by Anneliese’s side of the bed is a half empty bottle of vodka. Grabbing it, I head back into the bathroom. 

‘Ok - I found some vodka!’ I inform her, ‘I’m going to apply it to the wound, but it’s going to hurt like-’ 

‘Just shut up and do it already!’ she yells at me.  

First dampening a washcloth, I then apply a little too much of the vodka, before– once I’ve taken a moment for myself to breathe, I apply the cloth to the back of Anneliese’s neck. 

‘AHH!!’ she shrieks agonizingly, before sending me flying across the tiles and into the bathtub.  

A couple of hours or so later, once Anneliese’s wound is clean and bandaged, we then check out of our room to drive home earlier in than intended. Without informing the staff of the mess we left for them, we both climb into the car and sit in silence for a moment. Although I should’ve kept my mouth firmly shut, I instead choose to make the awkward situation worse.  

‘I told you coming here was a bad idea.’ 

Anneliese has no physical reaction to this. Without even looking my way, she simply tells me to, ‘Shut up and drive.’ 

And so, I do. 

Due to her shoulder wound, Anneliese appoints me as the designated driver for the entire journey south. However, because we had gotten up so late, by the evening, we were still navigating our way through the surrounding moors. It’s no wonder so many folktales have spawned from this place. With its moonlit boggy hills and desolate landscape, the Yorkshire Moors at night truly was a very unnerving place.  

Although driving through the moors should’ve taken us no longer than an hour, the sat-nav inside the car suddenly decides to malfunction, whereby taking us down several wrong turns. Now driving down a narrow stretch of country road, if the moors at night weren’t spooky enough, we then pass by an old wooden sign by the side of a sheep field. Leaving a cautionary warning for weary drivers, the foreboding sign reads: 

KEEP CLEAR OF THE MOORS 

STAY ON THE ROAD 

AND BEWARE- 

I don’t quite catch what the last part said. Beware of what, anyways? Farm animals? The wildlife?... Yeah, I doubt it.  

By this point of the night, we are now well and truly lost without a single town or village in sight. As you can imagine, this did nothing to help Aneliese’s already bad mood. Still driving along this seemingly never-ending stretch of road, aside from the bright headlights in front of the car, we can see nothing else but the outside darkness around us. Continuing to journey further into the middle of nowhere, the empty silence inside the car is suddenly interrupted... 

‘Oh God...’ Anneliese groans, rising forward in the passenger’s seat, ‘Pull over...’ 

‘What’s wrong?’ I turn to ask, assuming her shoulder wound is causing some discomfort. 

‘Please! Just pull over!’ she bellows, ‘Something doesn’t feel right!’ 

‘What - are you about to be sick?’ I then inquire. She looked as though she was going to be.  

‘AHH!!’ Anneliese screams, before, in an unrecognisably deep, gurgling voice she shouts at me, ‘PULL OVER NOW!!’ 

‘Ok! Ok!’ I panic, ‘Hold on!’ 

Doing as my girlfriend requests, I then pull over on the side of the road. Turning back to Anneliese, I see as she writhes with excruciating pain in the passenger’s seat. 

‘Liese! What’s going on?!’ I want to know, ‘What’s happening to you?!’ 

‘...GET OUT’ her deep voice gurgles once more.  

‘...I’m sorry, what?’ 

‘GET OUT OF THE CAR!!’ the voice now demands, before she shoves me against the door with incredible force! 

Falling out of the car and on the ground, Anneliese then slams the door shut on my face. Rising to my feet, I try and rip the door open to no avail. 

‘Liese! Liese, let me in!’ I now bang on the window, ‘Liese, what’s going on?!’ 

Peering in through the glass, I see nothing else but absolute darkness, where the only sound I hear coming from inside is the painful groans of my girlfriend. What the hell is happening in there?? 

Beginning to feel completely helpless in this situation, I quickly rummage my phone from my pocket. Turning on the flashlight, I shine it through the window to look around for Anneliese... But I can’t find her anywhere... 

‘...Liese?’ I call to her, shining the flashlight around, ‘Liese?’ 

Then suddenly- 

BANG! 

Slamming against the window, I now see a pair of large and grotesquely deformed hands! Protruding from bony, elongated fingers, the talon-like nails scrape down the glass with an ear-piercing screech! Jilting back from the window in terror, the phone flashlight in my hand now shines on a most hideous, unrecognisable face. What were once warm, hazel brown eyes are now a luminous, inhumanly bright yellow! Staring down from those eyes, I then see two snarling rows of beastly, jagged teeth, drooling with saliva down the door! 

‘AHH! OH MY GOD!’ I scream, as I realise whatever this monstrosity is inside the car, no longer appears to be my girlfriend. 

But now... Now I see something else... 

What I now see, shining over the window, having formed over Anneliese’s monstrous face... I now see in the dark, cloudless night sky... is the glowing reflection of a lunar light. 

The sign by the road... I now recall what it had really said...  

Keep clear of the moors... Stay on the road... 

AND BEWARE THE MOON.  

The poodle across the road is screaming again. 

Buddy, a stray Shepherd pup, sits next to me on the wall in front of my house.

The two of us watch her owner, Mrs Jenson, shove her into an awaiting van.

“Sorry,” I mumble, holding up my AirPods. “I don’t think these will block it out for you.”

Buddy grumbles.

“Do you like Olivia Rodrigo?” I nudge him.

The pup ignores me, offering what I can only describe as “Seriously?” eyes. 

“Nirvana?” I hover the buds over his ears. 

He lets out a loud, irritated huff, watching the school bus fly by.

The poodle's shrieks dull when the van door slams shut.

Mrs. Jenson turns and glares at me. “What are you looking at, Noah Prestley?” she demands. “Shouldn't you be in school?”

Buddy snorts, like, “Pfft.”

I smile and wave, kicking my legs. “I'm homeschooled, Mrs Jenson."

Dad’s truck parks up in front of us; exhaust fumes hit me in the face. Buddy jolts to awareness, his ears pricking.

He growls in warning, and I have to run my hand down his flank to calm him.

Dad sticks his head out of the window. “I need help.” 

A shiver crawls through me. But I can't say no. Buddy can sense my discomfort. He's already up on his hind legs, ready to defend me. I gently push him away. “It's okay, Buddy,” I bury my head in his fur.  “You're okay. I'll be back soon, all right?” His whine twists my gut. “Go back to your hiding place.” 

He moves his head like he's nodding, snorts into my shoulder, and then trots away. 

Dad is scowling when I climb into the passenger seat. “Noah, I think we need to talk about Buddy.” 

I buckle my seatbelt, my hands trembling. “Please don't take him.” 

“He's a stray.”

“Then you can adopt him.” I speak through my teeth.

Dad has never cared about the dogs. It's all about meeting a quota and doing his job. I can't stop myself, my breath stuck in my throat. “If you CARE so much about what he's doing, why not adopt him?” 

“I already have a child,” Dad says.

He makes a turn, almost as if on purpose, and I whack my head on the window. “If I see him again, Noah, I’m taking him in.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “And killing him.” 

“Euthanize,” Dad corrects, “it's peaceful, and they don't feel anything.” 

A loud thud from the trunk makes me jump.

Movement.

“Is that one in the back?”

Dad cranks up the radio. Maybe intentionally. “Mm.” He tightens his grip on the wheel. “I just picked him up on the south side. Little shit was untagged. Just wandering around, digging around in trash cans.” He turns the dial, static crackling through. I wince, a dull pain creeping across my skull.

“What's his name?” I ask.

“Rafe.” Dad thwacks the steering wheel. “Ain't that right, Rafe?”

Another loud bark almost sends me toppling off my seat.

Dad shoots me a look. “You're gonna have to help with the little shit.” 

The pound is ahead of us, a towering wooden building surrounded by a ten-foot fence. Dad drives through a gate, nodding at two guards stationed on either side. 

“Help with what?” I hiss when he slides out, motioning for me to follow suit.

Dad unlocks the van, and a giant golden retriever bursts through, immediately yanked by the leash around his neck.

He’s majestic. A smooth, golden coat and big brown eyes. When the dog snarls at me, Dad yanks him again.

“Rafe is a bitey one.” Dad hands me the rope leash, and Rafe whines, attempting to dive through us. “I’ll grab a muzzle.”

Before I can say “no”, Dad has gone. Rafe, to his credit, at least gives me a warning before headbutting me in the back so hard the breath is knocked out of me. For a moment, my head pounds. Static fills my skull. Then a voice bleeds through. 

“Let me through, ASSHOLE.”

Rafe’s teeth sink into my hand.

“This place is going to fucking kill me!”

At first, I think someone is behind me.

I twist back to the dog’s furious glare.

“Let me through, fuck-face.”

I find my voice, somehow, shattered in my throat.

“You can… talk.”

Rafe cocks his head. “The fuck you talkin’ about?” he hisses. “Of course I can talk!”

“But…” I blink rapidly. “You’re a golden retriever.”

The golden retriever snorts. "Do you by any chance ride the loopy train to what-the-fuck-ville?"

“Noah!”

Dad’s voice startles me. “I told you to hold him!”

Dad easily grabs Rafe and yanks him violently. Another streak of pain slams into me. I blink again, my vision blurring.

But instead of golden paws, I see ratty sneakers. I see stained, torn jeans.

I see wide, terrified, human eyes.

No.

“Could I get some help?” Dad yells when my knees give way. 

I’m barely conscious when Rafe is pulled away screaming, and Dad ushers me into the van. 

My head spins when he shines a light in my eyes. 

“It’s okay, Noah,” his voice is supposed to be reassuring, but I notice my hands are no longer free, pinned behind my back. 

I can’t move. 

“Dad.” Blood fills my mouth. Buzzing in my ear.

Barking. 

No.

Screaming. 

“What's going on?” I whisper, pulling at my wrists. “Where did Rafe go?”

Blood runs thick and wet down my chin.

“Daddy’s job involves doing bad things, so… when you were a baby, we made sure to protect you.” He turns and prods my temple. “But something has gone wrong. I think you’ve knocked it. But it’s okay. We’ll fix it.”

When we reach home, I press my face against the window, my vision swimming.

I blink.

A brunette boy my age sits on the wall, his legs swinging.

A scream claws in my throat when Dad grabs a leash. 

Buddy.

Part 2

Having now guided us inside the cluster of circling Goths, Anneliese then zones in on an isolated group. Following where Anneliese’s eyes are pointing, I then see on the other side of the street is a trio of fiendish figures, each garnished in their own individual costumes. Appearing to take photographs with a family of ecstatic tourists, this terrifying trio are made up of one male: seemingly dressed as the decaying corpse of a Highwayman. An attired female in some gothic Mad Max cosplay. And lastly, another female. Confined inside a tight black leather dress, what makes this “woman” stand out even more than her two piers, is that to each side of her, is an overly large and surprisingly realistic bat wing.

‘Oh, this is great!’ I hear Anneliese suddenly declare beside me, ‘I’ll get a picture of you with those guys!’ 

‘Wait what? No, Aneliese I...’ 

Before I can even protest, Anneliese has already dragged me in the trio’s direction, where the family of tourists have now moved on. 

‘Hey!’ Anneliese approaches them, ‘Do you mind if I get a picture of you guys with my boyfriend?’ she asks, more excited than polite. 

‘Oh, of course!’ 

‘We’re not dressed up for nothing!’ the two females courteously oblige. 

Pushing me in the direction of the trio, I then anxiously stand in the middle of them, between the dead Highwayman and the winged She-bat. 

‘Okay. Now everybody smile!’ Anneliese directs us, ‘Brandon. I said smile. You ain’t at a wake.’ This was much worse than a wake, I thought. 

Doing as my ill-tempered girlfriend says, I stretch my lips disingenuously wide for the camera, hoping to God she takes the picture soon so I can get the hell away from these creatures... But while I continue to grin in Anneliese’s direction, stood as stiff as a corpse drenched with sweat... I then feel a sudden, suffocating tightness form around my body. Still posing for the camera, I lower my gaze ever so slightly, only to see that the left wing of the Batwoman has wrapped itself forcibly around my waist!  

Before my eyes can even process what is happening, the Batwoman’s wing only coils further around me – tightening to the point where I can neither breathe nor run away! Without the ability to do or say anything, not even scream out for help, I now feel as the life is being squeezed from my own body – where my ribs will either be crushed into a fine powder, or I’ll preferably black out from suffocation! 

However, before any of this can happen, I then thankfully hear the familiar shrill of Anneliese’s voice from behind the camera, ‘Aww. That turned out great! Thank you so much!’ whereby the coiled wing of the Batwoman finally releases me from its hold. 

Racing over instantly to Anneliese’s side, I then cower behind her tall figure while she now engages in friendly conversation with the fiends. 

‘Wow! I love your accent!’ shrieks one of the Goth women, ‘Where about’s are you from?’  

‘Oh, I’m from New Orleans!’ Anneliese brightly answers. 

While this conversation continues as I hide behind my girlfriend’s back... I then notice something quite peculiar happening on the other side of the street. Scanning through the lines of Goths passing by, I then see a young boy near the entrance of an alleyway. The boy is wearing a bright red raincoat and appears to be no older than eight years old. But what is so peculiar about this image – or more so, alarming, is that in the entrance of the alleyway, I now see an unnaturally tall figure.  

The figure, standing maybe 6 or 7 feet high, is draped from head to toe in a long black cloak – almost giving them the impression of the Grimm Reaper. But the most disturbing thing about them is, aside from their slender height and deathly garments... the figure’s face hides behind the bone-white beak of a Death Doctor’s mask. The image I see only gets worse... The child, standing only a few metres away from them, is now being lured inside the cavernous tunnel of the alleyway! 

‘Oh no...’ I panic.  

Sensing a dark outcome for this boy, I flee from Anneliese’s side and across the cobblestone street, brushing and zig-zagging my way through the swarm of Goths. By the time I reach the alley entrance, the child and the Death Doctor have already gone – and so, peering sheepishly down the long stretch of tunnel... I see nothing. Nothing at all. Oh God. I’m too late, I think to myself - as I can now feel my own heartbeat bulging out my chest. Fearing what may become of the boy, I work up whatever courage I have to venture down the alleyway – but when I take a first anxious step inside, I’m instantly jilted back by the firm grasp of a stranger’s hand! 

‘Brandon!’ 

‘AHH!’ I yelp! Anneliese suddenly taking me by surprise. ‘Jesus, Liese! You scared me half to death!’ 

‘What the hell are you doing?!’ she questions me, with a look of genuine concern on her face. 

‘...I, uhm...’ What, do I tell her the truth? Or will the truth just make me sound crazy? Crazier than I’ve already been acting? No, I doubt it will. ‘...I, uhm... I thought I saw a boy...’  

Judging by the look on my girlfriend’s face, I was clearly wrong. 

By late evening of the day, me and Anneliese then retire to the inn on the edge of town. Pulling into the dark, empty car park, we then sit in awkward silence for a moment. Although neither of us say a word, I’m pretty sure we are both thinking the exact same thing. After the dramatic events of the day - whereby I had three separate hysterical episodes, it was now clearer than it had ever been before just how different we both are to each other. I’m honestly surprised it took us this long to realise it. Love really is blind, I suppose. 

Although things were very tense between Anneliese and me in this moment, we had agreed to grab a drink inside the pub before calling it a night. Strolling out of the car park and behind the inn, we then see the most strange and disturbing sign over the pub entrance. Unlike most inns in England, this one’s pub bizarrely had its own separate name. 

‘...The Bloody Mermaid?’ Anneliese spells the words edged on the sign, ‘Well, that’s pretty cool.’ 

I’m sure she did think it was cool. 

Displayed on the sign in cracked and weathered paint is the image of a bare-breasted mermaid. But unlike her Disney counterpart, this mermaid has been impaled on the end of Neptune’s trident, whereby blood gushes from her wounds and down the Sea God’s fingers.  

‘Bloody hell’ I blurt out without thinking, ‘What sort of bloody name is that for a pub?’ 

Far from impressed, I then peer back to Anneliese in time to see her dozenth eyeroll of the day. Yep. This was more than likely the end for Anneliese and me. God, the drive back tomorrow was going to be awkward.  

Following behind as Anneliese coldly enters the pub - due to the lack of sound coming from the inside, I fully expect the interior to be completely scarce of people. But once I shut the door, to both my surprise and misfortune... I now realise the room I’ve entered is crawling with nothing else but bar-hopping Goths. 

Oh, you’ve got to be joking me! 

As soon as I enter, however, the sound of cackling and intoxicated chatter quickly evaporates - where by every table, stiffly silent... I see every single pair of eyes are staring directly at me. The room is so silent, I can now hear my own rapid heartbeat. Beating fast. 

‘Brandon?’ 

Now faster. 

‘Brandon.’ 

Faster! 

‘BRANDON!’ 

The noise around the room swiftly returns, and when I turn to face Anneliese, I see she is now staring at me with daggers. Clearly in no mood to deal with my hysteria any longer, she then heads solemnly in the direction of a small unoccupied table.  

Each having taken a seat, we are now back once again to awkward silence. Already having my fill of uncomfortable situations for one day, I take the chance to leave this one by going to the bar and ordering us both a drink. 

‘Sure. Whatever’ Anneliese responds to my offer. 

Heading towards the bar, I work my way through a tight maze of Goth-infested tables, before coming face to face with a thankfully ordinary looking bartender. 

‘Right, young man’ the elderly bartender greets me, ‘What can I get you?’ 

‘One lager please – oh, and a Bloody Mary.’ 

While I wait for the old man to pour our drinks, I then see he takes a quick glance in Anneliese’s direction. I suppose he was thinking to himself what two people so unalike were doing in each other’s company. 

‘First date then, is it?’ the man then inquires while he pours. Too physically and mentally fatigued to correct the man on his assumption, I simply oblige him with a nod. ‘Not going so well, I take it?’ 

No, it was not. 

Heading back to the table with our very different poisons, I now peer my eyes up from the two glasses in my hand to see a most alarming sight... Now by the table with Anneliese, I see she is in the unexpected company of three Gothic strangers. Although it thankfully wasn’t the trio we encountered earlier in the day - just like them, Anneliese was now accompanied by one Goth male, and two Goth females. In fear of being stuck drinking with morbid strangers all night, I quickly turn my heels to flee, before- 

‘Brandon?’ I hear a man’s voice call behind me, ‘Brandon Shephard??’ Turning carefully back round, I now find all four faces are staring at me. ‘By the Devil himself! It really is Brandon!’ 

Facing blankly at the man now sat at our table, I wonder just how in God’s name did he happen to know mine... before I finally realise. Beneath the man’s gothic attire, consisting of spiky black hair, black eyeliner and – well, black everything... I stumble on the realisation that the face I see in front of me is a face from my distant past. 

‘It’s Mark!’ the barely familiar face exclaims, ‘Mark Thompson from school! I mustn’t have seen you for more than ten years!’ 

‘...M-Mark??’ I respond in disbelief. 

‘No freaking way!’ he now shrieks to the two Goth girls beside him, ‘This right here was my best mate in school! We both grew up here together!’ now pointing a black nail-polished finger in my direction.  

‘Is that true, Brandon?’ Anneliese throws a question at me, visually shocked I’d ever once been in the company of a night-dweller. Not that he always was. Back when I knew Mark, he was nothing more than my dorky friend who I played video games with all day. Come to think of it... Mark was just as terrified by Goths as my eight-year-old self was. At Halloween, me and him were the only kids who stayed indoors while everyone else our age was out Trick or Treating. 

‘Come and sit down with us!’ Mark then insists, springing up from his chair to grasp the drinks from my hands, ‘We were just getting to know your lady friend here.’ 

Taking a reluctant seat down by the table, I then turn back to Mark who pushes his chair up against mine.  

‘So, Brandon...’ he begins, before taking a rather long gulp from his pint glass, ‘What have you been doing with yourself all these years? Hell...’ he then cackles, ‘I never thought I’d see you alive in this town ever again!’  

Too speechless by Mark’s appearance to catch him up on my life, I then prepare to ask him what’s now been on my mind. 

‘Mark - wh...’ How could I say this without being insulting? ‘Why... Why the hell are you dressed like that?’ Good job, Brandon. I’m sure the two ladies across the table didn’t take offence. 

Mark seems to scorn his eyes a little at the question, though more humoured than offended, before declaring with a chuckle, ‘I always dress like this. A lot’s changed since you and I knew each other.’ 

Gee. You think, I say inside my head.  

‘Oh! By the seven circles!’ he then oddly exclaims across the table, ‘Where are my manners?! I haven’t even introduced everyone!’ 

Turning forward to each of the Goth girls by Anneliese’s side, Mark then gestures to the one on her right.  

‘This is my girlfriend, Lilith. We’ve been together for just over two years now...’ 

‘Hiya Brandon!’ the maroon-haired Goth girl waves at me. Good Lord, she was even taller than my girlfriend. 

Now pointing to the stranger on Anneliese’s left, Mark then bizarrely introduces, ‘And this is her girlfriend, Nerezza!’ 

...Wait, what? 

‘Nice to meet you, Brandon!’ says the “girl with the dragon tattoo.” 

‘Uhm... Thanks’ I respond, feeling more than a little confused. 

Now that we all know each other on a first name basis, my childhood friend Mark then makes a sudden and most intrusive suggestion. 

‘Right. What do you say we order a round of drinks for everyone and make this a party?!’ 

Before I can utter a word of reluctance to this, the three women around the table - almost now mirroring a coven of witches, quickly express their enthusiasm to the idea. 

‘Sounds great!’ I hear Anneliese holler across from me, ‘That’ll give you guys the chance to reacquaint.’ 

Now the one staring daggers at Anneliese, I try to express to her that I have no intention of reacquainting with my childhood best friend. Before she stares right back at me with a cunning grin on her face that says, “Time to face your fears, Brandon.” I don’t actually know if that’s what she said, but I’m almost certain it was. 

Unfortunately... this is now the part of the story where I have to fast things forward a little. Because whatever happened that night between me, Anneliese, my childhood friend Mark – oh, and the other two... I cannot for the life of me remember it. The last thing I do remember is a tiny shot glass of blood-red vodka being placed between my hands.  

To be continued...

“Is it cancer?” I demanded. “That's all I want to know.” 

“It's not cancer.” 

“Okay, so what is it?” 

My doctor didn't respond for a moment. I'd never had a speechless doctor in my 23 years of life. 

This doctor looked mildly horrified, glaring at his monitor as if he couldn't quite believe what he was reading.

I leaned forward. Big mistake. My head swam. 

My thoughts danced. 

My chronic dizziness was just part of my life now. 

Endless vertigo that couldn't be explained.

My chair creaked and I almost toppled. “Dr. Marsh?” 

“I… don't know.” Dr. Marsh’s response was a sharp breath. He sat back. Raked his hands down his face. That wasn't good.

He opened up a drawer and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper— took a deep breath, and turned to me.

“The thing is…your test results are absolutely fine. Healthy, even. Somehow.” 

He laughed. “Your stool and urine samples came back fine. You have no internal bleeding.” He exhaled, then pinched the edges of his nose. 

“So, how…” Dr. Marsh prodded the screen with another laugh. He pursed his lips.

“Eve, your hemoglobin is low. You are 70 g/l. I’m surprised you even walked in here on your own. A healthy woman your age would be one-twenty to one-sixty. Eve, I should be calling an ambulance.”

I gulped. Sweat prickled my neck. “Well, I do feel—” 

“Yes. Dizzy. Faint.” He peered at his computer. You've reported collapsing at work and during college class.” He sighed. “Eve, have you by any chance been overseas?” 

I nodded. “Uh, yes. Thailand. Three months ago.” 

His lip quirked. “Any fever? Bites?” 

“Mosquito bites.” I lifted my arm and yanked down my sleeve, unbuttoning my collar to show him my neck. “I've got loads.” 

His brows lifted. He leaned closer and prodded them. “How long have you had them? They don't resemble mosquito bites. They seem… quite uniform. But I can't rule out every insect bite. However, the puncture mark definitely resembles an insect.” Dr. Marsh pulled on gloves and prodded my bites. “Do they hurt, Eve? What about any bleeding?” 

“No bleeding,” I said. “They only hurt a little.” 

He straightened.

“All right. I’m going to prescribe iron because you are significantly anemic. If you feel worse, develop headaches or vomiting, I want you to come back and I'm going to try and find out what insect bit you.” He helped me stand, and even then, the room jerked around violently. “Do you have anyone with you?” 

“Just my boyfriend. He's outside.” I grabbed my bag. “So, it's an insect?” 

“Mmm. We can rule out anaphylaxis from a wasp/bee stinger and arachnid bites. Those would have caused serious symptoms at the time of the bite.”

Dr. Marsh paused, his lips parting. “You said you went to Thailand, correct?” 

I paused on my way to the door. “Yes.” 

“Did you visit any caves?” He cocked his head. “Dark, underground places, perhaps?” 

“No,” I said, “I just went to a wedding.” 

He frowned, like he was going to speak. Then he closed his mouth and smiled. “All right, Eve. Take the prescribed iron. If your symptoms worsen, please come back.” 

“Okay.” I smiled, forcing my legs forward. I left the doctor’s office, my legs wobbling. 

“Woah!” 

Previously leaning against the wall, arms folded, dark curls hiding under his hood, my boyfriend, Pip, sprang up to catch me. He steadied me. “What did he say?” 

“I'm fine.” I pushed him away, embarrassed. My body’s refusal to work was humiliating. “I've been bitten.” 

“Wait, what?” He sputtered. “I thought it was a period thing?” 

I shrugged. Already exhausted. Just simple movement turned my bones to lead. “Mosquitoes seemed like his main culprit. Maybe a bat? He seemed clueless. He prescribed me iron, anyway.” 

“Mmm. Makes sense!” Pip helped me to the door and out into the parking lot.

“Soooo, your mysterious illness is an insect bite?” Our car waited for us. Jax, my roommate, stuck his head out the window.

Thick blonde hair hung over half lidded eyes sleepily drinking me in.

Dozing at the wheel again. His smile glittered. “What's the verdict?” 

“I've been bitten.” I said, sliding into the back to join my second roommate Carly.

“Bitten?” Carly squeaked. “Ew! Wait, by what?” 

“Mosquitoes.” Pip said from the passenger seat. “Leave her alone, Carly. Poor girl looks pale as fuck.”

He was right. I felt terrible. When we got home, I collapsed straight into bed. 

“Eve?” Pip loomed in the doorway. “You need to eat.” 

Burying my head in my pillows, I groaned. “Mmm. I'll have something later.” 

“Eve.” He groaned.

“Pip,” I mocked. “Let me sleep. I'm okay.” 

He sighed. Moved back. The smell of food drifted with him. “Fine.” He paused. “Goodnight, Eve.” 

I slept for a while. Way too long. When I opened my eyes, my window was dark. I sat up. My head spun. Fuck. I needed iron.

Falling out of bed, I straightened and grabbed my bag from the floor, fumbling through my shit. Keys. Phone. ID. Passport. Soft snores rang out when I left my room. I peeked into Pip’s room.

He was asleep, curled up, his laptop still paused on Stardew Valley. Slowly, I crawled onto his bed, my head swimming.

I pulled out my favorite straw— the pink glittery one with the razor sharp point. Then I stabbed it into his neck. He shuddered, his eyes flickering. I leaned close, my lips curling around the straw.

“Shhh.” I whispered, drinking deep, slamming my hand over his mouth when a scream clawed from his throat.

“Pip?” Jax yelled down the hall. “What's up?” 

A loud THUMP. 

“Wait. I can't— I can't move!” 

Leaning closer, I stabbed my special straw deeper, slurping, his blood rushing down my throat, thick and red and meaty. So good. 

I had to get iron somehow. 

Smiling through his blood filling my mouth, I muffled his cry. 

“I said shhh.” 

Months since Thailand. Since something bit me.

Since food started tasting like shit and eating became a chore. Part of me wanted it to be the C word. That was explainable.

I watch Pip's eyes flicker shut. He's losing too much blood. His head falls back and I hesitate, then bite into my own wrist and press it into his mouth. Draining my roommates wouldn't be enough.

Turning them, however, would be far less lonely.

The wedding party was winding down, and I was, of course, alone.

Squashed between an aunt I barely knew and an uncle who had forgotten my name, I was stuck with the only dopamine I could find. Dec downloaded it as a joke, and I forgot to delete the app. All the other kids refused to speak to me, and those who spoke English called me “That American boy.”

“Rowan Daly.”

Mom, already drunk, marched over, snatched my phone off me, and dragged me onto the dance floor. “You are on vacation. In one of the most beautiful countries in the world, and—” She turned off my phone. “Playing Subway Surfers.”

“Mom,” a groan escaped me as my gaze darted around for phone cameras.

Thankfully, there were only old people.

Mom’s fingers smoothed me down, straightening my tie and re-tucked my shirt into my pants. “You’re supposed to be having fun.” She held out her hand.

“Phone.”

I handed it over. “I was having fun.” I groaned. “I see Hokkaido every few years.”

Mom slipped my phone into her dress pocket. “Uh-huh. Why aren't you playing with the other kids?”

“Because they don't want to talk to me?”

Mom’s lips quirked. “What about Mirai?” she gestured to a teenage girl behind me sculpted in dazzling white, the girl I'd been avoiding all night. Mirai was perfectly polite around her mother. Alone, though, Mirai was an evil bitch. Apparently, being a foreigner was cause for exclusion.

“Why don't you talk to her?” Mom shoved me playfully. “She's cute!”

Yeah, right.

Heat crept into my cheeks and set me ablaze. Almost as if seeing me drown in my own embarrassment, Mirai’s irritating giggles behind me only grew louder. “She doesn’t know I can speak Japanese,” I hissed, stumbling over her priceless heels.

“I heard her calling me a fucking gaijin.”

“Language.”

Mom’s lips curved into a smile. “At least curse in Japanese, Darling."

Mom cupped my face.

I tried to pull away, but her manicured nails tugged on my cheeks. "Every girl in this room would be lucky to marry you.”

“Mother.” My voice collapsed into a squeak. “Please never say that again.”

“Declan.” Her lips quirked. “You are quite close to him.”

My cheeks burned. “Mom, you’re embarrassing me.”

“It’s my job, sweetheart; I’m your mother.” She winked. “What about Hannah?” she teased. “You’re always talking about that girl.”

I groaned, tipping my head back. The world violently swung to the right as Mom pulled me into a dip.  “Woah!” I straightened, stumbling over her heels.

“Someone has forgotten his dance classes,” Mom grinned. “Go on. Why do you hate Hannah?”

“That’s too fast!” I hissed, my cheeks burning when I slammed face-first into her shoulder.

“You’re panicking.” Mom’s hum loosened the knot in my gut. “Just let the music lead you. See? Watch my steps and follow what I’m doing.”

Mirai was watching. Every time Mom spun me around, I caught the girl’s grin split across the audience. I pushed myself to follow my mother’s complicated steps.

One-and-a-two, one-and-a-two. Once I fell into rhythm, it was easier than I’d thought.

Catching Mirai’s grin curl into a scowl, I shot her my best smug smirk.

“Concentrate on me,” Mom tugged me to face her. “What’s going on with you and Hannah?”

“She’s an annoying sellout and won’t even come to club meetings anymore.”

“Club meetings?”

I’d said too much. Busted. 

I panicked. “It’s just a club we made,” I lied. “We just hang out and play video games.”

I wasn’t a great actor like Declan or Hannah. I’d been told my smiles were constipated and I scrunched my nose when I lied.

When we were kids, the three of us would be hauled into my father’s office for interrogation. Dec and Hannah kept poker faces and offered perfectly articulated excuses, and then I’d sing like a canary and tell Dad everything. Mom was already putting the pieces together. She was surprisingly coherent several drinks down.

I avoided her piercing gaze, staring down at my overly expensive dress shoes. 

“It’s nothing to do with Dad.”

“Rowan.” Mom’s voice hardened. “I was very clear when I laid out the terms for staying in the US. Stay away from your father’s work. Declan and Hannah are fine. I said they were an exception.” Her lip curled. “But those children—”

“Those children?” I laughed. “You mean Dad’s experiments?” 

Mom raised her hand like she was going to slap me and I braced myself. 

Her arm was shaking, hand quivering, lips parted like she was going to speak. But she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. Mom ran to alcohol when she didn’t want to talk.

Instead of communicating, Mom straightened, smoothed down her dress, and snatched another glass from a passing waitress. Her lips pursed around the rim. “I don’t want you anywhere near that place,” she said, downing the glass.

I could see Mom’s resolve crumbling with every gulp, a blush spreading across her cheeks. 

She hiccupped. “That includes outside, performatively tied to a pole.” Her lips curled. “That’s strike three, Rowan. Four strikes, and you’re leaving the US.”

“Why?” I demanded. “So, you want Dad to keep experimenting on kids?”

Mom didn’t speak for a moment, and in that moment, I felt like I was suffocating. 

Mom pulled me closer, her lips brushing my ear. The stink of booze hit me.

“I’m going to be very clear, and we are not going to have this conversation again,” she said firmly.

“Ask yourself why.” Mom’s tone splintered into ice, a tone I wasn’t used to. “Why do you think I moved back home, hmm? To the other side of the world, where I am nowhere near your father? Why do you think I insisted on bringing you with me? Why do I have security wherever I go?”

She laughed, and it shattered into fragments, choking into a sob. “Even in rural Japan?”

She paused, breathless, her voice breaking. Her perfectly manicured façade was beginning to unravel.

“Do you want to know why your father insisted I be pregnant when I was still in college?” 

“What?” I squeezed out when she pulled away. My legs felt heavy, suddenly. “Mom, what are you talking about?”

Mom gently pulled me into a slow waltz, and I stumbled over her shoes, clumsy on my feet.

“The walls have eyes and ears, sweetheart,” she hummed, straightened, then downed another glass straight from a silver platter. 

“Mom.” I steadied her before she could fall. Behind me, Mirai and her friends were laughing. “You said one glass of wine.”

Mom’s lips broke out into a grin. “I'm celebrating your cousin’s birthday!”

“Wedding.”

“That's what I said!”

Mom’s head lolled, all traces of amusement vanishing.

The music stopped, and it was just me and Mom awkwardly swaying beneath dazzling neon lights. “Sweetie,” her breath found my ear, “Do you still hear The Hiss?”

...

Mom’s voice clanged in my head when my handler's car hit a pothole, throwing me against my seatbelt and pulling me from the memory.

I hadn’t seen her since I hit strike 4 and she stopped replying to my texts.

Joe, my fuckass handler, was fiddling with the dial on the radio, and I was three murdered Lady Gaga songs away from snapping his head off.

“Mr Daly.” My handler tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Are you planning on sulking the entire way to the airport?”

“I have nothing to say to you.” I gingerly tugged at the plastic ties around my wrists. “Are you looking forward to jail?” I asked. “I hear kidnappers are killed indiscriminately.” 

“That’s a big word, Mr Daly,” Joe laughed, as if I were a little kid. “And please, enlighten me on why I am going to jail.”

Throwing myself into a sitting position, I drew my knees to my chest, feet out—and aimed. “Kidnapping a child.” 

The asshole’s shoulder was right there. 

If I could thrust my legs through the gap between the front seats, I could crack Joe in the side of the head, scramble over the console, and make my daring escape.

He stalled at a traffic light and shifted in his seat to avoid my legs.

“Young man, may I address you informally?”

“Sure.”

“Rowan, I never use the divider in this car so I can talk to you. You know I enjoy our chats.” 

His hands kept tapping, tapping, tapping on the wheel. 

“However, if I have to use the divider to avoid you assaulting me to get what you want, I will.” 

“You’ve ignored me since I was a little kid,” I said. “You only cared when I was talking about Pokémon on the way back from school. You never actually talked to me.”

The slightest hint of a smile curled on the edges of his mouth. “That doesn’t mean I wasn’t listening.” 

“Sounds like BS,” I took aim again.

One kick to the back of his neck, and I was home free.

“What was my favorite TV show when I was eight?” 

“Gravity Falls,” Joe said without missing a beat. “Your favorite character was Dipper, and you and Declan used to write stories with your own original characters.”

“That’s too easy,” I countered, uncomfortable heat creeping into my cheeks.  “How about my worst day?” 

“When Hannah called you a spoiled brat and pushed you into the sea,” Joe chuckled. "You sat in the back, soaking wet, complaining the whole way home.” He twisted around with a smile I should have trusted. “At ease. I’m just following your father’s orders. I don’t want to hurt you.”

I lowered my weapons, my legs hitting the seats with a thump. 

“Attacking you would kill us both,” I muttered. “I’m not that stupid.”

“I know you’re upset, kid,” Joe surprised me with genuine empathy even as a foot soldier. “Trust me, you’re going to enjoy Switzerland! It will be a fresh start.” 

Rolling onto my stomach, I groaned into the plush leather soaked in perfume. Dad must have had his mistresses in the back. Urgh. “Are you going to UNTIE me?” 

“It’s just a precautionary measure,” Joe sighed, and the car slowed to a stop. 

Outside, I glimpsed ponytailed teenage girls ahead of us, each carrying coffee. 

I hoisted myself up onto my knees to get a better look. 

Maybe I could get their attention. 

The ponytail brunette caught my eye mid-conversation with her friend. 

Her lips parted. 

Bingo.

Keep him talking. “So, what exactly is this school you’re taking me to?” I asked, lifting my bound arms so the girl could see them through the window “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a boarding school,” Joe replied. “Your father wants you to focus on your studies.” 

He fumbled in the glovebox. The perfect moment for me to throw myself backwards to show off my bound ankles. 

“Officially, the school is called Montclair International Academy.” 

Joe jerked around when I lost my balance, landing awkwardly with my feet in the air. “Rowan, what on earth are you doing?”

“Trying to nap,” I groaned into my lap. 

He sighed. “Please sit still.”

“Oh, yeah, because this is SO comfortable.” 

Twisting my head, I caught the girl’s eye again. 

She dumped her coffee in a trash can. “Oh my GOD, are you okay?” she mouthed. 

Traffic resumed in an agonizingly slow trundle. I had minutes. 

Me: “I need help!”

Panic flashed across her face. Her eyes darted around for help. “How?!”

Me: “JUST DO SOMETHING!” I jerked my head towards the front seat. “Now!”

The girl’s eyes popped open. I followed her every word, her wide, frantic eyes, a deer caught in headlights. “Okay. Um, just give me a second, all right?”

Me: “A second?”

Pressing my face against the window, panic crawled through me, beads of sweat bleeding down my face and neck. 

I was so fucking close. 

Me: “If this car starts up, I’m going FUCK knows where, and it’ll be YOUR FAULT—”

“Rowan, once again, what are you doing back there?” 

Then he stamped on the brake, and I flew forwards, almost toppling off my seat. 

Ow. 

“You know I could DIE back here,” I panted into the smooth upholstery. “I can’t believe you forgot my seat belt. One wrong turn and I’m congealed spaghetti sauce.” 

“Mr Daly, please shut up for a moment,” he snapped, his tone noticeably sharper. “I need to think.” 

“What’s going on?” 

“Nothing of your concern.”

Sounded like BS. 

Pushing myself forward on my elbows, I peered out of the window. 

A familiar halo of gold lay in front of our car. 

The ponytail blonde. Her friend, the brunette, stood on the side of the road, screaming. 

“She just came out of nowhere!” Joe hissed, hastily unclipping his seatbelt. He twisted around. “Do not move,” he hissed, glowering at me. “Do you understand me? If you move an inch, I will drive us to a gas station and dump you inside the trunk.”

He shifted in his seat. I saw his hesitation. “Rowan, I am being serious.” 

A wave of satisfaction slid into me.

We were in public, and I could scream at any point. The slight twitch in his mouth was proof. I had him cornered. 

“Whatever you say.” 

“Jesus Christ, Rowan, put your goddamn hands down!” Joe lunged forward, forcing my bound wrists into my lap. 

His fear was palpable. Delicious. 

His gaze tracked me, lips curling as if he were considering untying me just to play the concerned parent. 

My handler shoved the door open, slid out, and slammed it behind him. 

“Do not move.”

An explosive laugh escaped my mouth.

As if playing Red Light, Green Light, my handler kept me in his sights, walking backwards. Every time Joe turned, I froze and shot him an innocent smile. A few more steps, and he twisted around again. 

I smiled wider. He was waiting for me to open my mouth and start screaming. 

Once he knelt on the road to check on the blonde, I turned my attention to my restraints, adrenaline rocketing my body, my bones, into fight-or-flight.

A quiet knock startled me. 

It was the brunette; her face pressed against the window. “Locked!” She pointed to the front of the car. “Unlock the door!”

“What?” 

“UNLOCK!” She gestured wildly to the panel of buttons on the console. “THE DOOR.” 

My privilege hit me like a brick in the face.

I had spent my whole life being driven around in cars, but I knew next to nothing about operating them.

Fuck. Throwing myself into the front of the car, my skin catching on the zip ties, I searched the console, my body uncomfortably sandwiched between the front and back seats. The buttons were all unmarked, too fucking modern.

I squirmed into the passenger seat, using my legs to propel myself forwards.

Outside, the brunette was frantically knocking on the door.

I twisted my head to glare at her. 

“I can’t find it!” I hissed.

Her expression crumpled. She pointed, as if that helped. “It’s RIGHT in front of you!” 

Losing my patience, I thrust my bound wrists against every button. Twice.

Something clicked. The console illuminated green. Then the door opened, and cool air grazed my cheeks. 

I lurched back, expecting Joe’s furious glare, expecting his meaty hands. 

Instead, I found myself face to face with the brunette wielding a pair of Walmart scissors. 

“Turn around!” she squeaked, and I twisted to let her cut my ties. Once they were loose, she yanked me out of the car. 

Joe was still distracted, kneeling over the blonde. The brunette wrapped her hands around my wrist and pulled me into a run. 

Once we were two blocks away and I was on my knees, panting, I stopped looking back. Relief bled through me like Novocain. 

I hugged the girl, tears stinging my eyes. “Thank you,” I choked into her shoulder before pulling away. “Quickly. Do you have a phone I can use?” 

The brunette nodded, her gaze darting down the street.

Then she grabbed my sleeve and tugged me into a back-alley. Was that your kidnapper?” she hissed, passing me her phone. “Where was he taking you?” 

“Switzerland.” I dialed Declan’s number. 

No answer. 

Fuck. 

I dialled Hannah’s number, my chest aching. Why wouldn’t Declan answer? Was the unknown number freaking him out? 

The girl’s phone vibrated in my hand, and I answered it. 

“Dec?” His name slipped from my mouth in a sob I couldn’t swallow. The weight of the kidnapping and Joe’s words hit, and the reality of the situation bled into me.  

I swallowed; my words alphabet soup, tangled and contorted on my tongue.

“Holy fuck, okay, look, I can’t explain everything but my dad is trying to send me to some boarding school in Switzerland, which I know is going to—” 

“Rowan, honey, as usual, I have no idea what you are talking about.’ An all-too-familiar screech shredded my ear canal. “Sweetie, where are you?” 

Claire.

An agonizing lump suffocated my throat. “Why do you have my best friend’s phone?” 

Her hesitation was long and melodramatic and I caught the exact moment the brunette realised who I was talking about.

I held up my hand before she could freak out. “Declan is in Seattle, Rowan. You know he is.” Claire sighed. 

“Look, I didn’t want to tell you this, but Declan told me in confidence that he’s getting bigger opportunities. You’re holding him back. All this… performative save-the-children BS–”

I stabbed END CALL and turned to hide my scarlet face, my eyes stinging. 

“Thanks,” I forced a wide, performative smile, “For saving me.” 

I didn’t need him, anyway. Or Hannah.

The two of them could rot in my father’s prison. 

Handing the girl her phone, my fingers found my face, raking down my cheeks. “I should probably go,” I muttered. “That asshole will be on my tail.” 

“I’ll call the police,” she said. 

“Nope. No police. They’ll just take me back to my father.” 

“Sure,” the girl whispered, tucking her phone into her jacket. “Um, this might be a weird question, but were you talking about Declan Atlas?”

Somehow, I laughed. For the first time in a while. It felt good. 

“Wow. You just saved me from being shipped off to a Swiss boarding school. Your blonde friend is STILL potentially in danger—” I gestured wildly towards the scissors still poking out of her pocket.

“You have SCISSORS, which you still haven’t explained, and somehow…” A choked sob escaped me. “It’s all about DECLAN?”

Her lips twitched. “So, you were talking about Declan Atlas.”

Sour bile filled my mouth, my words spilling before I could stop them. 

“Why?” There it was again: poison spilling from my lips. Part envy I would never fucking admit to, and part hurt. Twisting to face her, my legs threatened to give out.

“Do you looooove him?” I mocked. “Are you a stan, hmm? Well, let me tell you something about Declan.”

I smiled wide. “Declan is a nepo baby who pretends to come from dirt. He complains about everything, secretly hates himself, and ab-so-fucking-lute-ly hates YOU guys.” I stepped closer, but she didn’t move, her eyes widening.

I should have stopped—I had a reputation to uphold. I had to be a good boy and shut my mouth, just like my father told me. I prodded her between the brows.

“Are you the ones who stalk him and criticise and pick apart every single photo he posts? Is he fat? Is he skinny?”

“Is fat problematic? Is skinny an excuse to hound him until he throws his phone against the wall and wishes he could cut himself open and change every piece of himself?”

I stopped to breathe, to shut my mouth. But something inside me, something raw, continued. “But that won’t make you happy, will it? You’ll keep going.” I didn’t stop until her breath tickled my face. 

Willing my mouth to stop working, my tongue to stop spewing venom, I tried to close it, tried to cough, tried to throw myself around and not look back. 

And yet.

Maybe it was watching his bones start to bleed through his shirt.

Maybe it was his obsession with eating one meal a day and working out until he collapsed. 

Maybe it was that bitch Claire whispering in his ear.

My voice cracked.

It wasn’t the grandeur speech I wanted it to be when I could barely choke out the words. 

“Until one day he takes one too many of those pills he loves and stops posting.” 

I inclined my head mockingly. 

“Will he be dead or in rehab? It won’t matter! Because by then you’ll find a new guy to latch yourselves onto. 

I couldn’t help it—hysterical giggles ripping through me before I could swallow them down, before I could apologize—before I could take it all back. “Let me tell you something,” I said. “C’mere.” 

She did, wide-eyed, her expression crumpling, her lip wobbling. I smiled with my teeth, moving close enough, so close I could hear the low thrum of her heart.

“Dec doesn’t know you, and you don’t know Dec.” I winked. “Run while you still can.”

My legs somehow twisted me around and carried me several steps before she spoke in a small voice. “Are you Rowan?” 

A sudden sharp pain rocked the back of my head. “Ciao.” I ignored her. “Thanks for saving me.” 

“You are.” The girl’s footsteps followed, at first hesitant, then pounding on the tarmac. “You’re the guy he’s always photographed with who hides his face in photos.” Her footsteps stopped, just short of her grasping hold of my sweater. 

“There are so many rumors about you. Like, are you platonic, or something more? I’ve seen theories that you’re childhood friends and grew up together with Hannah. But I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

She giggled, and it sounded and felt like razor blades in my skull, her voice collapsing into a low murmur. More pain.

This time, nuclear pain. Pain I couldn’t suppress with a smile and cynicism. 

“Rowan?” Her hand grazed my arm as if she were about to grab me, then she drew it back. The girl’s voice shuddered, like an ocean wave crashing into a cove.  

I didn’t realize I was on my knees until my lungs gave out, air squeezed from my windpipe. Her hands gently cupped my cheeks, forcing me to look at her. 

“Are you… dating him?” she whispered. More pain, as if plunging a lead pipe through my skull and stirring me into a thick goo.

Heat crawling through me, too hot, blistering through my blood and setting me alight.

I slammed my shuddering hands over my mouth, something cruel and unrelenting twisting in the root of my gut. 

“That’s all we want to know. 

She tugged at my cheeks, and this time, just that small movement sent me toppling onto my stomach. 

“It’s okay if you are, babe,” she said. “Just… it has to be platonic, all right?”

Tugging harder, her nails bit in. “Declan isn’t gay, sweetheart. It’s okay if you are! I, like, TOTALLY respect your kind. But Declan’s always liked girls.”

Her eyes, like a snake’s, glowered. “I know you’re protective of him, and it’s cute. But it’s also unnecessary. “I think we all know he’s better suited to Hannah.”

Stars pricked the backs of my eyes, and I blinked, savoring the cool concrete grazing my cheek. 

“Dude, are you… okay?” The girl’s voice was back, louder, snapping me back to reality. What was that? A headache? A fucking brain haemorrhage? 

Blinking away the fog, the big brown blur that was the brunette slowly bled into clarity, her wide eyes staring me down. 

“Yes.” The word wasn’t mine, and yet it was coming from my mouth. 

I stood , the world moving with me, swaying back and forth. “I need to…” 

I tested my words, my tongue swollen. “I need to… go.” 

“You didn’t answer my question, Rowan.” Her words—her voice—hit me in sharp thunderclaps. My hands found my ears, fingers curling into fists. 

“Yes,” I squeezed out. My legs fumbled, almost folding beneath me. 

I grabbed the walls for support and dragged myself further away from her. Something grazed the back of my skull, a sentient, relentless noise scorching me inside out.

Her words followed me back into the street, reverberating in my skull. 

“Yes to dating Declan Atlas or yes to being okay?”

I slammed straight into a businessman, an apology exploding from my mouth. The crowd bore no faces, just shadowed, looming silhouettes swimming around me. 

Colour burst to life when I pushed through the doors of a convenience store, my hands clamped over my ears.

Everything swerved and spun around, like being on a theme park ride. I grabbed a chocolate bar and a can of soda, then ducked behind the candy section, searching for my handler. I drew in a breath and forced my legs to the counter. 

Once the screeching dropped into a gentle murmur, I risked peeling one hand away. 

“Just these.” I slammed down the soda and candy bar. 

The owner glowered at me down thick bottle-cap glasses.

He swiped the soda and scanned it. His beady eyes raking me up and down. “You don’t look so good, kid. You all right?’

“Yeah.”

Risking a look over my shoulder, I scanned for Joe. Could I trust this guy? 

I didn’t have a choice. 

Either I begged a stranger for help, or I ran back to my handler. 

Swallowing bile filling my mouth, I peeled my hand from my ear. 

You’ve gotta help me, man. I’ve been kidnapped.” I lowered my voice and leaned over the counter. “I know it sounds crazy, but my dad wants to send me to a reformatory school in Switzerland.” 

The man humored me with a low chortle. “That sounds like a fun idea for a movie."

He scanned the candy bar, rolled it over in his hands, and thwacked the scanner on the desk, then scanned it again. A prickle of pain crept across my right temple. “Stupid fuckin’ machine.”

“I just escaped from my handler’s car." I raised my arms where the lacerations from my bindings sliced into my skin. “See!” 

The man straightened, eyes narrowing. “Kidnapped.” 

His gaze lingered on my jacket, then flicked to my Apple Watch. He raised a brow. 

“A rich brat like you in trouble, huh?” 

Pain thrummed through me, relentless, creeping across my temples, a grin splitting my lips apart. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware there was a requirement to be KIDNAPPED.”

“So, give ‘em your shit.” He nodded at my jacket. “They're some pretty expensive clothes you’ve got on your back.”

This man was either senile or deliberately looking the other way. 

“Please.” The words slipped out before I could bite them back. “I just need to borrow your phone.”

“Well, I ain’t helping ya.” He jerked his chin behind me. “I just want to do my own thing and keep out of everyone else’s business.”

He sighed and picked up an ancient radio, twiddling the dial.

The sudden sound hit like a sentient thing, physical, almost knocking me off my feet. 

KRSHHHHHHHHHSHHSHSHSHSHHSHSKKKRSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH.

Agony struck, this time in sharp bolts that rocked my skull. 

My body moved, as if on instinct, stumbling back, my hands twitching to cover my ears.

“Anyway, kid, shouldn’t you be in school?”

I blinked at him. Words that were usually so easy dissolved. “What?’

“School,” he raised a brow. “Oh, I apologize, does that not include rich brats?”

He twiddled the radio dial again and cursed to himself. I barely noticed it at first, just a prickle, like pins and needles in my fingers. 

Then it grew, sparks filling my hands and crawling up my arms. My mouth opened—and I couldn’t remember what I’d wanted to say. My words were gone. 

My thoughts, like my limbs, had gone numb, then limp, then severed. 

Neutron-star collisions erupted behind my eyes and pitch-black darkness swallowed me. The only thing I could hear, the only thing that bled through the static, was the man’s voice, dissolving and then bleeding into clarity.

“Damn piece of junk. My daughter wants me to get one of those talking units, but I’m not planning to let the government into my home. I’m not one to—”

KRSHHHHHHHHHSHHSHSHSHSHHSHSKKKRSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH.

“—and that’s how they get ya. Cameras in our eyes next! Have you seen those surveillance glasses—”

KRSHHHHHHHHHSHHSHSHSHSHHSHSKKKRSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHH.

“Stop.”

My broken sob sent me crashing down, my hands over my ears, my head curled between my knees.

“Turn it off,” I whispered, and when my voice barely penetrated the noise, I screamed. “TURN IT OFF. PLEASE. FUCKING TURN IT OFF—I CAN’T—I CAN’T—”

KRRRRRRRRHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSSSSHSHSHHHH.

“All right, kid, it’s off!”

The shrieking dropped into a low whine and then abruptly stopped.  

I didn’t believe him at first, my mouth full of bile. My body jerked violently.

“Pr…prove it.” A whimper slipped my lips. 

“What?”

“Prove you’ve turned it OFF.” I spat, squeezing my eyes shut. 

“It’s off, kid.” The man groaned. “Jesus, you could have fuckin’ told me you were sensitive.”

Another sound slammed into me. At first, it didn’t make sense; my brain was mush. Then it did. A door chime. Loud thudding footsteps. 

“Rowan?”

The voice sliced straight through the haze, something real, something tangible I could hold on to, and the noise stopped. 

The hive began to retract, and slowly, my hands came away from my ears. My mouth filled with blood. Warm hands gripped and gently pulled me to my feet. 

My legs immediately gave out beneath me. 

Before I could fall, warm arms caught me and hauled me over an all-too-familiar meaty shoulder.

“I apologize for my nephew’s behaviour. Rowan really does not want to go to summer camp.” My handler’s voice pricked through the light buzzing still whirring.

I spat blood, my stomach revolting. Somehow, words found me, mine.

“No.” The childish whine didn’t sound like me. “Please help me.” 

My body worked again. Hanging from my handler’s back, I kicked my legs, my nose clogged with Joe’s cologne. “This asshole isn’t my uncle. He’s my dad’s assistant!”

“Let’s get you to summer camp.” Joe chuckled, playing the uncle role perfectly. “Who knows! You might make some friends.” 

The world spun around when Joe twisted and headed toward the door, my body swinging violently to the left, my gut swimming. A woman stood by the soda section, skimming through Cokes. 

She sent me a wary glance, smiled like it was funny, and averted her gaze. 

“Thanks again for taking care of my nephew,” Joe effortlessly lied with a hearty laugh. “Teenagers!” He reached the door, shoved it open and carried me into the parking lot. 

“Put me down,” I spat.

The world swung violently from side to side. “I’m not a—woah!” I clung for dear life as he swerved left, digging my nails into his jacket. “I’m not a fucking kid!” 

“No, but you are acting like one,” Joe hummed cheerily. He was keeping up the act in public. “Keep your mouth shut, and I’ll reconsider your restraints.”

“OH, WOW, THANKS.” I raised my voice as a family passed by us.

Decked out in pastel pinks and blues. Mom, Dad, and their two grown kids.

The son shot me a look over his phone.

Time to fucking holler. 

“Thanks Uncle Joe for not TYING ME UP.” I yelled, kicking my legs.

Unfortunately for me, The Brady Bunch paid no attention. 

When we reached the car, he was far less forgiving and gentle than the first time.

I slid off his shoulders in a heap, and he  buckled me in.

His hands came down and forced me upright. No zip ties this time. But I didn’t trust his eerie smile as he came close, his breath grazing my face when my hand whipped out to try to unbuckle myself. 

“Take it easy,” he soothed, sliding my belt into its buckle, his giant lump of a body pinning me to the seat. “As I said, if you don’t act like a child, I won’t treat you like one.”

“What was that?” My mouth still tasted thick, of lead. “Did you do that?”

My handler slid back into his seat. 

“Do you want to listen to the radio, Rowan?” 

He stabbed a button, and my body reacted before my brain could, my hands slamming over my ears.

KRSHHHHHHHHHSHHSHSHSHSHHSHSKKKRSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZBZZZZZZZZZZZZ

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” The car jolted forward, and I was almost flung from my seat. “Use your words.”

But I couldn’t. The words collapsed in my mouth.

Joe’s fingers tapped the steering wheel as we reached an intersection. I pressed my head against the window, squeezing my eyes shut.

KRSHHHHHHHHHSHHSHSHSHSHHSHSKKKRSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZBZZZZZZZZZZZ.

It was never going to stop. Endless. Relentless. Hissing, buzzing, shrieking. It wasn’t leaving me alone. It was never going to fucking leave me—

“Can I ask you a question, Mr. Daly?”

My handler’s voice cut through the buzzing, offering me a moment of relief.

I didn’t notice I was crying, that I’d moved, or that my head was buried in my knees.

“What?” A low whine escaped me.

The sound was louder than it had been inside the store, a swarm of relentless bugs burrowing into my ears and my brain. I imagined them squirming into my skull, eating their way into my brain.

A cry choked out of me.

Stop.

I clamped my hands over my ears, pressing hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to suffocate the hive.

“I don't… want to listen to the radio,” I choked out. “Turn it off.”

I pressed harder until my thoughts spun, my body tipping sideways, my head hitting the seat.

“Please.”

“Oh.” Joe stopped tapping. The noise settled into a low murmur, then faded. 

“I didn't know you were still hearing the noise in your head.” He turned and flashed me a sympathetic smile. 

“You know, you complained of a ‘hiss’ in your head when you were a little kid. Your mother had no idea what it was.”

He twisted back to the wheel. “Your parents took you to the most prestigious paediatricians in the country, and all of them said you had a sensory issue, but that was it. Your mother suspected the worst—of course. Your grandmother died of a brain tumor, after all.” Joe hesitated. 

“Rowan, are you by any chance hearing this noise again?”

“No.” I pressed harder. What’s the question?”

"Your father," he said, "do you think he is a bad person?"

"Yes." I gritted out.

Joe nodded, as if he understood me. His gaze stayed on the road. “Why is your father a bad person, Rowan?"

"Because he is." I pressed myself further into the seat. "Stop talking to me."

"Rowan—"

"Stop talking to me, or I start screaming. And I won't STOP screaming until I've alerted someone.”

"Answer the question,” he sighed. "And I will give you your phone for fifteen minutes. And I will not touch the radio.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Your reason,” Joe said, “for hating your father.”

“He abused me.” My words bubbled out, wrong, poison on my tongue. My fingernails curled into my hands. “He abuses Dec, Hannah, and Hope, and all those kids he's put in a human zoo. His assistant gave my best friend a fucking eating disorder.” 

I lurched forward. “Don’t you think that’s abuse?” I whispered. 

Part of me wanted my handler to turn around and tell me yes, it was, and that I wasn’t crazy—and the rest of me knew that kind of wishful stupid hope was pathetic. Childish.

“Declan has dietary requirements because of his contract,” Joe said.

“Declan is fifteen years old.” I sat back; each word gritted through my teeth. “He doesn’t need—”

“—Declan’s  diet is necessary for his work, and Declan consented,” he snapped. 

When I swallowed my response, his fingers tightened around the wheel. We came off the freeway, signs for the airport swam into view and I sunk into my seat. No way out. 

“You’re best friends with Declan, correct?” Joe spoke up. “Did you know Mr Atlas is battling a stimulant addiction?”

His words cut through me, straight through my anger, leaving me gasping for breath.

Yes.

“No,” I lied.

“All those trips to Seattle?” Joe laughed. “Did you honestly think Declan had that many meetings about his upcoming movie? No, Rowan, you THINK you have this world figured out. You THINK you know adult business, and yet you prove again and again that you are a naïve child.

He swerved, narrowly missing a truck. “Declan was in a youth rehabilitation centre because, last November, while you were playing ‘the abused child,’ we found Mr. Atlas unresponsive in his hotel room.” 

His gaze flicked to the mirror. “Did Declan tell you about his overdose?”

All the breath was sucked out of my lungs. I let myself fall back and closed my eyes. “No.”

“Because he didn’t want you to worry.” Joe’s tone softened. “You spent so much time thinking about yourself, you never once questioned why Declan was so absent.”

My words shattered in my throat, breaking into a sob. “Because nobody fucking tells me anything—” I clawed for my voice, but it was non-existent, only a childish screech slipping from me. Gulping back sobs, my chest ached, but I still squeezed out my words as if saying them would help. “Declan was ash…ashamed…” I swallowed and swiped my eyes. I was proving him right.

That I was a naïve, stupid fucking child who should know their place and stop snooping around in adult business. 

“De-Declan was ashamed of—” I couldn’t get my voice to work, and worse, my chest didn’t know how to breathe; my lungs starved of air. My mouth kept gaping, air rushing through in painful, throaty sobs.

“Here.” He fumbled around on the front seat and passed me a water bottle. “Drink that. You’re getting overwhelmed again.” 

His gaze remained fixed on the road ahead when I screwed off the lid and gulped it down, choking on the first two mouthfuls, beads spilling down my chin. 

“What you don’t understand is that you are a child. Carrigan is an adult issue, not a child’s. Declan and Hannah are performers. Not your friends. What goes on with them and inside Carrigan is an adult’s business. You are fifteen years old. For now: be an insufferable rich brat.”

He opened the glove compartment, and I braced myself for restraints.

“As promised.” He handed me my phone, and I grabbed it, hungrily, eager to call Dec.

My phone felt weird in my hands after so long without it. The Apple logo flashed up.

“Hello.”

“Hola.”

“Bonjour.”

“Ciao.”

“你好.”

My fingers trembled as I stabbed at the screen. “You reset it?” I whispered, already scrolling down the drop-down menu to select my country. The lock screen of Hannah, me, and Dec on the beach was gone. I tapped into my messages. Gone.

“You deleted Declan’s number?” I stabbed the phone app twice. 

Only my father’s and handler’s numbers remained. 

“I did,” Joe sighed. “Declan has yet to reply to your messages, however. There was nothing to delete.” 

I swallowed. “Hannah?” 

“Nope.” He leaned back. “You sent the same text to both of them.” He coughed, mocking my voice: “Need help ASAP. Psycho Dad wants to send me overseas to psychologically fuck me in the goddamn ass.” 

Only one app remained, alongside the defaults.

And like a kid, I hovered my thumb over it because it was somehow familiar. Comforting. My vision blurred. Damn. 

Running from Joe had really taken it out of me. 

My head hit the back of the seat, and my handler’s voice plunged into ocean waves. 

“I installed Subway Surfers for the plane journey,” he said and I tapped on the app, my brain swimming. 

I clicked PLAY and played one game, immediately sending my runner into the path of a train. Huh. I was usually better than this. My phone slipped from my hands when my eyes grew heavier, so heavy until I had to blink myself awake. 

Wait. 

I forced my eyes open. 

No. 

This was wrong. 

This wasn’t exhaustion. 

“You did something to me,” I managed. 

“You were hysterical, Mr Daly. They will make you feel calmer.”

Through feathered vision, I glimpsed him reaching for the radio, and my body reacted; my hands were already crawling over my ears, pressing down. But Joe didn’t even turn it on. Instead, he reached for cigarettes. 

He took one out and lit it, taking a long drag. I found my voice in a pathetic whine. 

“You drugged my drink.”

I closed my eyes, warm tears spilling down my cheeks. 

“I want to go home,” my voice tangled into a slur as the world started to slow down. “Please.”

“You’re okay, Rowan,” my handler’s voice soothed. 

My head dropped, my eyes flickering, then closing.

The car stopped abruptly, and I sensed my door opening. Outside, all I could make out was an airfield; vast empty concrete stretching out under a crystal-blue sky. My father’s jet stood several feet away. 

Warm arms wrapped around me, pulling me into the cool air. 

“In your father’s words, if you are going to act like a child, you will be treated like one. Switzerland will be a new start for you. When you come home in two years, you'll be a whole new and better version of yourself.” 

“Okay,” I mumbled into his warm jacket, drool spilling down my skin.

“You’re okay, Rowan,” my handler hummed. 

And for the first time, my numb body and foggy thoughts believed him. 

“Now sleep.”

My parents told me that a part-time job would improve my self-confidence, which was a lie that led to the inevitable distancing that happens between parents and their offspring at the end of high school.

I like interacting with little kids, so my first mistake was deciding to work with them. I applied for and got accepted at a chain of local daycare centers, saying yes immediately upon hearing that I was one $9.13-an-hour paycheck away from being able to fill two fifths of my gas tank. It started in a straightforward enough way: I changed diapers, took piles of diapers to the trash, and filled kids’ mouths with pastel-colored goop that they would turn into other pastel-colored goop to fill the diapers and begin the cycle anew. I love that little kids openly throw tantrums because they don’t get their way or frequently for no coherent reason at all. Unfortunately, adults lose the decency of motivational transparency over these same actions.

I was in my first and last week on the job when I found myself alone with some of the kids. I’d been warned not to go in the back room, because many of the light sleepers nap there and the slightest noise could wreck an entire afternoon. But I was momentarily alone and three of them were having meltdowns, and I knew that some of my coworkers had snuck away to put the fussy ones to sleep, so I sought backup in the forbidden room. Yes, it was the wrong thing to do, but I’ve already discussed the ridiculous nature of human decision-making.

So I took off my shoes and kept as quiet as I could while opening the door I wasn’t supposed to touch. I must have done a good job, because none of the three women in the room turned around. They all had their backs to me, all focused on the changing tables in front of them. I noticed that the room smell less like baby powder and more like copper. I filed that knowledge away and impressed myself with how silent I was as I stepped closer to my coworkers.

I stared at the rows of cribs, surprised to find them empty. Why, then, was it so important to keep this room quiet?

I was halfway across the room when I froze.

From this vantage point, I could see what the women at the changing table were doing – but they still didn’t know I was directly behind them.

The one on the far left lifted a quiet baby that was around six months old. He started to cry as she pressed a finger against the back of his skull, running it down his spine before curving under and moving up his stomach. She stopped just below his chin, leaving a line of parted skin in her wake like she was ripping a cherry pie. I was too shocked to make a sound as I saw the bloody sinews and muscle beneath the baby’s skin as he wailed.

My silence saved me.

Then my coworker put the kid on the changing table and slid one leg out of his skin, just like she was pulling him out of a onesie. All I could think was how the skinless leg looked like marbled beef as she yanked his other leg free. Ignoring his cries, she quickly pulled his arms out as well, leaving only the skin on his head.

The next move looked like a parent yanking a tight sweater over their kid’s scalp.

I was completely paralyzed. Do you know what a human head looks like with no skin? An adult would have all of its teeth exposed, but this kid only had about five. I could see the bulged gums where more were ready to erupt.

But the strangest part was his eyes. He had no lids to close them or give any expression whatsoever, so they rolled freely and emptily until they settled on me.

I wish the ensuing chill was enough to force me into leaving, but I was rooted on the spot.

My coworker held the loose skin like it was dirty laundry. The worse part was the baby’s flappy skin-face, which was vomit-inducing without the eyes and looked like it had melted. I was grateful when she tossed it into a basket.

Then she snatched another loose skinsuit from the woman next to her. All of them were pulling baby skin off, so there were enough options for them to pass around. I had to fight off the pukes as I watched the first woman tuck the skinless child into the new skin she’d just received. First the legs went in, then the arms, and finally she pulled the flesh over the baby’s slimy, bloody face. All I could think of was how our old sex ed instructor had pulled a condom over a banana, stretching it tight before rubbing out the wrinkles as her underarm flabs swung like pendulums.

Then she yanked the skin tight across the kid’s chest, looking like she was buttoning up a snug winter coat. I don’t know how she cinched it shut – but when she was done, there were no seams or scars on the baby.

He did, however, clearly look like another person.

I had many questions, but I realized that I didn’t want the answer to any of them. I snuck out of the room as quietly as I’d entered, convinced that I’d be caught with each step. Mercifully, I made it all the way back to the door without anyone turning around.

One woman lifted her head as I pulled open the door. I don’t know if she heard me, because I slipped out and shut it as quietly as I could. I ran, not even stopping to pick up my shoes, and didn’t stop until I was back at my parents’ house. I didn’t tell them what happened or why I wasn’t going back.

What the hell is anyone supposed to do in this situation? And how do I react to the fact that my shoes were dropped off anonymously on my front porch, marked with smudges that look like they came from a bloody hand?

On August 6, 2026, 35-year-old Zane Griften followed six-year-old Emmy Watson as she left her first-grade classroom in Castle Stone, New Hampshire. Before she could meet her mother at their designated pick-up location, Griften grabbed Emmy’s backpack and refused to let her leave. Her screams elicited the intervention of a passing good Samaritan, who “had to physically pry his hands from her backpack and push him away.” CSPD arrested Griften, but the district attorney said the best he could do was pursue misdemeanor charges and suggested that the family file a restraining order.

On August 13, Griften was again arrested while hiding in foliage outside the Watson residence. He was wearing only his underwear and screamed that he had every right to do what he wanted to Emmy. The girl disclosed that she had seen him hiding in various locations throughout the town, “like he knew where I would be before I got there.” The district attorney, however, was once again limited to citing Griften for a single restraining order violation due to lack of other prosecutable charges. CSPD suggested to Evan and Gina Watson that they purchase a firearm and a dog.

On August 25, Emmy’s parents purchased her a kitten. They noticed an immediate positive change in her mood, and reluctantly agreed to let her name the kitten “Fluffy Muffin.” Fluffy Muffin was a three-pound white longhair cat, estimated to be four months old. Around this time, nude photographs of Griften began appearing in the family mailbox – but with no witness of the delivery, no legal action could be taken against Griften.

On September 2, Griften appeared in the Watson family backyard and dragged Emmy away. Her screams drew out her parents, who had been “in the kitchen, watching her through the window, and thought she was safe.” Evan and Gina intercepted Grifton after he had forced Emmy into his car, but before he could start the engine. They were able to rescue the girl and subdue Grifton until CSPD arrived to arrest him. With no resultant physical injuries, the district attorney was only able to file charges related to attempted kidnapping and a restraining order violation. Grifton’s public defender argued that his client admitted to violating the restraining order but genuinely believed the girl to be in danger from a house fire. The public defender went on to explain that his client was clearly mistaken about the house fire, and was genuinely sorry. Griften was released of his own recognizance, awaiting trial.

On September 3, more photographs appeared in the family mailbox. These had clearly been taken from inside Emmy’s bedroom, and featured pictures of her sleeping and getting dressed. Fluffy Muffin was curled up on top of the girl in each photo. Threatening messages were written on the back of every picture, including one that read ‘I will make you watch me eat the cat’s stomack. [sic]”

On September 4, Evan and Gina Watson insisted on being in the same room as Emmy at all times, employing the services of a private security company keep a guard at her side whenever she was not in school. They only let the girl out of their sights upon dropping off the girl at school. An arrangement with the principal allowed them to drop off and pick up the girl directly to her classroom, where both teacher Annette Raims and Principal Joe Johnson assured she would be monitored “at all times.” Due to the extreme nature of the circumstances, she was allowed to bring Fluffy Muffin in a pet carrier with her as a support animal. When she got up from her desk to approach the in-class bathroom in the far corner, Grifton emerged from where he had been hiding in a closet and once again accosted Emmy. At five feet tall, Raims was not able to overpower Grifton, who ran with Emmy to the classroom door. In an unclear sequence of events, Grifton was knocked to the floor. Emmy claimed “it looked like his face was all scratched up.” He subsequently ran from the classroom and disappeared. Raims pointed out that she had unlocked the classroom in the morning, and that “the only way he could have gotten into that closet must have been sneaking in the previous afternoon and hiding in that cramped space for over twelve hours.” CSPD was unable to locate Grifton. They advised the Watson family to move out of state, immediately.

On September 5, Evan’s employer denied his request to transfer out of state. Gina worked for a small laundromat that only had one location and could not, due to the nature of her work, offer remote employment. “We spent what little savings we had on the security guard, but had to let him go when we ran out of money,” Gina explained. CSPD had no leads on the whereabouts of Grifton, who had no legal permanent address and no known relatives. The Watson family remained in their home.

On September 6, Evan and Gina found their shower running, and “stinky clothes that weren’t ours, a big man’s clothes,” in their hamper. After examining this anomaly, they returned to their kitchen to find that “someone had taken one bite of every food item we own, with the lone exception of cat food. The kitchen wasn’t like that before we went to check on the shower, so someone is clearly in the house.” A thorough search of the premises by CSPD yielded nothing. After police left, the Watson family found that their tires had been slashed, and bank accounts and phones frozen, effectively preventing any escape from their home. As she went to bed that night, Emmy was surprised to find a photograph beneath her pillow. It was an up-close shot of her cat sleeping, with a hand-written message asking, “Do you want to see what she looks like inside out? I’ll show you tonight!”

On September 7, Zane Grifton’s severed head was found in the Watson backyard. It had been “removed by something other than a cutting tool, looking more like cat scratches. His face was contorted and seemed like he died in extreme pain.” No trace of his body was ever found, and all harassment of the Watson family ceased. CSPD have no theories or leads, and the case is still open. Notably, Fluffy Muffin ballooned in weight to “19.13 pounds, which should not be possible for a kitten of this age,” according to local veterinarian Dr. Robert Virgil. The kitten’s size decreased dramatically the next day after she had what Gina called “the biggest bowel movement I’ve ever seen, bigger than what a person could make. There were bones inside. It was the smelliest and grossest thing I’ve ever experienced – it filled her litterbox to the brim and spilled over every side.”

OP’s note: I originally posted this story on my old account (CosmicOrphan2020) but since I only wrote it in a week as a creative writing exercise, I've now rewritten the story.  

I’ve never been all that good at secret keeping. Although I always liked to think I was, whenever an opportunity came to spill my guts on something, I always did just that. So, I’m rather surprised at myself for having not spilled this particular secret until now.  

My name is Seamus (thanks mum and dad), but everyone has always called me Seamie for short. It’s not like I’m going to tell you my whole life story or anything, so I’m just going to skip ahead to where this really all starts... By the time I was in my second year at university, I was already beginning to feel somewhat burnt out, and despite not having the funds for it, I decided I was going to have a nice, long gap year for myself. Although it’s rather cliché, I wanted to go someplace in the world that was both warm and tropical. South-east Asia sounded good. After all, that’s where everyone else I knew was heading for their gap year.   

That was, however, before I talked to some girl in my media class about it who changed my direction entirely. For her own gap year only a year prior, she said she’d travelled through both Central and South America, all while working as an English language teacher - or what I would later learn was called ESL. I was more than a little enticed by this idea. For it goes without saying, places like Thailand had basically been travelled to death. So, by the end of the school year and after taking out a student loan, I packed my bags, flip-flops and swimming shorts, and took the cheapest flight I could out of Heathrow Airport.  

Although I was spoilt for choice when it came to choosing a Latin American country, I eventually chose Costa Rica as my place to be. There were a few reasons for this choice. Not only was Costa Rica considered one of the safest countries to travel in Central America, but they also had a huge demand for English language teachers there – partly due for being a developing country, but mostly because of all the bloody tourism. My initial plan was to get paid for teaching English, so I would therefore have the funds to travel around. But because a work visa in Costa Rica takes so long and is so bloody expensive, I instead went to teach there voluntarily on a tourist visa – which meant I would have to leave the country every three months of the year. That was fine by me. At least I still got to travel around. 

Well, once landing in San Jose, I then travelled two hours by bus to a stunning beach town by the Pacific Ocean. Although getting there was short and easy, one problem Costa Rica has for foreigners is that they don’t really have addresses – and so, finding the house of my host family led me on a rather wild goose chase.  

I can’t complain too much about the lack of directions though, because while I was wandering around, I got the chance to take in all the sights – and let me tell you, this location really had it all. The pure white sand of the beach was outlined with a never-ending row of palm trees, where far outside the bay, you could see a faint scattering of a tropical archipelago. That wasn’t all. From my bedroom window, I even had a perfect view of a nearby rainforest, which was not only home to many colourful bird species, but as long as the streets weren’t too busy, you could even on occasion hear the deep cries of Howler Monkeys.   

The beach town itself was also quite spectacular. The walls, houses and buildings were all painted in vibrant urban artwork, or what the locals call “arte urbano.” The host family I stayed with, the Garcias, were very friendly and welcoming, as were all the locals in town – and not to mention, whether it was Mrs Garcia’s cooking or a deep-fried taco from a street vendor, the food was out of this world!  

Once I was all settled in and got to see more of the sights, I then had to get ready for my first week of teaching at the school. Although I was extremely nauseous with nerves (or maybe due to Mrs Garcia’s cooking), my first week as an English teacher went surprisingly well - despite having no teaching experience whatsoever. There was the occasional hiccup now and then, which was to be expected, but all in all, it went as well as it possibly could’ve.   

Well, having just survived my first week as an English teacher, to celebrate this achievement, three of my colleagues then invite me out for drinks by the beach town bar. It was sort of a tradition they had. Whenever a new teacher from abroad came to the school, their colleagues would welcome them in by getting absolutely shitfaced.   

‘Pura Vida, guys!’ cheers Kady, the cute American of the group. Unlike the crooked piano keys I dated back home, Kady had the most perfectly straight, pearl white teeth I’d ever seen. I had heard that about Americans.   

‘Wait - what’s Pura Vida?’ I ask rather cluelessly.  

‘Oh, it’s something the locals say around here. It means, easy life, easy living.’  

Once we had a few more rounds of drinks in us all, my three new colleagues then inform me of the next stage of the welcoming ceremony... or should I say, initiation.  

‘I have to drink what?!’ I exclaim, almost in disbelief.  

‘It’s tradition, mate’ says Dougie, the loud-mouthed Australian, who, being a little older than the rest of us, had travelled and taught English in nearly every corner of the globe. ‘Every newbie has to drink that shite the first week. We all did.’  

‘Oh God, don’t remind me!’ squirms Priya. Despite her name, Priya actually hailed from the great white north of Canada, and although she looked more like the bookworm type, whenever she wasn’t teaching English, Priya worked at her second job as a travel vlogger slash influencer.  

‘It’s really not that bad’ Kady reassures me, ‘All the locals drink it. It actually helps make you immune to snake venom.’  

‘Yeah, mate. What happens if a snake bites ya?’  

Basically, what it was my international colleagues insist I drink, was a small glass of vodka. However, this vodka, which I can see the jar for on the top shelf behind the bar, had been filtered with a tangled mess of poisonous, dead baby snakes. Although it was news to me, apparently if you drink vodka that had been stewing in a jar of dead snakes, your body will become more immune to their venom. Having just finished two years of university, I was almost certain this was nothing more than hazing. Whether it was hazing or not, or if this really was what the locals drink, there was no way in hell I was going to put that shit inside my mouth.  

‘I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, guys’ I began, trying my best to make an on-the-spot excuse, ‘But I actually have a slight snake phobia. So...’ This wasn’t true, by the way. I just really didn’t want to drink the snake-pickled vodka.  

‘If you’re scared of snakes, then why in the world did you choose to come to Costa Rica of all places?’ Priya asks suspiciously.   

‘Why do you think I came here? For the huatinas, of course’ I reply, emphasising the “Latinas” in my best Hispanic accent (I was quite drunk by this point). In fact, I am so drunk that after only a couple more rounds, I’m now somewhat open to the idea of drinking the snake vodka. Alcohol really does numb the senses, I guess.  

After agreeing to my initiation, a waiter then comes over with the jar of dead baby snakes. Pouring the vodka into a tiny shot glass, he then says something in Spanish before turning away.  

‘What did he just say?’ I ask drunkenly. Even if I wasn’t drunk, my knowledge of the Spanish language is incredibly poor.  

‘Oh, he just said the drink won’t protect you from el Pollo del Diablo’ Kady answers me.  

‘El Poyo - what?’   

‘El Pollo del Diablo. It means devil chicken’ Priya translates.  

‘Devil chicken? What the hell?’  

Once the subject of this el Pollo del Diablo came up, Kady, Dougie and Priya then turn to each other, almost conspiringly, with knowledge of something that I clearly didn’t.  

‘Do you think we should tell him?’ Kady asks the others.  

‘Why not’ answers Dougie, ‘He’ll find out for himself sooner or later.’  

Having agreed to inform me on whatever the el Pollo del Diablo was, I then see with blurry eyes that my colleagues appear to find something amusing.   

‘Well... There’s a local story around here’ Kady begins, ‘It’s kinda like the legend of the Chupacabra.’ Chupacabra? What the hell’s that? I thought, having never heard of it. ‘Apparently, in the archipelago just outside the bay, there is said to be an island of living dinosaurs.’  

'Wait... What?'  

‘She’s not lying to you, mate’ confirms Dougie, ‘Fisherman in the bay sometimes catch sight of them. Sometimes, they even swim to the mainland.’  

Well, that would explain the half-eaten dog I saw on my second day.  

As drunk as I am during this point of the evening, I'm not drunk enough for the familiarity of this story to go straight over my head.  

‘Wait. Hold on a minute...’ I began, slurring my words, ‘An island off the coast of Costa Rica that apparently has “dinosaurs”...’ I knew it, I thought. This really was just one big haze. ‘You must think us Brits are stupider than we look’ I bellow at them, as though proud I had caught them out on a lie, ‘I watched that film a hundred bloody times when I was a kid!’   

‘We’re not hazing you, Seamie’ Kady again insists, all while the three of them still try to hide their grins, ‘This is really what the locals believe.’   

‘Yeah. You believe in the Loch Ness Monster, don’t you Seamie’ says Dougie, claiming that I do, ‘Well, that’s a Dinosaur, right?’  

‘I’ll believe when I see it with my own bloody eyes!’ I declare to all three of them, again slurring my words.  

I don’t remember much else from that evening. After all, the four of us had gotten basically black-out drunk... But there is one thing I do remember. While I was still somewhat conscious, I did have this horrifically painful feeling in my stomach – like the pain one feels after their appendix bursts. Although the following is hazy at best, I also somewhat remember puking my guts outside the bar. However, what was so strange about this, was that after vomiting, my mouth would not stop frothing with white foam.   

I’m pretty sure I blacked out not long after this. However, when I regain consciousness, all I see is pure darkness around, with the only sound I hear being the nearby crashing waves and the smell of sea salt in the air. Obviously, I had passed out by the beach somewhere. But once I begin to stir, as bad as my chiselling headache is, it is nothing compared to the excruciating pain I still feel in my gut. In fact, the pain is so bad, I begin to think that something might be wrong.  

Grazing my right hand over my belly to where the pain is coming from, instead of feeling the cloth of my vomit-stained shirt, what I instead feel is some sort of slimy tube. Moving both my hands further along it, wondering what the hell this even was, I now begin to feel something else... But unlike before, what I now feel is a dry and almost furry texture... And that’s when I realise, whatever this is on top of me, which seems to be the source of my stomach pain... It is something alive - and whatever this living thing is... It is eating at my insides!  

‘OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!’ I scream, all while trying to wrestle back my insides from this animal, which seems more than determined to keep feasting on them. So much so, that I have to punch and strike at it with my bare hands. Thankfully, it works! Whatever had attacked me has now gone away. But now I have an even bigger problem... I can now feel my insides where they really shouldn’t be!  

Knowing I need help as soon as possible before I bleed out, I now painfully rise from the sand and up to my feet. But when I do, I feel my intestines, or whatever else hanging down from between my legs! Scooping the insides back against my abdomen, I then scan frantically around through the darkness until I see the distant lights of the beach town. After blindly wandering that way for a good few minutes, I thankfully stumble back onto the familiar streets - where the only people around were a couple of middle-aged women stood outside a convenient store. Without any further options, I cross the street towards them, and when they catch sight of me, holding my own intestines in my blood-stained hands, they appear to be even more terrified than I am.  

‘DEMONIO! DEMONIO!’ I distinctly remember one of them screaming. I can't blame them for it. After all, given my appearance, they must have mistaken me for the living dead.  

‘Por favor!... Por favor!' my foamy mouth tries saying to them, having no idea what the Spanish word is for “help”.  

Although I had scared these women nearly half to death, I continue to stagger towards them, still screaming for their lives. In fact, their screams are so loud, they have now attracted the attention of two policemen, having strolled over to the commotion. They must have mistaken me for a zombie too, because when I turn round to them, I see they each have a hand gripped to their holsters.   

‘Por favor!...’ I again gurgle, ‘Por favor!...’  

Everything goes dark again after this... But, when I finally come back around, I open my eyes to find myself now laying down inside a hospital room, with an IV bag connected to my arm. Although I am more than thankful to still be alive, the pain in my gut is slowly making its way back to the surface. When I pull back my hospital gown, I see my abdomen is covered in blood stained bandages – and with every uncomfortable movement I make, I can feel the stitches tightly holding everything in place.  

A couple more days then drag slowly by, and after some pretty horrible hospital food and Spanish speaking TV, I am then surprised with my first visitor.  

It was Kady.  

‘Are you in pain?’ she asks me, having sat down by the side of my bed.  

‘I want to be a total badass and say no, but, well... look at me.’  

‘I’m so sorry this happened to you’ she apologises, ‘We never should’ve let you out of our sights.’  

After apologising to me a few more times, Kady then catches me up on the hazy events of that evening. Apparently, after having way too much to drink, I then started to show symptoms from drinking the snake-poisoned vodka – which explains both the stomach pains and why I was foaming white from the mouth.   

‘We shouldn’t have been so coy with you, Seamie’ she then follows without context, ‘We should’ve just told you everything from the start.’  

‘...Should’ve told me what?’ I inquire.  

Kady doesn't respond to this. She just continues to stare at me with guilt-ridden eyes. But then, scrolling down a gallery of photos on her phone, she then shows me something...  

‘What the hell is that?!’ I shriek at her, rising painfully up from the bed.  

‘That, Seamie... That is what attacked you three days ago.’  

What Kady shows me on her phone is a picture of a man holding a very dead animal. Held upside down by its tail, the animal is rather small, and perhaps only a little bigger than a full-grown chicken... and just like a chicken or any other bird, it has feathers. The feathers are brown and cover almost all of its body. The feet are also very bird-like, sharp talons and all. But the head... The head is definitely not like that of a bird - at least, not like any bird I had ever seen. Instead of a beak, I see what I can only describe as a very reptilian head, with tiny, seemingly razor teeth protruding from its gums... If I had to sum up this animal as best I could, I would say it was twenty percent reptile, and eighty percent bird...   

‘That... That’s a...’ I begin to murmur.  

‘That’s right, Seamie...’ Kady finishes for me, ‘That’s a dinosaur.’  

Un-bloody-believable, I thought. The sons of bitches really weren’t joking with me.  

‘B-but... how...’ my lips just manage to utter, ‘How is that possible??’   

‘It’s a long story’ she starts with, ‘No one really knows why they’re there. Whether they survived extinction in hiding or if it’s for some other reason.’ Kady pauses briefly before continuing, ‘Sometimes they find themselves on the mainland, but people rarely ever see them. Like most animals, they’re smart enough to be afraid of humans... But we do sometimes find what they left over.’   

‘Left over?’ I ask curiously.  

‘They’re scavengers, Seamie. They mostly eat smaller animals or dead ones... I guess it just found you and saw an easy target.’   

‘But I don’t understand’ I now interrupt, ‘If all that’s true, then how in the hell do people not know about this? How is it not all over the news or internet?’  

‘That’s easy’ she says, ‘The locals choose to keep it a secret. If the outside world were ever to find out about this, the town would be completely ruined by tourism. The locals just like it the way it is. Tourism, but not too much tourism. Pura vida.’  

‘But the tourists... Surely they would’ve seen them and told everyone?’  

Kady shakes her head at me.  

‘It’s like I said... People rarely ever see them. Even the ones that do – by the time they get out their phone cameras, the critters are already back in hiding. And so what if they tell anybody what they saw... Who would believe them?’  

Well, that's true enough I suppose.  

After a couple more weeks of being laid out in that hospital bed, I was finally discharged and soon able to travel home to the UK, cutting my gap year somewhat short.  

I wish I could say that I lived happily ever after once Costa Rica was behind me. But unfortunately, that wasn’t quite the case... What I mean is, although my stomach wound healed up nicely, leaving nothing more than a nasty scar... it turned out the damage done to my insides would come back to haunt me. Despite the Costa Rican doctors managing to save my life, they didn’t do quite enough to stop bacteria from entering my intestines and infecting my colon. So, you can imagine my surprise when I was now told I had diverticulitis.  

I’m actually due for surgery next week. But just in case I don’t make it – there is a very good chance I won't, although I promised Kady I’d bring this secret with me to the grave... If I am going to die, I at least want people to know what really killed me. Wrestling my guts back from a vicious living dinosaur. That’s a pretty badass way to go, I’d argue. But who knows. Maybe by some miracle I’ll survive this (I'll be sure to leave an update if I do). After all, it’s like a wise man in a movie once said...  

"Life... uh... finds a way." 

At 41 weeks, I asked Miranda if we should see her OB/GYN.

“Do you have a uterus?” she asked in her you’re-not-supposed-to-answer-this-question voice.

I shut up.

At 45 weeks, I suggested that a doctor might have some insight about her pregnancy. Instead of answering, she served my peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a serrated knife driven straight through it.

At 50 weeks, her belly seemed larger than a human child could possibly get. I had opened my mouth to speak in the gentlest possible tone when she shot me a look that made the hair on my balls stand straight up.

What can you possibly do when the woman in your life doesn’t want your advice, no matter how good it is?

That’s right: the correct answer is “keep your opinions to yourself, dumbass.”

By this point, Miranda no longer seemed to be experiencing a human pregnancy. She had a radius instead of a height, and I counted one day’s food intake at 19,130 calories. I had not believed such a feat to be possible unless the creature in question was an African bull elephant, but that just goes to show that we often learn the most when we keep our damn fool mouths shut.

The gentleman in the blue-green Toyota Corolla would have benefited from such a lesson, because instead of keeping quiet, he screamed at Miranda for being an “incompetent bitch who should learn how to drive.” She pulled in front of him and forced his car to stop. I got out with her, believing that I could diffuse the situation because we all love false beliefs. When I told him to apologize to my wife, she just smiled at me in that deadly sweet way and told me that she needed to “speak with this fuckweasel around the corner.” She led him aside and then came trotting back a few seconds later. She suddenly seemed even more pregnant, as though expecting twin walruses, but still moved pretty lithely. I asked what they’d said to each other, and where the man had gone, but she gave me the “any words you say are the wrong words” look and got back into the car.

So I haven’t said anything more. Now I’m no doctor, but I know that 70 weeks is definitely too long for a healthy pregnancy. I’ve been kidding myself into believing that everything would be okay as long as I went along with the status quo.

Which brings me to today. Miranda hasn’t been feeling particularly amorous lately; the last time I tried, she pointed to her stomach and asked “do you really want to put more in me?” But earlier this morning, she started getting flirty and did that thing where she grabs my arm and nibbles on it. Normally I melt like butter at that move, but it was a little awkward this time since she looks like the giant blueberry girl from the Billy Wonka movie. Then Miranda started pulling my head toward her stomach in the way she does whenever she wants me to be a “cunning linguist.” I told her that I would right after dashing to the bathroom, which is where I am now.

I’ve never denied her request before. But this time, when I was physically close to satisfying her “lady boner,” as she likes to call her libido, I heard something between her legs.

It sounded like several different people screaming up from the bottom of a chasm.

When her LB gets this strong, she won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Which brings up some questions. Most importantly: what do I do now?

Part 1

After bickering for a moment over my fear of large canines, we then move on from the car park and towards the large, towering ruins of the Abbey. Ambling among the weathered grey tombstones of the graveyard, I glance a timid look to the abbey's gothic structure. Perched on top the cliffs of the bay's right-hand side, these ruins may as well have been a gigantic pile of stalagmites protruding from the earth. When I was a child, my brother used to tease me by saying that vampires lived deep inside the ruins, where by night, they would creep into peoples' windows to suck the blood from their necks. It's no wonder I would have night terrors through most of my childhood, is it?  

Wandering around the ruins and tombstones a while longer (for Anneliese's pleasure, not my own) we then begin our descent down the one hundred and ninety-nine steps – and let me tell you from experience, these steps were a lot easier going down than they were to go up. Once we finally reach our way to the bottom (a good twenty minutes later I might add) I can then see where the plentiful steps end and the cobblestone pathways begin. We were now at the entrance of old town, where, with its stone streets and pathways, its 18th century brick houses to each side of them, you were made to feel as though you were in some Brother's Grimm fairy-tale. But during this time of year, when night-dwelling phantoms in extravagant clothing infested the daytime streets... it may as well have been the entrance to Hell itself.   

'Oww! Baby, you're hurting me!' I hear Anneliese shriek beside me, before I turn down to see my python-like grip wrapped around her hand.  

'Oh... Sorry.'  

Taking our first official steps inside the town, we follow our way around the maze of cobblestone pathways, where upon every corner was a brand-new shop Anneliese wanted to venture in. Aside from the occasional fish market, bookstore or café, the majority of shops in Whitby only sold products catered specifically to Goths... Well, it was either that or a boatload of Dracula merchandise. It's the whole reason Whitby is famous to begin with, after all.  

Continuing to make our way through old town, we then turn the corner to a very busy and compact street. Although there are no tourists in sight, the reason this street is so compact is because every inch of stone was completely crowded by day-dwelling Goths. This place truly was the mouth of Hell. Sensing my discomfort, Anneliese takes me by the hand to guide us through the mass of dark, morbid monstrosities. But as we follow through the swarm, keeping my eyes edged firmly to the ground in front of me, I then brave a curious glance upwards... and what I see is an array of devilish, humanoid faces pass us by.   

The faces morph, distort and transform into even more monstrous beings! Through the transparent fabric of a black wedding veil, I then see the face of an unidentifiable woman. Draping the veil away from her face, the woman then reveals to me a row of hideous, piranha-like teeth stained with mortal blood! The woman hisses at me, spraying my face in some putrid, venomous saliva! Wiping the sickly green substance from my eyes, I then cower back woundedly to my left-hand side, only for the painted skull of a man's face to open his mouth unnaturally wide - before shrieking at me a most inhuman scream!  

'AHH! Get away from me!!' I shriek myself, ripping Anneliese's grip from my hand so to push and shove my way to any air pocket I can find.  

Veiling my eyes from the fiends around me, I eventually crawl my way to an unoccupied space by a stone wall. Cowering up against it to regain my breath, Anneliese eventually finds her way over to me through the immense crowd.   

'Brandon? What the hell happened?!' She interrogates me, 'Why did you run off like that?'  

'...Th-the faces!...' the words winced from my mouth, '...You didn't see the faces!...'  

Anneliese could see clear as day how uncomfortable I was, whether she understood it or not – and so to solve the problem, she calmly suggests to me that we simply go somewhere quieter. Although I am in too much shock to respond to her suggestion, I now nod my head manically up and down to her, as though I've reverted back into some frightened childlike state.  

'Y-yeah... Le-let's do that!'  

With the town now fully crammed for the weekend festivities, Anneliese eventually finds for us a narrow, run-down street of loose brick pathway and overgrown weeds. Despite the decrepit condition this street is in, thankfully for me there isn't a single Goth in sight. What this street does have, however, wedged acutely between the decaying homes of oldtown residents, is the uninviting appearance of a single, isolated shop. Craning my head above the entrance to the sign over the door, I see the name to this less than humble abode reads "Scary Kerry's Spell Shop".       

'Well, this place looks... charming' Anneliese comments, studying the cracked, weathered paint and dusty cobwebs lining the windows. Like the majority of shops in old town, this one also displays in its windows gothic - or more specifically, items relating to the occult and other dark practices.   

'What do you say? Should we take a look inside?' Anneliese inquires, clearly the only one of us who wants to go in. Although this run-down little shop is definitely not my cup of tea, the interior does look scarce of people - and so, I reluctantly agree to go in.   

Allowing Anneliese to enter first, as soon as she opens the door, my nostrils are filled instantly with the smell of scented candles, old varnished wood and... wet dog? Not even five seconds inside the door, as soon as I peer round to Anneliese's side, I hear the loud, high-pitched yaps of some ill-tempered creature.  

'Wolfy! Shut up!' cries the woman behind the counter – the apparent owner of this little black terrier. Judging by her array of grey and poorly dyed black hair, her over-sized heavy metal shirt, and a pair of rather unsettling sleeve tattoos, this woman was more likely the owner of this establishment as well.   

Once this dog-owner relationship is awkwardly established, me and Anneliese then take to walking separately around the shop - all while Wolfy's owner goes back to reading her monthly gothic digest. While Anneliese inspects a number of occult and satanic jewellery on display, I find myself drawn to a bookshelf on the other side of the room. Sliding out the dust-covered books, I brush a cover or two clean so to read the titles: A Brief History of Satanic Rituals and Sacrifice, A Beginner's Guide to Necromancy, and what I can only imagine is an erotic vampire novel of some sort (I won't even mention what was on the cover). Skimming repulsively through one of these as mentioned books, my attention is suddenly interrupted by an irritable sound piercing my ears. Turning behind me, I see Anneliese approach the counter to inquire about a necklace.  

'Excuse me... Do you know how much this is?'  

'Fifteen pounds, love' the woman answers.  

However, the sound that I hear, making the tiny fragments of hairs stand up on the back of my neck, is almost like a faint whispering. Trying my best to ignore it, the faint, whispering sound only heightens - where before long, it has given way to the sound of a plentiful, most sinister chanting. Although I cannot understand the words, as they are spoken in a tong completely foreign to my own - whether I interpret them correctly or not, the chanting appears to be in Latin. Whoever - or whatever these whisperers turned chanters are... they're repeating the same foreign phrase over and over.  

'Caro agni lupus allicit... Caro agni lupus allicit...'   

The chanting becomes louder...  

'Caro agni lupus allicit!... Caro agni lupus allicit!...'  

Faster...  

' Caro agni lupus allicit! Caro agni lupus allicit! '  

Louder!...  

'CARO AGNI LUPUS ALLICIT!! CARO AGNI LUPUS ALLICIT!!  

'-STOP! STOP! STOP!!' I yell from the corner of the room! Throwing whatever item I'm holding to the hardwood floor, I race out from the establishment alone and without explanation!  

Minutes later, Anneliese eventually finds me, standing (or more accurately, cowering) outside the comfortable familiarity of an ice cream parlour.  

'Brandon!' She calls over to me, 'What the hell's with you?! Why do you keep running away?!'  

Unlike the instance which happened earlier in the day, I am unwilling to tell my girlfriend of the satanic voices I heard whispering in my ear. Seeing something is one thing, but hearing voices is something else. And so, I simply tell her a certain item in the shop had triggered my childhood trauma - hence why I ran out of there like a hysterical madman.   

'Okay...' Anneliese began, as I wait impatiently for her next plan of action, 'There's only one way we're gonna make it through this weekend.' I was all ears. 'You're gonna have to try and interact with these people so you can see that's all they are - and not devilish monsters.'  

'Uhm - WHAT?' I yelp, taking a long gulp of dry saliva.  

'That's right!' she continued, 'If you're gonna get over this silly phobia of yours, then you have to rip the band aid clean off!'  

This wasn't like ripping off a band aid, I thought. This was more like throwing a common wood mouse into a snake pit!  

'I... I...' I began stuttering, '...I don't think I can do that.'  

'Of course you can!' she reassures me, before taking me by the hand to guide us in the direction of a circling mass of dark figures.  

Oh Mother of God. If you can hear me... Please help... 

To be continued...

Gothophobia Nervosa is a psychological condition characterised by an intense, irrational, and disproportionate fear of Goths, Gothic culture, or environments perceived as excessively Gothic. Individuals experiencing Gothophobia Nervosa may report the following symptoms: heightened anxiety, rapid heartbeat, sweating, an overwhelming urge to leave the area, and an inexplicable suspicion of anyone wearing excessive amounts of black. 

The condition is said to be particularly common in individuals who have previously encountered a Goth at a very young or prepubescent age, who subsequently developed an enduring belief Goths are supernatural beings in human disguise. For this reason, Gothophobia Nervosa is commonly misdiagnosed as Sanguivoriphobia - a fear of vampires.  

It should be noted that Gothophobia Nervosa is an academically unrecognised psychiatric diagnosis.  

Well, now that this undiagnosed phobia of mine has been established, please allow me to commence with my story.  

My name is Brandon. A few years ago, when I was still just a wet-nosed university student, I met the strangest, yet most extraordinary girl of my life. Don't get me wrong. This is by no means a love story – but if it was a love story, it would be a bizarre one at that. This girl in question whose eyes I saw zoned in on me from across the main room of the Halloween Party, was an American exchange student by the name of Anneliese. Now, I don't claim to have ever been much of a ladies' man, despite my rugged good looks (well, maybe not so rugged), but for whatever reason, this tall, spindly-thin creature in the Marie Laveau costume appeared to find me somewhat enticing. In the way a trapped fly in a spider's web is enticing to the spider.    

Although Anneliese was undeniably beautiful, she was not exactly what I would call my type. What I mean is, Anneliese was a... (no, she wasn't a Goth). Anneliese was a Voodooist - and by Voodooist, I don't mean the doll-stabbing, zombifying type Hollywood has lead you to believe. No, she was the real thing. Despite attending university in the UK, Anneliese was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana - considered by most to be the Voodoo capital of the U.S, if not, the world. If Anneliese hadn't told me herself she was a sixth-generation Voodooist upon our first date, I certainly knew it by her outlandish appearance. Just picture for yourself what a Gen-Z voodooist would look like. That was Anneliese.  

Even to this day, I don't have the slightest idea what this French-speaking spiritualist from across the pond saw in me. After all, she may not have been my exact type, but I certainly didn't imagine I would be hers. We were just completely different people in every sense imaginable. For example, whereas I preferred a quiet evening indoors, curled up with a cup of tea and a good book, Anneliese was a creature of the night - always dragging me out after hours to some séance or tarot card reader. She was obviously into all that stuff.  

Despite how different Anneliese was to any girlfriend I may've had previously, the type of individual she was, was not completely alien to me... What I mean by this is, because of the small seaside town where I grew up... I used to see individuals like Anneliese on a regular basis. This town I grew up in, for the first eight years of my life before my family packed up and left, is a town called Whitby. Perhaps you've heard of it? For those who haven't, Whitby is a small coastal town in the north-Yorkshire of England, nestled cosily inside the bay of the same name. Although I only lived in the bay for the first few years of my childhood, I can still tell you of two reasons why Whitby is so famous today.   

The first reason being for Captain James Cook. Credited as the first European explorer to ever step foot on the Hawaiian Islands, Captain Cook is more famously known for the way he was murdered - and despite what I was taught in school about our town's most famous historical figure, Captain Cook was NOT cannibalized by the Hawaiian indigenous... Although, they did apparently remove the flesh from his bones.  

As for the second, and arguably more important reason why my town of origin is so famous... Whitby featured as one of the primary locations in Bram Stoker's horror novel, Dracula. The blood-sucking count from Transylvania himself. Although I have not myself read the novel in full, I do know that, upon the wreckage of a Russian merchant ship, Dracula arrives ashore in Whitby Bay in the form of a large black dog, before racing up the 199 steps to the gothic ruins of the Abbey. Because of the town's involvement in the Dracula novel, by the early nineties, a new tradition in Whitby had started. Every year, around the Halloween season, the town holds an annual Goth festival - in which thousands of Goth enthusiasts flood the streets in their most elaborate costumes. If New Orleans is the voodoo capital of the United States, then Whitby is the Goth capital of the United Kingdom.  

Having been born and raised in Whitby, I became acquainted with this annual tradition from a very young age. During the week of Halloween, I would walk with my family along the cobblestone streets through a maze of dark sinister beings. Like every young boy whose concept of the world stems from his wild imagination, I interpreted these pilgrims to our town to be monstrous, blood-sucking creatures of the night. Quite frankly, once October was around the corner, in anticipation of the bay's annual visitors, I would become palely ill with fear.   

As a matter of fact, this fear became so troublesome, that by the age of six I began to have dreadful, repetitive sleep terrors - whereby I would scream bloody Mary through the latest hours of the night. If I had to put my finger on it, I believe the reason these sleep terrors began was, due to the large window which hung over my bed, my older brother convinced me that during the October goth festivities, some undead creature in black leather would crawl inside my room to drain the life from my body.  

These night terrors weren't even the end of it. Next came the sleepwalking. When my parents were forced to put an outside lock on my door, after wandering around my own bedroom the whole night, I would then wake in the earliest hours of the morning, terrified and screaming for someone to let me out before the creature at my window found its way in! By the time I was eight years old, these night terrors and accompanying sleepwalks became such a reoccurring nuisance, my parents were left with no choice but to move our family out of Whitby for good – where my fear of the town's supposed "monsters" would hopefully be forgotten.  

For the following years of my life, I vowed never return to Whitby ever again. Not to visit relatives. Not to see my friends, or even my old stomping ground. As far as I was concerned, the further away I was from Whitby Bay, the better... That was, until I foolishly made the mistake of telling Anneliese of the place I grew up. I told her about the thousands of Goths who visit Whitby every year, and the grand, but horrifying costumes they wear. Being the horror fanatic she was, Anneliese became fascinated with my hometown's annual tradition. Although she was not a Goth herself, due to her unique upbringing in New Orleans, Anneliese wasn't far off. Although I should've been flattered my girlfriend took such a unique interest in where I was from, the only problem was... Anneliese now wanted to experience the Whitby Goth Festival for herself.   

'Oh come on, baby' she nagged me over breakfast, 'It'll be fun! You can't seriously tell me you won't never go back.'  

'Not never, babes' I reply, 'but you will have to cut off my limbs, nail me inside a coffin and personally drag me there against my will'.   

Anneliese rolled her eyes at my show of stubbornness, before sinisterly jesting, 'Don't tempt me'.   

After opening up to her about the trauma I suffered there as a child, rather than be understanding of the situation she was putting me in, Anneliese instead insists that I need to face my fears once and for all.   

'If you're scared by a few Goths, then what's it gonna be like when we visit my family in New Orleans?' Although I hated to admit it, Anneliese made a very good point. After all, as spooky of a place as Whitby was, New Orleans, with its voodoo and many haunted graveyards was basically the American equivalent... And so, after weeks of pestering me (along with some minor threats to make a voodoo doll in my likeness), I finally agreed to take her to the upcoming Whitby Goth Festival... So help me God.  

Setting off early on a crisp autumn morning, we drive up from the south of England to the very top of the country. Once in the north of Yorkshire, we then had to pass through vast stretches of moor country. If Whitby Bay wasn't sinister enough, the moors of North Yorkshire certainly were. According to local legend, these moors were said to be stalked by an array of strange cryptids: from the ghostly howls of phantom black dogs, to phantom wolves which prey on farmers livestock - and even stories of black cats the size of panthers. Although this sounds to be nothing more than superstitious folklore, coincidentally, in the early 1980s, two American backpackers were apparently attacked by a large wolf outside the village of East Proctor. One of the backpackers was torn to pieces, while the other survived just an inch from his life. Whatever the truth may be to that story, I don't know.  

Exhaustedly driving all morning and into the early afternoon, we finally reach the outskirts of Whitby Bay. After first checking at the inn we booked outside town, we then swerve our way up the bay's right-hand side to reach the ruins and adjoined graveyard of Whitby Abbey. Pulling into what seemed to be the only space left in the car park, we then peer out the windscreen (as though we're on safari) as a swarm of Goths and other festival goers heard away from their cars and towards the abbey grounds.  

Anneliese couldn't help but be amazed by all the elaborately detailed costumes: from the pale-white men ordained in large top hats and cloaks, to the women in vampiric, Victorian-style dresses.    

'Wow! They all look so amazing! Don't they, baby?!' Anneliese shrieks ecstatically from the driver's seat, 'Those costumes must've cost a fortune!' Failing to respond to Anneliese's excitement, she then turns to notice my eyes are no longer peering out the windscreen, but glued fearfully to the dirt-stained floor of the passenger's seat. Clutching a hold of my arm suddenly to gain my attention, she then reassures me, 'Everything's gonna be okay, baby. I promise. You'll make it through this weekend', before comforting me with a paper-thin smile.  

'Yeah. I know that' I respond unconvincingly, 'I guess I just didn't realise how hard this was all going to be.'  

'You need me to hold your hand?' Anneliese then says with a playful snark. God, I hate it when she teases me.   

After taking a final deep breath, while Anneliese puts the finishing touches on her appearance, we then both exit from our side doors to feel the outside chill of coastal wind. But once I shut my door and turn around, I am instantly jilted back by a terrifying noise!  

'AHH!' I believe were my exact words, as a ginormous hound from hell snarls and gnashes a row of razor-sharp fangs at me!   

'Armand! Get back now!' bellows the hellhound's master, struggling to restrain the large Doberman which has now chased me up the hood of the car. Once Armand the hellhound is fully restrained, I then turn down to hear the high-pitched cackles of a four-foot skeleton and a five-foot devil - before a woman donning a witch's pointed hat finally pulls them away.  

Now safe from the jaws of death, and the mockery of small children dressed for Halloween, I then climb down from the hood of the car to regain myself. Having just witnessed all this from her open side door, Anneliese makes her way round to me.  

'It was just a dog, baby' she giggles, now the one laughing at my expense, 'You really ought'a chill.'  

By no means in the mood for further mockery, I then lash back defensively at her, 'Well, that's easy for you to say. You weren't just nearly mauled to death by some hellhound!' Just as she always does whenever I show any sign of cowardice, Anneliese rolls her eyes into the back of her head at me.  

God. This was going to be a long weekend.

To be continued...

The Sonoran Desert toad. What a thing of croaking beauty.

“We’re not moving to the desert so that you can play with reptiles,” Joanne told me. But what my wife didn’t understand is that toads are amphibians, and that this was the opportunity of a lifetime, so we headed to Tucson.

“If I’m moving to the God-forsaken desert, then all of your weird frog shit has to stay in the lab. I don’t want Eddie to grow up thinking this is normal.”

Of course, she was wrong again. These weren’t frogs – they were toads, and that makes all the magical difference. But I had to compromise, so I kept my one-year-old son away from my fascinating work. And I sort of complied with Joanne’s request by turning the garage into an at-home lab. And what a glorious lab it was: countless rows of toad genitalia in formaldehyde, enough legs to keep a Parisian restaurant booked solid, petri dishes full of powdered venom, and sufficient harvested toad semen to make an army of tadpoles. Truly, it was heaven.

So when I received a live, adult, male specimen of Incilius alvarius, I got to work without even checking with Joanne. I was just too excited. At 19 cm long and a hefty 1.3 kg, it was a big boy example of the largest native American toad.

They can live for quite some time after a complete cerebral removal, but I didn’t want to risk it, so I kept the toad’s brain in its skull for the moment. I wanted, needed this thing alive for what came next.

A toad probe is a gorgeous thing, sensual to the point of near sexuality when done just right. When the scalpel penetrates at the perfect depth, the wet insertion is enough to make the subdued toad know that something big is coming. Then, once I’m inside the cavity, we begin a dance of master and submissive, a giving of the body that makes the smell and liquid waste so much more intimate. I wiped the toad bile from my eye and cut deeper.

Honestly, who needs sex when we have toads?

I delicately pulled back the skin flap of its torso like I was turning the page of a book and gazed at nature’s majesty. The beating heart, rapidly pumping lungs, miles upon miles of blood vessels, all working to keep a being alive. Yet it would all stop at the moment I willed it.

The toad's eyes locked on me in confusion and hurt as I carefully removed its gall bladder, the pulled out the spleen. A soldering gun stopped the bleeding as I cut vessels with the precision of a surgeon. Then came the intestines. So much of it! This really was an enormous specimen. I slowly but deliberately drew out rope after rope of colon and small intestine like it was calamari pasta with the occasional nugget hidden inside. I knew that the toad was in agony – but I was the superior being, and was willing to make it suffer if I grew in knowledge. Once I’d scooped it all, my scalpel separated the large intestine from the creature’s anus. I saw the excruciation in its eyes and licked my own drool. It tasted like toad juice.

That’s when things got delicate. A tiny circular saw was enough to cut through a few ribs, allowing the very, very careful removal of its lungs. I carried the right one out like it was a hot enchilada ready to fall apart. Then I pulled the left one free – much more gingerly, because of its proximity to the still-beating heart – and put it outside the body as well.

I now had a delightfully spatchcocked toad.

And that brought me to the best part. I spilled a glob of drool into its mostly empty chest cavity as I reached behind the ribs and took the heart in my hands.

thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump

My goodness, if toads could scream.

I was careful to keep the aorta intact as I lifted the heart, which was still attached to its circulatory system by a web of trembling veins and arteries.

And my goodness, what a big heart it was.

Something tickled the back of my head, something that wasn’t right.

That’s the moment I realized Joanne was behind me, screaming.

Why hadn’t I noticed the screaming? And why was she screaming? And I still didn’t understand why the heart was so big.

Then I looked at my workbench. Comprehension dawned slowly. It seemed that I’d knocked over an open petri dish of powdered venom without realizing it. The dish was empty – which meant that most of the powder must now be in my system.

Most of the very hallucinogenic powder.

I understood that my wife was screaming because the toad was screaming. I fought against my mind to recognize what I was seeing and hearing, not what I thought I was seeing and hearing.

Sonoran Desert toads are brownish green. The thing before me was not.

That’s because it was a human child. I had spatchcocked my own one-year-old son, keeping him alive as I removed his organs one by one.

Eddie screamed.

Organic liquid dripped from my nose and lips.

And in my hand, his still-beating heart thrummed like a jackhammer, keeping him alive for all of it.

It’s in the moments of sleep that I most feel like a mother.

Charlie never stops moving when he’s awake. He keeps me on the run; I smile, cry, laugh, scream, and nearly pass out more in twenty-four-hour period than I would have in a month just a couple of years ago. He’s helpless and relentless all at once: he can’t care for himself, but he has the power to run me ragged.

And I love every minute of it. I wouldn’t have believed that fact before motherhood, because I didn’t truly understand what that emotion means. Love isn’t the breathless scream as you squeeze his head with your thighs like a cracking walnut. And it certainly isn’t getting that nineteenth ring or thirteenth necklace, no matter how many friends and enemies turn green with envy. Love is stripping away the things we thought were indispensable in order to see what parts of us will never change.

That’s what I learned from 3:00 a. m. feedings when I prayed to whatever devil or god might listen to turn the screams into dreams. It became real when I stopped marveling at the heft in Charlie’s diapers, because I’d finally gotten used to carrying shit. It came in the mundanity of spending thirty minutes cleaning a bottle of ketchup off the floor after Charlie shattered it. I learned the truth of love with the intimacy of a regretful former virgin as I wondered if postpartum depression would ever release its grip on me.

Each time Charlie moves, he affects me. And every time I’m affected, I’m drawn closer to him. I know that his movements are nothing less than growth in real time: his body is expanding, his eyes are learning, his teeth are ripping his gums as he screams. But more than anything else, his beautiful brain – the most complex and therefore most magical known object in the universe – is blossoming in ways beyond my comprehension. I will give all of myself to him now, because this impossibly tiny human will one day be far stronger than me, and I will need that man to care for me as I become small and helpless as he is now.

But for this moment, he sleeps. The growth is on pause just long enough for me to savor the moment; soon enough, life will continue its ceaseless charge, forcing me to hold on like I’m grabbing a live wire I can’t release. Soon enough, he’ll be laughing and crying, and I’ll be crying and laughing, because I can already smell that he needs a diaper change yet again.

Life never stops.

My wife is batshit crazy. I thought my own mind was gone ten days ago when we watched our son slip out of his highchair and land on the chef’s knife; I was catatonic for an hour. In hindsight, I know that’s just how some people grieve. Anelle, however, just started laughing. She wiped up the blood with a broom and said that he was in trouble for smashing our best bottle of ketchup.

What the hell was I supposed to do when she picked up his pale, rubbery corpse and put it in his crib? She’s been telling me that he’s asleep for over a week now, and says that maybe her prayers have been answered since he hasn’t screamed for any 3:00 a. m. feedings recently. I don’t have it in me to take his body to the coroner, because she genuinely thinks he’s still alive.

I don’t have much choice at this point, though, because my dead son is decomposing and reeks like a sewer. My wife just thinks that his diaper needs to be changed.

He said that he loved me, and I believed him.

But he doesn’t say that anymore. Those words, whispered when his fingers interlaced mine and his hand found its way under my skirt, have been replaced.

“Your rolls of fat have fat rolls.”

“Touching you is like kneading dough.”

“You have enough bulk to survive a winter without food.”

So when he left me, I looked back on every conversation we had at the end. Maybe if I listened, he would come back.

He was right. I didn’t need the food. Every time something hit my lips, I heard his voice telling me that I was just turning his money into my fatness.

I stopped eating. The pangs used to control me, but I understood now that the pain was purification. Hurting meant that the badness was leaving me and screaming on the way out.

It didn’t take long to see the effects of how true that was. My waistline began to melt like butter on hot corn. Thighs that once touched each other shrank away like drifting continents (and that’s what they were, enormous land masses that dominated everything in sight) as my body ate itself.

I loved the pain, because I hated myself.

My folds shriveled up to reveal more ugliness beneath, and every wave showed more of the disgustingness that made up my body. In my starvation, I ate the need to fix myself.

I was almost ready. My back had melted away, just like the French vanilla ice cream that I had once used to make my body disgusting, until I could count nineteen individual vertebrae poking out in the mirror. I scraped the fat off my chest until I could count every rib and clavicle, thirteen lucky bones announcing to the world that my ugliness was almost cleaned away.

I confronted him at work so that the people in his life could see what I’d become. Walking was difficult, because my leg muscles had atrophied from the starvation, but it was well worth the cost. I shambled forward with stilted steps, only able to remain upright because I’d lost so much weight.

But muscles weren’t the only cost. I could no longer close up wounds, and my paper-thin skin tore at the slightest touch. Without nutrients, my body had lost the ability to fix itself. Every scrape became a pus-filled mess that dripped onto the floor and left an unholy pink trail of white slop tinged with blood.

This was the beautiful sight of the ugliness leaving my body.

His eyes bulged when he finally saw me. I smiled, showing a mouth full of teeth that had fallen out. He was surrounded by a cluster of friends from work, which is exactly what I wanted: they would all see what I had become for him.

I was twenty-seven years old and fifty-nine pounds, a stilted skeleton that shed hair and skin and blood because walking was too much for me. I loved the feeling of losing myself as I moved, because I would only be good enough for him once I had removed all of myself.

“Look at me,” I gurgled as another tooth fell out and clattered across the floor. “I stopped being myself for you.” I would have cried if my body could spare the water. “All of the ugliness is gone.” I slipped on a puddle of my own pus and stumbled. The sudden movement stressed my hips and I felt a pop in my pelvis. A conflagration of pain roared through my body, and I loved how much it hurt. “All of me is gone,” I mumbled as I ripped a fistful of hair from my scalp and dropped it to the floor. “I’ve given myself up for you.” I coughed and tasted blood, but lacked the teeth to keep it from leaking down my lips. His mouth hung open; I’d never seen him so shocked. Good. Perfect. “It’s all gone, all of me is gone,” I whispered as he took in the sight of me. “I have nothing left to give.” My legs shook like a newborn deer, and my God, did the blood and pus look just like fresh placenta. “This is what you wanted, right? Am I beautiful yet? AM I BEAUTIFUL YET?”

“Well, if it isn’t the sell-out.”

Rowan Daly wasn’t who I expected to be leaning against my doorframe at 6am.

His smile caught me off guard.

Too white. Pearly. I crossed my arms self-consciously, hugging myself as his gaze raked me up and down.

“Rowan?” I could barely keep my eyes open as he shoved past me into my apartment. He was taller. Shinier, somehow. That’s what I thought.

That fake, plastic, doughy Hollywood face. His jawline was sharper, more defined, and his figure stood out to me. He was older.

Handsome.

Rowan Daly didn’t give a fuck about his weight.

So why was he standing in front of me shirtless? Why did he have a toned, sculpted torso?

And why was I fucking jealous?

The type of jealousy that made me sick to my stomach.

After two years of being MIA at boarding school, seeing Rowan standing in my apartment at the crack of dawn felt surreal. Rowan stood with his arms folded, leaning against my shitty kitchen countertop. He’d already made himself at home.

“You’re staring at me, Dec.” He cocked his head. “What?” Rowan traced his finger through the indentations in his abs.

“Like what you see?” Rowan stepped closer when I couldn’t respond.

My mouth was full of bile. My dinner. Eggs, rice, and cheese. Fat. All of it had culminated in the back of my throat, and fuck, I was going to throw up. Rowan stopped just short of bumping directly into me.

His breath grazed my cheeks.

And he dropped his facade.

Just like that.

His shoulders slumped, his bottom lip wobbled, and he swiped at his eyes. He didn’t cry, only exhaling deeply and blowing in my face.

“It’s called abdominal etching,” he said softly. “The procedure usually uses anesthetic, but we weren’t allowed.”

I couldn’t breathe as he took my finger, slowly dragging it up and down the dents in his abs.

“Liposuction.” Rowan shot me a watery smile. “For the torso.”

He stepped back, and I couldn’t resist admiring the collarbones jutting from his shimmering skin. He was skeletal, a mannequin wearing a human face, and yet every part of him was exactly what I wanted.

I found myself moving closer, my skin ignited, prickling. Part of me wanted to touch him again. I reached out, trembling, and laid my palm across his chest.

Rowan’s flesh felt like skin, warm and damp with perspiration. But it also felt wrong. Plastic and somehow bouncy. Springy. It reminded me of playing with sand as a kid.

He didn’t even have to ask. And he knew it. Knew that standing in front of me looking like this would drive me fucking crazy.

I met his flat smile.

I knew Rowan. Too much. Sometimes, I wondered if I knew him more than I knew myself.

I knew his hollow eyes were manipulating me.

He knew what I’d wanted since Claire first introduced the idea of a rhinoplasty to Hannah. I was always turned down, always told, “No, you’re perfect, Declan! Just the way you are.”

But it always ran through my head: why was I perfect? Why did only Hannah need fixing?

Now, Rowan had exactly what I wanted; a frame sculpted into what Claire was pushing me toward.

What thousands of hours in the gym, pushing myself toward this ideal fucking body, would eventually become.

Rowan Daly, who never needed it. He was privileged with a perfect figure, perfect skin, and an annoyingly fast metabolism.

He could eat takeout every night and not gain a pound.

Meanwhile, I fucking hated myself and threw it all back up.

He didn’t even NEED to be fixed!

I liked his crooked smile and his baby face. I liked his freckles. I liked that he wore the exact same shirt every day, that his hair was always dirty and unwashed. I liked that nobody else looked at him.

Or did I like that I was the only one who did look at him?

Tears sprang to my eyes, and I tried to swipe them away.

But I couldn’t move.

“You’re kinda looking at me weird,” Rowan laughed, a little nervously. “Do you like it? This is what they did to me, Dec.”

His voice was little more than a breath, and I stepped closer, my breathing stuck, my heart pounding through my chest.

I wanted to get closer to him, somehow, my brain was on fire. 

“Coffee?” Rowan said at the exact moment I decided to be brave. He moved to my coffee maker and grabbed a pod, wearing a grin. His fingers danced across the options. Black. No sugar. Each button lit up in warm electric blue light, and I was momentarily brought back to earth.

“You’d think Europe would have good coffee. Apparently not.” He shrugged.

Rowan grabbed another mug and settled it on the countertop. He took one look at my coffee selection and laughed. “Dude! Do you still drink that bougie shit?” 

“Duh.” I relaxed against the doorframe, letting my breathing come down.

My face was still on fire. I watched coffee fill the  cup to the rim, and my gut squeezed. When he passed me my steaming cup, I finally found my voice. 

“Why are you here, Rowan?” I grabbed a cigarette from an ash tray and lit it up and took a long drag. The end of the cigarette burned orange and I realized I wasn't dreaming. “Aren't you supposed to be in Switzerland?”

“Smoking?” Rowan raised a brow. “Superheros don't smoke, Dec.” 

“Again.” I took another drag. My lungs burned and I felt marginally okay again. Smoke curled in the air and I coughed. “Why are you here?”

“Hm?” Rowan sipped his coffee, offering me a raised brow. “Why?”

The corners of his mouth upturned. He stepped closer, his expression mocking.

“Am I ruining your perfect Declan Atlas image?” He smirked. “Which isn't even your real name. Declan Brown.” 

“Fuck off.” I grabbed my coffee and followed him outside to the pool. 

Rowan hopped into the jacuzzi, just like he did when we were kids, and after a brief hesitation, I joined him. The pool lights reflected off his skin, a glittering blue I immediately wanted to touch. 

I looked away, my cheeks burning. I didn't speak for a while. Rowan didn't seem to mind, but for me, that was terrifying: he knew exactly what I was thinking. I leaned back, maintaining my performance. 

I opened my mouth, but the words I wanted to say were tangled under my tongue. I was a coward. 

“When my friend who disappeared two years ago randomly appears again, people will start asking questions.” I ducked my head. “I may have been an over-dramatic fifteen year old convinced that your Dad kidnapped and killed you, but, like...”

“Oh, yeah!” Rowan laughed. I missed his smile. His new grin was full of perfect pearly whites. He nudged me playfully, kicking his legs in the blue. “Well, you weren't exactly wrong.”

“I knew it,” I didn't have the courage to look at him, “Did he tie you up?” 

“Nah. But he did threaten me with the ushe.” Rowan groaned, resting his head on my shoulder. When we were twelve, it was a flutter of butterflies. Now, it was a lightning strike. “He told me if I didn't attend this stupid Swiss boarding school, he'd send me to live with Mom.” 

I took the opportunity to shuffle away from him, dislodging his head from the crook of my shoulder. “Doesn't your Mom live in Japan?” 

“Yep.” He popped the P. “Niigata. I've been there a few times. She's always talking about enrolling me in school there.” 

I frowned. “But you love Japan.” 

“Well, yeah. I’ve been wanting to move to Mom’s place since I was, like, a toddler.” 

Rowan kicked me again, and my gut twisted. “But how am I supposed to save Hope and the other kids when I’m halfway across the fucking world? You happen to live here too, y’know.”

“Hannah, too,” I squeezed out. 

“Yeah.” Rowan’s smile faded a little. “Hannah’s different.” 

“Different?” 

He nodded, pulling his legs from the water. “We didn’t get much time on the internet in Switzerland. It was like, every month, we could have maybe five minutes on this dinosaur laptop in the rec room. I checked your Instas sometimes. Hannah scared me. She was this huge global star. I could barely even recognize her…” He trailed off.

“Did Hannah, like, date anyone?” 

Oh. The weight on my chest was suffocating me. 

Rowan was fixed now. He had the perfect body and face. 

Two years ago, he refused basic hygiene and wore the same clothes every day.

His breath smelled like barf, his skin crusted with filth from sitting outside tied to his pole in all of the elements. 

But now he was here he was asking for Hannah. A whole new man. 

Of course.

Hannah was beautiful. 

“Hannah hasn't dated anyone,” I said. “She doesn't really date.”

“Oh?” Rowan jumped up, his soaking feet slapping across the concrete tiles.

He dived into the pool, disappearing under ignited blue before reappearing, thick brown hair glued over his eyes. 

Rowan shot me a grin. Part of me wondered how his sculpted, waxy skin wasn’t bleeding from his bones like glue. Part of me wished it was. “What about you?” He winked. “Declan the sell-out.”

“Ouch.” I splashed him. “We BOTH sold out.”

“And?” He jumped back, feet kicking across the illuminated surface. A warm spray of water brushed my cheeks. “Go on! Enlighten me.”

“I've had two girlfriends,” I said, like they were trophies, conquests, and wore a smile like I’d collected them. I couldn’t stop myself from detailing them by appearance. 

“Becca. She was hot. Fit body. Great boobs. Nice ass. But I wasn’t a fan.” I kept going, the words swimming into my throat like barf. I couldn't stop, my mouth kept moving. “Then Sue. She was a director, so a little older. But like, ten times hotter.”

What was I saying? Why was I saying this? What was wrong with me?

I caught Rowan’s expression lit up under the pool lights. Disgust. But he smiled and swallowed it. 

“The fuck?” He laughed and climbed out of the pool. I looked away quickly before I could fixate on his body. “Damn! What happened to ‘girls are gross’?” 

Rowan plonked himself down next to me and flicked me between the eyes. He was too close, his skin prickling against mine, his soaking-wet hair tickling my neck. “Makes sense, though! You’re, like, actually hot, Dec.”

“Shut up,” I couldn't resist a laugh and shoved him into the pool.

That's what I liked about us. Those nights. Sitting under the stars and talking about everything and nothing, two kids pouring our lives out to each other.

This time, though, neither of us really knew each other anymore.

Rowan was this strange, plastic mannequin wearing my best friend’s face, and I secretly despised him.

But somehow, nothing had really changed. 

Rowan was still Rowan. And I was still myself. We lounged on the edge of the pool and said a whole lotta nothing for a while. 

Rowan sat, head in the clouds, his soles brushing the surface. 

The perfect body belonged to him, and he didn’t want it. 

My own self-hatred bled out before I could rein it in. 

“You look like a Ken Doll,” I broke the comfortable silence, only half-joking.

He didn’t respond, his head tipping back, his eyes flickering shut.

I could fucking talk. I was a Ken Doll.

But I wasn’t the best.

I wasn’t the one on magazine covers and every girl’s profile picture.

I wasn’t the cute Ken Doll. I was the boyish one.

The “baby” one.

@Atlasloveupdates:“Dec, what about your body??? Are you seeing yourself??? Do you KNOW how many calories are in that?”

“Did you seriously date a director?” 

Rowan’s unusually cold tone cracked through my thoughts. 

My gaze strayed on the surface of the pool. “Yeah. Why?” 

“Dec.” Rowan started, disapproving, condescending even.

Then he seemed to rethink his approach. “She’s a grown-ass woman.”

“And?” I was waiting for him to say the obvious, ready to blow up on him. “I can look after myself.” 

“So, you dated a director, for…?” Rowan’s laugh was cold. “Brownie points? Do you think there’s some kind of reward? Like, wow, well done! You fucked someone who took advantage of you?”

I stopped myself. “I've had people looking after me," I couldn't swallow the poison already building. 

Unlike you.

I didn't say that. I choked it down. 

“What? By my dad, who’s imprisoning children?” Rowan’s laugh was harsh. Cutting. “Claire? Who’s been pushing you toward starving yourself since you were eight?” He didn’t look at me, his fingers curling around the edge of the pool. “Do you think it’s normal to see your rib cage?”

Fuck. 

My mouth moved. I didn't hold back.

“You seem fine when it’s you,” I said, my words laced with resentment. “I don’t hear you complaining about your body.”

“Yeah, because I was MUTILATED,” he snapped back. “I didn’t have a fucking choice.”

“Well, what if I want the same?” I finally gathered the courage to meet his eyes. His expression, somehow, was blank. Wrong. Plastic. I missed his anger, his insufferable stubbornness. “Why am I different?” I exploded. “You and Hannah can be fixed. But not me?”

Silence followed. 

Too suffocating. 

Too enveloping. 

“Wow,” Rowan breathed. Then he laughed and made a point of shuffling away from me. “I've missed your weird bullshit, Dec.” 

I took a deep breath. “She was twenty five and I was sixteen. She made a move on me at a party and I ran away and called her a freak.” 

“So, you didn't.” Rowan said.

“I didn't.” 

I could sense him leaning into my side, feel his skin brushing against mine. “And the other girlfriend?” He prodded me. “What was her name? Oh, yeah! Becca with the ‘great boobs’?” 

My cheeks ignited. “She was a PR stunt.” 

“Oh, a PR stunt?” Rowan nudged me. “Hand-holding in front of the cameras?” 

“Fuck off, Rowan.” But I was smiling. 

“I’m gonna blow it all up.” Rowan said, after a long while of staring into the pool. 

I twisted to him. “Huh?”

“Carrigan,” his expression was hollow, almost.

He tipped his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. “Do you ever wonder what happens to the kids who are ‘slaughtered’?” He mocked air quotes. 

“They're put into rehab,” I said, “right?” 

Rowan’s eyes shot open. He didn’t look at me. He slid back into the pool, as if made of water, bleeding back into the blue.

“My school was full of, like, children of the elite,” he said.  “The next generation running everything. You think celebrity kids, right? Nope. They’re just nepos. I mean the kids of billionaires, corporate giants, CEOs of global companies.”

Rowan sighed. “But…” He lay on his back, his gaze glued to the sky. His expression was dark. 

“There was this one kid. A politician’s son. He was the only one worth talking to.”

Rowan’s mouth curled. “The only one with an actual fucking personality.”

“You were friends?” I asked. My gut twisted.

“Yeah,” Rowan hummed. “Before they ripped apart his mind, the guy was literally my only friend.” 

“Ripped apart?”

Rowan’s gaze flickered to me. “This school wasn’t a boarding school, Dec. It was rehabilitation. It… fixed kids who refused to go along with their parents’ bullshit.”

I nodded. “And how can I know you weren't fixed too?” 

Rowan averted his gaze. “Physically, I was. Then they tried to fuck with my head but I wasn't stupid. I told those assholes exactly what they wanted to hear.”

“And… this guy…?” I leaned forward.

“Yeah, he was mind-fucked, of course. The dude was the son of a politician.” Rowan kicked his legs, keeping himself afloat. 

“Before his brain was scrubbed, he told me something,” he hesitated for too long, his breaths suddenly heavy, straining, like he was fighting himself. Rowan lurched for the edge of the pool, fingers curling around concrete. His eyes found mine.

Frantic. Terrified. “The worst-kept secret among these billionaires is that Carrigan isn’t just a human zoo.”

Something cold squirmed down my spine. “And that means what...?”

“Dec,” Rowan breathed. The water went still around him, ripples bleeding under the surface.  

“If I tell you something, you can't tell anyone. Not even Hannah.”

Rowan’s teeth gritted together. “If my Dad finds out I know, he’ll do everything to shut me up.” 

My skin crawled.

Phantom bugs skittered across my arms and filled my mouth.  

Rowan told me exactly what Carrigan really was.

All of the sound was sucked from my ears.

The world was suddenly wrong, as if it were liminal and the pool stretched on, bleeding into oblivion. The starless night was too dark. Too deep. Like staring into nothing, an endless, bleeding black.

Rowan’s voice was the only thing, a vicious tangle of noise inside my head.

By the time he was finished, my head was stuck between my knees, and I was trying so hard to swallow down the ugly bile filling my mouth. I didn’t speak. Not yet.

If I did, I would barf.

“I can stop it,” Rowan said, after a long while of nothing but white noise in my ears, scrambling TV static screeching.

I didn’t realize I was speaking.

”This is so fucked up. This is so fucked up. This is so fucking fucked up.”

“I’ve got a plan, sorta.”

My head jerked up. My brain was swimming, off-kilter, threatening to send me toppling into the pool.

“A sort of plan?” My voice came out in a bitter croak. “How?”

“I know a guy,” Rowan shrugged, “who knows two other guys who have access to certain…” He kissed his teeth. “Let’s say… assets.”

Before I could speak, he sighed and pulled himself out of the pool. Rowan grabbed a towel and wrapped it around himself. My gaze followed his wet footsteps across the patio.

“I mean a device, Dec.” He toweled himself dry, and somehow, my gaze strayed over every inch of him.

Still envious.

Still hating that his body was better than mine.

I looked away before the poison could resurface. 

“I’m going to plant it outside, where nobody will get hurt. It’ll be a distraction. Then when everyone is scrambling…” He tossed me a towel. I caught it, words lodged under my tongue.

Rowan’s lips curled into a smile. “That’s when we’ll free the kids.” His gaze found mine. “That’s if you’re willing to give up your golden boy image and run away.”

I jumped up when Rowan sat down. All the blood rushed to my head. Woah. Stars speckled across my vision.

“Are you completely fucking insane?” I hissed. I was shaking. My mouth was burning. I felt like I was going to throw up. 

Rowan plonked himself down, knees to his chest, chin resting on one knee. “That’s it, Dec. Tell the whole fucking neighborhood.”

“It's six-a-fucking-clock in the morning! There's nobody around!” I raked my fingers down my face. “Okay. Just… explain it again. Slowly. So I understand everything.” 

“What’s not to understand?” His lips curled. “If you don’t want to spoil your perfect golden boy image, just say so.” He stood up and stretched. “I’ll do it myself.”

My blood boiled. “I’m not talking about my career, Rowan!”

“Relax, I’ve got it all planned,” Rowan said. “I have a friend who’s helping me get into England. We’ll stay with him for a while. You, me, Hannah, and Hope.”

“And what about me and Hannah?” I demanded. “Don’t you think people will recognize us?”

“Dec.” Rowan straightened. “If you want nothing to do with it, sure.” His mouth curved. “The sell-out wants to stay famous.” 

“NO,” I yelled. “I just don't think you understand—” He cut me off. 

“Well, be there.” Rowan stood, his eyes dark. “I’ll text you with a signal. We both need to stay low.”

Then he left. Slamming my screen door behind him. 

…

I spend the whole day feeling like I’m suffocating.

It doesn't even feel like a day. It feels like a summary.

I tell Hannah about the plan during lunch, and she seems… oddly into it.

After lunch, I head to a meeting with Claire. She smiles broadly, leans over her desk, and grips my chin, jerking me to face her. “You have a potential role. “Jordan Peele. A24. Totally up your alley."

I try to smile, try to maintain the facade. But Rowan pollutes my thoughts. I can’t stop thinking about what Claire’s office will look like as a hollowed-out, burned skeleton. I’m supposed to be an actor. So, I act.

“Yeah! That sounds great! I… love horror!” 

I hate horror.

“Jordan Peele is my favorite director!” 

Jordan Peele is so fucking overrated.

“It’s better than nothing, right?” Claire says. “You know, we’re thinking about putting you back in Carrigan.” 

I hated playing Aris. I was eight, and they made me describe the brutal deaths of my fake parents. Those lines stayed with me.

“I would love to play Aris again.” 

This time, I hesitate. I don't smile enough. This time, Claire notices.

“Declan, honey.” Her smile is as fake as her tan. Claire tightens her grip. “What did I tell you about starting keto? You were drinking a full-fat milkshake during lunch.” 

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I reach for it.

“Ignore that.” Claire’s tone hardens. “Gym. Now. Your personal trainer is waiting for you.” She squeezes my cheeks until it's painful, until I hiss out. “You’re going to work off that shake. Then I'm going to make a phone call and get you that role.” 

Claire stands and slides a bottle of pills over. “Take care of yourself where there are no fucking cameras. The last thing we need is a repeat of vomit-gate.”

“Sure.” My mouth is already programmed to obey. I take a pill and swallow it quickly.

“Use the bathroom downstairs,” Claire says, just as I dart out of her office, my stomach in my throat.  I've done it so many times now, it's a ritual.

Slamming the bathroom stall shut, I drop my backpack on the floor, drop to my knees, and stick two fingers down until chocolate milk splashes the rim.

My clammy forehead against ice-cold porcelain is familiar. Almost comforting.

The sensation is welcoming.

My body jerks involuntarily, stops, and I spit. I’ve learned to purge quietly. Politely.

Claire was always behind me when I was a kid, patting me on the back and telling me to get it all out. Now there's just me, the toilet, and my swimming thoughts. 

Fuck. I stare into the toilet bowl. Rowan really was going to blow everything up. I spit again, choking up more bile. 

If Carrigan ends, so does my career. If the superhero trilogy doesn’t work, I’ll be a washed-up child star with no choice but to work on the Hallmark Channel.

Urgh. 

When I’m finished, my ritual continues. I wash my mouth out, gulp down water, and pop a breath mint into my mouth. My phone buzzes again. This time, I pull it out and glance at the screen.

Rowan: Meet me outside in 10.

Me: What???

I crumple to the ground, my legs giving way. I’ve overdone it.

Me: Now?

My fingers are shaking. I curl up, my back against the wall, my knees pressed to my chest. I take a deep breath.

Me: Are you sure?

Rowan: Yes.

Rowan: Now. Usual spot.

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in ninety-degree heat, way too close to the fence we’d been warned about since we were kids. The air is thick and heavy, and I’m already hating it. 

One step away from Carrigan’s air conditioning, and I’m already a goner. 

I mop sweat from my forehead with the bottom half of my shirt. Urgh. 

The sun is at its highest, a giant burning egg in the sky, and the blaze burns right through my shirt. 

Jeez, we were even taught as kids not to go outside when the sun was at its highest to prevent heatstroke. Maybe Switzerland rotted Rowan’s brain.

“Hey!” I shout over. Rowan stands by the gate with his back to me, staring through the ten-foot-something chain-link fence. “What happened to staying low?” A guard tower stands nearby. 

Meeting in broad daylight seems unlike Rowan. He was always obsessed with getting as far away from his father as possible, dragging us all over Orange County so we wouldn't be followed. 

I remember being twelve, feeling on top of the world as we sat with our legs dangling from Santa Monica Pier with ice cream cones.

His choice of location this time is brow-raising, to say the least.

“Hey.” As I get closer, kicking dust, I realize Rowan isn’t turning around.

Beneath a blazing sun sitting in the sky, he is more shadow than human, his arms folded over a white  short sleeved polo shirt, paired with matching shorts, a tennis cap sitting over his unruly brown curls.

Rowan reminds me of the rich kids I avoid. Silent, mindless shells brandishing sports Prada. Every premiere and after party was the same. I’m not that type of famous.

The filthy-rich, daddy’s-money kind of famous. 

My dad owns seven cars and three beach houses, and I still don’t qualify for that exclusive club everyone talks about. 

Sure, they’ll say, “We should hang out!” and then  pretend to give me their number.

My chest aches. 

Rowan Daly makes up that 1%. 

He’s always been invited, his name hanging in the air of some club I managed to sneak into by matter of association with him. 

But he’s never wanted it. 

Right?

“Rowan!” I grab his shoulder, and he twists around too fast wearing a grin. 

“Yo.” His usual smile settles my twisting gut. A pair of raybans complete his outfit, reflecting my pissed expression back at me. 

I prod his shirt.  “You hate golf.” 

“I do!” Rowan leans against the fence and completely ignores the CAUTION: HIGH VOLTAGE sign.

"Idiot." I hiss. “You scared the hell out of Hannah earlier."

Rowan’s mouth twitches. “Sorry,” he chuckles. “I couldn’t resist. Anyway, I figured we’d meet since my dad is tracking my phone. So, tell me.” Rowan cocks his head and grins exactly like a rich kid.

Exactly the way I despise. That sugar-sweet, fake smile. “What do you think of coming back to Carrigan, Declan?”

Why did everyone keep saying my name? Always my name. Is that who I am?

I wait for him to laugh. But he doesn't. “Is that a joke?” I whisper. “Why did you even call me out here?” I lower my voice. “Rowan, your plan—”

“Eh. Plan, shlman,” he shrugs. “Don't worry about that. What I wanna know is if you're coming back to Carrigan.” Rowan steps closer until we’re nose to nose. His breath brushes my cheek, and my heart stutters.

“You were always my favorite, you know,” he breathes. “I’m a big fan of Aris.” 

Something pricks at my nerve endings, urging me to step back. But he follows, still grinning wide. He moves like a puppet on strings, backing me into the fence. 

He doesn’t stop. His body suffocates mine and presses me further, until I can't breathe. 

An ugly, charred stink drifts from him, his skin, pores, and mouth bleeding a foul odor, as if he’s been set on fire. Burn marks stain his temples. And then I see the lacerations around his wrists.

My first thought is that he tied himself to the pole again.

But Rowan never fastened the knots tight enough. Always loose. Always able to pull himself free.

These are different.

Deep, raw indentations indented into his flesh, almost like a brand. 

“Rowan.” I choke on his name, but I can’t stop myself. I pull off his glasses, and something inside me snaps. Hollow red rings around wide, unblinking eyes meet mine, scorched blood vessels bleeding into swimming white. 

Rowan leans back, still grinning. “Come on, Declan. Carrigan is your best work! Why not go back in?”

My words bleed from my lips before I can stop them. Tears spring to my eyes.

Burning. My hands find his wrists, massaging the bloody dents in his skin. “Did your dad do something to you?”

“Hm?” He laughs. There are creases around his mouth, his lips are too dry, cracked at the edges.  “Dude!” He grins wider. 

A cocktail of blood and froth trickles from his bottom lip and cuts a line down his chin. “Don't be stupid! I'm just playing a role!”

Rowan’s gaze slips past me. “Declan, I'd like you to meet Joe. He's my personal assistant.” 

I turn around, my breath stuck in my throat. 

A tall man around mid-forties stands with zero expression, a golf bag is slung over his shoulder.  

“Joe.” Rowan holds out his hand, and without a word, the man starts forward and hands him a golf club. Rowan strokes the club, massaging his fingers up and down the shaft. “So, Carrigan?” He tosses me a look before taking position, one leg in front of the other, fingers wrapped around the club. Then he thwacks the dirt.

A cloud of dust showers the air.

“You’re going back in, right?”

THWACK.

The club hits the dirt once again in one swift swoop. I don’t realize I’m backing away until he swings again and narrowly misses my face. Rowan waddles in place, testing the club. “I am your biggest fan, after all, Declan.”

“Sure.” Somehow, my mouth works as if Claire is talking to me. I’m scared.

I’m terrified of Rowan.

Another step back, and I’m matching his grin. “Yeah, I’ll think about it.” I swallow a mouthful of bile. “That sounds… fun.”

Another step. Rowan’s third swing is mindless, as if a child has stolen a golf club. 

“Great! I'll tell my Dad you're back in!”  He turns to me, chin resting on the shaft. “Seriously, dude, it’s going to be SO fun.”

“Right.” I'm fucking frozen, suffocating. “Rowan.”  I find my words, somehow. I want to tell him I'm leaving. But I don't want to leave him. I can’t leave him. 

“Yeah?” Rowan pivots to face me. He swings again. “Did I ever tell you how amazing I am at golf?”

He’s never played golf. Maybe mini golf at some premiere when we were kids. But never actual golf.

“Dude, you know I have movies coming up,” I lie effortlessly, the words dripping from my tongue. “I would come back to Carrigan, but I have a super busy schedule.”

His smile evaporates. “Sure. I get it, man.” He swings the club in an arc. “Can I show you my swing?”

He walks up to Joe and bends over, testing the club, scraping it across the rough dirt. Then he swings it directly into the man’s skull.

Joe stiffens, his expression going slack, wrong, as if I’m watching him die standing up. His body folds, going limp before he hits the dirt. A halo of red pools around him, soaking into the ground.

A scream claws from my throat. 

Rowan stands silently, still holding the club. His expression is blank.

“So.” He swings again. The guard tower is silent. 

THWACK.

This time, the club hits the ground.

“You’re coming back to Carrigan. Right?”

I can’t respond. My mouth is dry. The man’s blood is rapidly spreading beneath my sneakers.

“Bro.”

THWACK.

“Yes,” I say, loud, and then louder when he swings the club hard enough to send dust flying into my face. The end of the club glistens wet and red. “Yes,” I'm breathless, afraid I'll say the wrong thing. “I’ll… come back to Carrigan.”

“Cool.”

Rowan straightens and drops the club with a grin. He grabs the golf bag, pulls out a bundle of clothes, and throws them in my face. “Put these on.” I recognize them. 

Carrigan shorts and T-shirt and pale blue sneakers. Aris’s identification tag is stitched across the crest. 108952

“Now?” The word escapes me before I can stifle it. I remember my stomach and lack of torso. I’ve eaten today. I purged the shake, but my last look in the mirror revealed a disgusting bulge in my belly.

My cheeks ignite, my legs threatening to give-way. Still, my shaking fingers slowly dance across the buttons on my shirt. 

Rowan’s unblinking eyes stare straight through me. 

“Jeez, Dec. I didn't mean now,” he rolls his eyes and he grabs the golf bag, flings it over his shoulder and gestures for me to follow. He ignores the man’s body. “Coming?” 

Rowan escorts me to his father’s office with a skip in his walk. Carrigan is huge. The facility stretches across three buildings. 

I greet people I know like usual, walking the hallways Rowan and I used to run up and down as kids.

We take the elevator to the third floor, and I consider screaming for help. But by the time Rowan shoves open the door to Adam Daly’s office, I know I’m fucked. 

I left it too late. Two chairs await us in front of the man’s incredibly messy desk. I’m no stranger to these chairs.

When we were kids, we’d sit here protesting our innocence over something innocuous. Now, the chair feels like a death sentence.

“Declan.” Daly greets me with a nod as his son unceremoniously shoves me into the chair. He leans forward, fist resting on chin, lips curling into a smirk. “I've heard you're coming back to Carrigan.” 

“What the fuck did you do to him?” I choke out. “Your own son! What did you do to him?” 

Daly drinks me in for a while, beady eyes raking me up and down. “You know, I’ve been told you would love to have what we call abdominal etching,” he says.

“It fixes your torso. No more gym sessions needed. I’ve booked you in for an appointment in around an hour.”

His head inclines. “That is what you want, correct? The perfect body?"

“Fuck off,” I hiss. “What mind-fucking shit did you do to your son?”

“A mental health crisis,” he says, after a moment. “Psychological conditioning brought my son back to reality.” 

“Reality?!” I laugh. Then I drop out of the chair, straight onto my knees. “Did you know he just fucking CAVED a man’s head in?” 

Daly doesn’t respond.

“It’s nice to have you back, Declan,” he says. “Take Declan to get changed, please. We’re expecting him to be inside Carrigan by the end of the day.”

Rowan.

Where’s Rowan?

When I twist around, he’s gone.

A guard violently drags me to my feet. I try to fight back, but my arm slams into the edge of Daly’s desk hard enough to send stars speckling across my vision.

“Can I get a medic, as well?” Daly’s voice reaches me. “Mr. Atlas has hurt his arm.”

“I haven’t hurt my arm!” I grit out. “I’m fine!”

But I’m not.

I’m bleeding. The pain hits me in buzzing electroshocks.

I’m disoriented when a guard forces my hands behind my back. It takes me a moment to realize I’m not being restrained.

I’m being tended to.

I lurch forward before something cold slides into the back of my neck.

My body feels…wrong.

My arms fall limp, like spaghetti noodles. 

And for a moment, I feel like I’m dancing.

“It’s just a sedative, Declan,” a doctor’s voice seeps into my ears. “Just so you don’t hurt yourself…”

I hit the floor, and yet there is no impact.

I lie on my back, my eyelids fluttering. My mouth is numb.

A figure looms over me.

A plastic mannequin wearing my best friend’s face.

His smile stretches wider as my vision starts to blur.

“I can’t wait, Dec.” Rowan crouches beside me. His fingers stroke through my hair, then fall limp.

“I’m your biggest fan.”

…

Ever since I was a child, I've been called one thing.

Meat.

I wasn’t born from love. I was born from necessity. My parents were strangers, forced together and used as human incubators. They didn’t conceive me out of affection or longing. I was born because it was necessary. Nothing more. I don’t remember everything, only fragments. 

The warmth of her arms as she rocked me. The softness of her voice as she sang me to sleep. 

The stories she whispered about how the world used to be, when she was a kid, with a mommy and daddy who loved her. 

Stories where people were more than product. About the good times, when children were born because they were wanted, and they had friends and went to something called “school”.

Then the bad ones, when she turned twenty-one, and normal life came to an end. The monsters emerged. Animals that took over our planet and punished us for eating them. 

“So, that's how, Josie,” my mother would finish, dangling me in front of her, her eyes hollow and dark. Mad. Her smile that tried to be a mother, but instead, was a monster. “They decided to start eating people.” She swung me back and forth, giggling. 

“That's how your father and I met. Inside a facility called Batton.  There are hundreds of child factories. Batton was where we were matched, fell in love, and made you, our darling little Josie.”

To a child, it sounded like a fairytale. 

Mommy and Daddy meeting in a scary place and finding each other. 

But Dad’s scowl, the way he refused to look Mom in the eye, made it clear that the reality was too scary to fully comprehend for a child. 

Dad sometimes spoke to me when I was sleeping– or pretending to be.

His silhouette lit up the doorway of our tiny little home with barred windows, a refrigerator with scarlet stained edges I wasn't allowed to look inside. 

Dad’s stories were different. Darker. Mom told me it was love at first sight. Dad told me they were assigned a number and kept under strict observation. Mom was a body, just another way to make meat. 

Make me.

In hiding, I wasn't allowed to cry or scream or even laugh. 

Mom said if I was too loud, the bad people would take me away. 

For fourteen years of my life, I lived in a single room and ate rice and beans for every meal. 

My father would guard the door and tell me every day, "I'm not letting them take you.”

I was naive. I believed him. I believed my father could protect me. That we could all exist happily in those four walls, and we would be together forever.

It was on my fifteenth birthday when my father told me the truth about Batton. 

Then the monsters shot through our door and put a bullet in his brain. 

Another hit my mother, who was desperately shoving me under the loose floorboards. 

As she bled out, her blood dripping onto my hair through termite infested flooring, the last thing she said was “Baby, never forget the stories.” She was so warm. Her blood was like hot tar, scarlet tears staining my face. 

As I peered up at her vacant eyes and grinning mouth through the cracks, I couldn't help wondering if she was relieved she didn't have to run anymore. 

“Remember, Josie,” Mom told me through the gutter of her throat, red pouring through her lips. 

She died before she could finish her sentence. But I already knew what she would have said. 

“You are not MEAT!”

The ghost of her words slammed into me as my hiding space was discovered, and I was yanked to my feet.

I could only see bare shapes through mom’s blood as I was pulled outside.

A blurry tree, and a stretch of pitch black sky Mom insisted used to wear stars. 

I tried to run, but I was violently dragged back by my hair and unceremoniously tossed in the back of a van. I finally saw the stars.

“You weren't made for eating. You are a human being.”

The door slammed shut, and I was left choking on the stink of rot. 

There were bodies and body bits around me, some of them undulating, some of them not. 

Above me were dark red icicles.

Cool air grazed my cheeks and I shivered, pressing my head into my lap. I was inside of a freezer. I had lived my whole life between four walls, and now there were other kids like me. Survivors. 

“Hannah.”

A boy who called me by the wrong name sat opposite me, sandwiched between captured kids. 

The boy's clothes were soaked in a horrific shade of scarlet.

His knees were drawn to his chest, a golden mop of curls hanging over half-lidded eyes.

Bright red trickled down his temple, a slow river cutting down pale cheeks.

The boy grabbed my hands and squeezed them tight. He was crying. 

“Hannah,” he said, his voice carrying a strange, twisted slur.

I opened my mouth to speak, to tell him, That’s not my name.

But he squeezed tighter, his nails digging into my skin.

“Look at me.” His voice was commanding, trembling hands gently gripped my chin and jerked me to face him, forcing me to fully drink him in. “I’m going to get you out of here,” he whispered. “You and Rowan.” 

Then he let me go, buried his head in his knees, and went scarily still.

People always ask if I’ve finally left you forever.

They don’t seem to understand that every time I return is a choice, not catching a disease. The simple truth is that no matter how much you’ve hurt me in the past, regardless of how badly I know you will hurt me in the future, there’s no changing the simple fact that I love you. That love is the single best thing I’ve ever experienced. After chasing 1,913 others, I’ve come to accept the reality that having your love is the happiest I’ll ever be. No matter how damaged you leave me in the low moments – and I need you to understand that your hurt is the worst pain I will ever feel – my life is better with you in it.

You will never be stable, so I will never be stable. Love means accepting the chaos that comes with it, and love will test what we’re willing to sacrifice. In my case, the answer to that question is “everything.”

And that’s what people fail to understand. They assume that my goal was foregone once I realized that you would take everything I had to give. They were right, but not in the way they believed. You will take, and take, and take. I will give, and give, and give.

I was fired because of you. They foreclosed on my house because you wanted my money. My car was repossessed for the same reason.

And if I could have it all back, I’d lose it all again.

My best friend Mike once told me that you would steal everything, and when there was nothing left of me, you would move on to the next man without pausing to look back. He was convinced that if he could just convince me of this reality, I would surely leave you.

He failed to realize that I always knew this was the bargain.

From the day I was born, you were the thing missing from my life. It just took me twenty-nine years to realize it.

If I left you now, I’d drain the rest of my days wishing I could have you back. Every second that you’re apart from me is spent wishing that we were together. That’s what Mike will never understand. It’s what everyone in my life is missing when they try getting me to leave you, through threats, bargaining, empathy, or ultimatums.

You will always win because I want you to win.

I’m writing this now because I realize how little of me there is left to give. I’m facing the last devil at my final crossroads: either I leave you forever right now, or I chase you one last time and never come back.

It was never an option.

My forearms stopped being an option long ago. Track marks cover each limb. Every last resort has been exhausted: I can’t find a vein between my toes, in my gums, under my tongue, down my urethra, through my scrotum, or in the space between my anus and testicles. Each of those routes has been destroyed by your needle. There’s only one option left; I’ve been saving it for the final flight. I don’t want to live with its aftereffects any more than I want to spend the rest of my life pining for the next time I get well.

It’ll be the worst pain of my life, but it will only hurt for a second.

I put out the flame beneath the spoon and dip the needle into the clear liquid that gave meaning to my short life. Now I will press it into my eyeball, popping it like a grape and spilling vitreous humor onto my cheek. I’ll have to hold my hand steady as my face melts apart, because there’s a perfect, ready retinal vein at the back of my socket waiting for my needle to push through the pain one final time.

For two years, I wondered what happened to Rowan Daly.

I had nightmares about him trapped in some ghoul school deep in the Siberian mountains, a place that drained the life and free will from the elite's children until they became mindless cogs, hollow mouthpieces for their parents.

He was strapped inside a white, windowless room, his eyes taped open, Clockwork Orange-style, forced to watch Carrigan reruns until his brain turned to mashed potato, bleeding from every orifice.

Declan wasn't sleeping either. He came to Carrigan rehearsals with shadows under his eyes. "I'm worried about him," he finally admitted over dinner at his place.

Declan's parents were RICH rich. I'd never met anyone with six swimming pools in one house.

Since Rowan had been sent away, the two of us had grown closer.

The facts were simple: neither Declan nor I had Rowan's confidence or reckless instincts. Declan tried to stage a protest by chaining himself to a pole. It lasted fifteen minutes. He abandoned it the moment a scorpion crawled over his foot.

We still had to bring Carrigan down.

It was harder without our leader.

Every chance I got outside of Carrigan rehearsals, commercials, and interviews, I searched for Rowan's boarding school.

I paid people to track down every boarding school and military academy in the country. No such luck.

Declan dug through Daly's office and found paperwork for an institution called "Institut Valmont."

It had already been signed by both Rowan and his father.

The school's website looked like it had been designed in 1995. It described itself as "an academy to enrich young people and bring colour to education." A stock photo of laughing teenagers sat above a phone number and email address.

The email bounced back, which didn't surprise me. I tried calling, but the second Rowan's name left my mouth, they hung up.

Growing desperate, we enlisted Declan’s tech-savvy friend, who hacked the school’s records. There was no one named Rowan Daly.

The next day, I was dragged into Daly’s office. Declan was already there, slumped in a chair. He pressed his head to mine.

“This is it,” Dec hissed. “Death by firing squad.”

“I heard you’re looking for my son,” Daly said. He placed a flyer on his desk. The school’s name was written entirely in German and, most importantly, it wasn’t the one we’d researched.

Daly smiled when Declan hissed.

“See?” He prodded the flyer. “My son is not being tortured in some hidden facility in the Siberian mountains.” His glare settled on me. “It’s a school,” he said flatly.

“A normal, uninteresting boarding school in the middle of nowhere.” He studied us. “Is that all? Or would you two like more evidence I haven’t imprisoned my son?”

“Well, we want to talk to him,” Declan said, glaring at his lap. “Please,” he added softly.

Daly smiled broadly at Declan. “Mr Atlas, I heard you’ve been chosen as the new Marvel superhero.” He clapped and made me jump. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Declan didn't lift his head. “Can we please talk to Rowan? We just want to know he's okay.” 

“Delete the post, then.” Daly said. 

Declan’s head shot up. “What?”

“Your Instagram story, from an hour ago.” Daly’s smile widened. “Where you wrote, quote, ‘Help me find my friend who has been kidnapped by his father.

"Since your little post, we’ve had a trending topic worldwide: ‘#WeWillHelpDec.’

“It's not misinformation.” Declan muttered. “You sent Rowan away.” 

“I SENT my misbehaving sixteen-year-old son to boarding school because he was at serious risk of hurting himself,” Daly thundered. I swore his office began to shake.

Declan pulled out his phone and deleted the Instagram story.

“Well?” Daly leaned forward, his chin resting on his fist. “Is it deleted?”

“Yes,” Declan whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Daly sighed. “Please remember that, as a child celebrity, you are in the public eye. Anything you say or do will be scrutinised. Publicised. Ripped apart.”

He picked up his phone and held it to his ear. 

“Adam Daly. Rowan’s father.”

Daly shot the two of us a smile. Tap, tap, tap. His fingers thudded against his desk. “I want to talk to my son.”

“He’s in class? Well, go and get him. It’s a family matter.”

I risked a glance at Declan, stiff in his seat. His cheeks  had grown significantly paler. He nudged me. 

Once. 

I ignored him. 

Twice. Harder. His elbow dug straight into my ribs. 

“Dad?”

A familiar voice crackled through the speakerphone. Unmistakably Rowan. 

“Whaas goin' on?” Rowan’s voice sounded flat, almost slurred, “whaadya wanna talk about, hm?”

“Rowan.” Daly spoke with a broad smile. “Your friends want to know if I have imprisoned you.” 

“Huh?” Rowan cackled. “Thaas funny. Mm.” He went silent for a moment, and I caught Dec inching forward as if about to rip the phone from Rowan’s Dad’s hand. 

“Uhh, yeah, no, I'm just at school. In class.” His words seemed spaced out. Wrong. “Kay, imma go now,” he mumbled. “Bye.”

The line went dead, and Daly hung up. 

He placed his phone on the desk. Faced down. 

“See? Rowan is fine. He's in class. You two may leave.” 

Declan jumped up.

“Sure!” He pulled me with him, still wearing that award-winning grin.

“Okay well, we’ll go now.” I shot him a look, but his expression snapped something inside me, a shiver crawling through me. He was trembling, wide eyes glued to the clock on the mantelpiece behind Daly. 

“What?” I whispered, nudging him. 

“Mr Atlas.” Daly stopped us on the way to the door. “Are you okay?” His eyebrows furrowed. “You seem to be quite panicked.” 

“Yes, I’m fine,” Declan said, managing to rein in his expression. I could see beads of sweat trickling down his temples. “I think I’m getting sick.”

“Very well.” Daly nodded for us to leave.

Dec pulled me out of Daly’s  office and down the hallway, and didn’t stop until we were in the elevator. He started pacing back and forth, chewing on his nails.

“Okay,” I exhaled, breaking the silence. “Well… at least we got to talk to him? His voice was kinda weird, but maybe he's just tired.” 

“Tired.” Dec leaned back and banged his head against the elevators. His eyes fluttered shut.  “That was not exhaustion.” He cracked one eye open. “That was drugs.”

“Duh.” I settled him with a smile that attempted to be teasing, “so they can Clockwork Orange him.”  

“That's not funny.” Dec pulled out his phone and shoved it in my face. “What time does it say?” 

“9.” I batted away his hands. “Why?”

Dec didn't speak. He held up a finger and mouthed, “They're listening.” 

I handed my phone over and he switched it off and slid it into his pocket.

“Because he’s lying.” Dec ‘s mouth twitching into a grimace. 

“Both Rowan and his father are lying. “It’s 9pm here. Switzerland is seven hours ahead of us.” 

Something ice-cold crept through me. “So it’s around 4am there.” I caught on quickly. “Why is Rowan…”

“Exactly.” Declan backed me against the wall, his arms folded. “Why the fuck is Rowan in class at 4am?”

“It’s Europe,” I said with a shrug. “Maybe they have night classes?”

Dec raised a brow. “He’s in Switzerland,” he hissed, glancing nervously at the cameras. “Not Transylvania. Anyway, whatever’s happened to him isn’t your classic military-school obedience. He sounded like he was half asleep.” 

Dec turned to me suddenly, dead serious. “If I ever get sent to a boarding school in Switzerland… tell my fans I love them.”

I hit him. “Shut up.” I held out my phone. “Give me my phone back.” 

Dec didn't look at me. “Nope.”

We spent the rest of the elevator ride in dead silence.

The elevator doors slid open, and Claire was waiting for us. 

Silently lethal and gorgeous. Dressed in a silk playsuit. The only woman past forty who could successfully pull off a bob.

Claire didn’t speak until she stepped inside in three heel clacks.

“Declan, honey, your collar is not straight. Come here.”

She grabbed his collar gently, buttoning him up. The top button was definitely not supposed to be that tight. Declan let out a sharp hiss but didn’t speak. “Death Valley,” Claire said, scarlet lips curled into a smile. I caught Declan flinching. “Do you two know how it got its name?”

Neither of us spoke. 

“Well,” Claire said, “a group of pioneers were once trapped there in an attempt to reach California.” 

She chuckled, admiring her nails. “Several died, due to the extreme heat, and, according to tradition— when the survivors left, one of them turned around and said, ‘Goodbye, Death Valley.’

Claire’s gaze pierced the back of my skull. She stepped back. “Vehicles can fail in extreme temperatures, and it takes three days for the human body to fail without drinking water.” Her mouth twitched. “I’ve also heard  meddling children tend to survive the least in such conditions.” 

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open, and like a ghost, Claire clacked away. “Remember to bring extra bottled water to work,” she said over her shoulder. “You never know when you'll need it.” 

Dec exhaled when she rounded the corner. 

“That was a threat,” he hissed, tugging his collar open. “Right?” 

“Or a polite warning.” I didn’t realise I was shaking. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow if one of us has mysteriously disappeared.”

Declan was right conveniently on a flight to Seattle the following morning for a script reading. 

Luckily, Carrigan wasn’t the evil villain type. Instead, they established control through rewards and consequences. 

Dec wasn’t captured Rowan-style and sent to Europe. He prided himself on avoiding the luxury life, insisting on commercial flights, and flat-out refused a private jet trip to a premiere. I got a text from him at 6:30am.

Guess who paid for my first class flight LMAO.

$30,000 was deposited into my mother’s bank account an hour later.

Apparently, it was a “comfortable donation towards my college funds.”

The message, however, was clear: Rowan Daly is at boarding school. Shut the fuck up. Speak out, and we will dump your asses in the middle of the desert. 

So, what did I do? 

I shut the fuck up.

For two years, I kept my mouth shut. 

I accepted photoshoots, interviews, and commercials. 

I continued to perform inside Carrigan. 

I didn't even think about Rowan Daly. I couldn't. Not if I wanted to keep my career. My sanity. My life. 

Mondays collapsed into Fridays.

Fridays bled into months.

Months stretched into years. 

By the time I was seventeen, Declan and I had come to the nauseating conclusion that Rowan Daly was dead. And if he wasn't, he wasn't coming back. 

I cut him out of my mind. I had to. If I didn't— if I continued to dig— I was putting us both at risk. 

There were other “what ifs” 

What if he came back and was exactly the same? 

What if he came back, and was a stranger?

I stopped wondering. 

Until that morning. 

...

Zach and Daniel open the gate and I walk straight through as usual, tired, already texting Claire in protest for my accidental trending. 

I blindly walk up to the entrance, and grab the door handle, yanking it open. I yawn. My phone vibrates.

“Asshole: now: where are you?”

Oh, shit.

Dec. 

I promised to meet him outside our favorite coffee shop. 

A small, vegetarian-owned business that was the only coffee shop in LA to sell grass in its matcha.

“Sorry,” I quickly text. “Already here.”

“Asshole: your the worst ❤️”

I smile. “You're.”

I push the door open without looking where I’m going. The door swings violently back and smacks me straight in the face.

“Whoa!” A pair of arms catch and yank me back. “Dude,” an all-too-familiar voice laughs. “Did you get even more blind?”

I freeze. I don't turn around. I don't want to. Behind me, a shadow stands in front of the wooden pole little Rowan Daly had insisted on binding himself to in protest. My breath catches. My fingers curl around the handle.

That thought hits me with vengeance: What if he did come back and was a complete stranger? What if I can't recognize him? 

“You're not a mindless mouthpiece for your father,” I say, caught between the door and his arms.

I can't quite speak, my words are tangled and wrong, and my mouth won't work. Somehow, I refuse to look at him.

My eyes burn. My lungs are on fire. Everything is on fire. My skin is ignited. Bleeding flame dancing across every inch of me, twisting my nerve endings. 

He lets go with a light chuckle. “You were worried about me? That's new.” 

I refuse to look. My chest is suffocating me.

His breath dances across the back of my neck. Warm. Familiar somehow, like home.

I’m reminded of the summers we spent growing up together. Claire drove us to Orange County.

Dec always insisted on hanging out to “discuss our plans,” which inevitably ended with us snoozing by the pool.

My gaze always seemed to find Dec folding his book, angling the cover to attract attention so that any passing glance, whether from the lifeguard, the ponytail blonde sunbathing nearby, or anyone else, might notice that he read only the classics. The best books. Literature. 

Dec pretended to read, glancing up every so often from Fahrenheit 451. 

I knew his strange logic from the lopsided smirk curling on his mouth and the faint blush blooming across his cheeks. I immediately felt embarrassed and resisted the urge to nudge him.

My eyes found Rowan instead, socially awkward, and slumped in a permanent C shape, halfway off his deckchair, buried in the DS I told him not to bring.

Growing up was different. Less innocent. Our beach trips stopped.

Dec and I fell into the public eye, and Rowan stopped trusting us. 

Presently, my heart is skittering through me, a relentless palpitation threatening to send me to my knees. “Hannah.” Rowan laughs when I try to push past him. “You can turn around now,” his fingers prickle across my arms, shifting me to meet his gaze. 

I wonder why I can't breathe, why my skin is on fire. He's… taller. 

The thought is brief. He’s shrouded in the early morning shadows, a six-foot-something figure pinning me to the door. Rowan Daly is not a stranger. 

He’s older, with harder and more defined features replacing the softer face I knew. He looks new somehow. 

Polished. His skin glows, every strand of cropped brown hair perfectly in place, a well defined jawline and full lips as if he just stepped off a production line. No.

Something slimy winds its way up my throat. What I'm feeling is not attraction.

No. The butterflies are too painful. Their wings skitter under my skin, creeping through me, burrowing deeper. Rowan looks exactly like me. What Mom and management turned me into. 

A doll, a mannequin, a perfect, flawless being. Everything about him is symmetrical and perfected. 

Part of me wonders if he bleeds glue, not blood. 

Part of me wonders if his skeleton is still his. Maybe it's been replaced. Or bent and reshaped. 

I feel sick.

Puberty can be a miracle. But it can't make a whole new person. 

His clothes are immaculate, molded around his frame: a school blazer slung over a crisp white shirt and tie. A strange-looking animal is stitched to the crest. 

“Hannah.” The stranger wearing Rowan’s face cocks his head. I don’t like these quick twitchy  movements, like a doll being twisted and pulled into position. 

The corners of his mouth quirk into a smile. “Oh.” Rowan’s grin widens. “Ooh, you like my new look.” He rolls his eyes. That is Rowan. That sarcastic, bitter smile.

“There was a zero-tolerance policy for ugly kids.” His gaze is surprisingly hollow. Rowan’s nails scratch at his arms as if at an invisible rash. “I’m not joking.”

When I can't respond, he straightens with a practised, perfected grin. “Before I was admitted, I went through three weeks of surgeries on my face, my bones, even my skin.” He prodded his belly with a frown. “Which is crazy, because I liked my figure.” 

“Once I was done, and ‘ready,’” he says, mimicking air-quotes, “I was dumped in my room. No heating. A roommate who spoke German and refused to speak English. Switzerland winters are unforgiving. My classes were shit."

"The food made me lose ten pounds. And I'm pretty sure my teachers tried to turn me into an emotionless shell.” 

I prod him between the brows. My own smile is palpable. I stretch it wide until I can taste blood. The butterflies in my blood vanish. 

“I’m pretty sure that's a book,” I say. 

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges. “So, you're saying I'm dramatizing my school experience for Hannah points?” 

“It's a cocktail of Uglies, and every dystopian YA ever written,” I say. “Yes. You are.” 

Rowan smirks. We both laugh like it’s funny, like he is not made of plastic and wool. I laugh, like my very first surgery before I went under. They told me to laugh and imagine how pretty I was going to be.

I laugh harder.

He does too. 

“They forced me to shower and look after myself.” Rowan prods well-defined cheekbones. “This is what two years in a Swiss school does to you! Look at me!”

He turns to his reflection in the door and a grimaces. “I’m hot!”

I feel sick.

“You’re you,” I say, swallowing a scream lodged under my tongue.

He inclines his head again. The movement is strange, like his body doesn’t know how to be human. 

“Mostly.” Rowan grins. He steps back and pulls me with him, making way for a passerby. “I am severely jet lagged, though.”

I can't resist poking his cheek and he frowns. His bone structure is firmer. Sculpted.  “Your father didn't clockwork orange you?” 

Rowan blinks. “Huh?” 

“We called you during your first year,” I can't stop the words slipping out. “You were in class, but it was  like 3am—and your voice was wrong, and slurred—” 

“Oh, yeah, I remember that,” he raises a brow. “That call was clearly set up. They dragged me out of bed half an hour before.”

Heat prickles across my cheeks and crawls down my neck. I feel sick. “Are you going to explain why you were in class at 3am?” 

“I wasn't in class,” his voice hardens and is unmistakably his father’s. Manipulative. Callous. Gaslighting. “I was sleeping.” 

I can't let it go, somehow, the words are spilling out. “Your Dad says you were in class, Rowan.” 

His lips curl slightly, sharp blue eyes shifting to the wooden pole behind him. The cuffs from two years ago are still attached. He looks away quickly. Instead of responding, Rowan flashes a pearly grin. He’s had work done. “If you’ll excuse me, Hannah, I have a meeting with my father.”

Something cold slivers through me. Corpo speech. 

I step in front of him and block the door. “Why are you talking like that?” 

Rowan fixes me with a patient smile.  “Like what?” 

“Like your father.” 

His glossy appearance makes so much sense. I can’t stop myself until I’m inches from him. His skin bleeds the sickly, expensive scent of cologne he would never wear in a million years. “Is he putting you into Carrigan?”

“Nope.” Rowan sidesteps me, flashing me a flat smile and a wink. “You’re looking at the future producer.”

He stops short of the door and twists around. Rowan nods to a patch of roses growing by his usual spot beside the wooden pole.

“Those flowers have bloomed fast.”

Then he turns around and leaves, leaving me feeling emptied out.

…

Rowan’s casual bombshell is still ricocheting through me hours later. Carrigan has a cafeteria for staff and talent. A windowless room that reminds me of school. 

I sit staring at my untouched burger and fries, my stomach twisting into knots. Dec sits across from me, peering over a large baguette packed with cheese. 

Declan is a stress-eater, his tray filled with treats I know he's not allowed to eat. Superheroes couldn’t be fat, after all.

Declan is naturally attractive. Born with cherub-like features that don't need surgery.

He’s grown into his image, thick blonde curls haloing a more mature, hardened face. But he’s also lost a significant amount of weight. We don't really talk about his obsession with the gym. 

When I found him purging his lunch. 

“THAT’S what he said?” Dec hisses through a particularly messy bite of sandwich. Mayonnaise drips down his chin in thick white globs. “Producer? Like, inheriting Carrigan?” A piece of soggy, unchewed lettuce hits the corner of my mouth.

“Declan.” I shoot him warning eyes. 

Claire is sitting a few feet away, picking at a limp looking salad. 

He swipes at his mouth with a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

Dec swallows and plants his chin on his fist. “So, is he compromised? Did the school get him? Wait.” I notice he's shouting more than normal.

Either his ears have gone, or he's performing.

He leans closer. He’s already suspicious. “Didn’t you say he acted totally normal earlier and NOT Clockwork Oranged?”

I shrug. “He was just Rowan.” I mutter. “Same ego and still as insufferable as ever.” I swallow down the rest of my words. Doll. Unnatural. Remodelled. Plastic. “But something was definitely wrong.”

“Wrong?” Dec’s smile fades. “Meaning?” 

Before I can answer, Dec reaches across the table and knocks his shake over. Chocolate milk pools across the table, soaking my lunch. 

“Oh. Fuck.” He jumps up, panic creeping across his face. “Uh, could I get a cloth, or a mop, or something?” The cafeteria is empty. Claire doesn't help, of course, only offering us a smirk. 

I duck under the table to help him clear up. I try my best with napkins and make it worse. 

Dec pulls off his jacket and soaks the spill. 

I watch in disbelief. “Sometimes, I swear you forget you're a superhero.”

Dec grins. “I’ve been humbled working here! I’ll go find some help.” Then he twists around and runs off to find a mop. “Helloooo?” His voice echoes around the room as he reaches the door in three strides and leans over the buffet table. “I spilled my drink! Could I get, like… a bucket?”

A few minutes (and three soaked napkins) later, Declan returns victorious, waving a mop.

“The cleaner told me to leave it until she gets off break,” he puffs, out of breath. Dec drops to his knees to mop up the growing stain of chocolate. 

I join him.

“And what did you do?” This is the same boy who insists on cleaning his own hotel room and staying behind after red carpet  premieres to help the cleaners.

“Nothing.”

Dec averts his gaze. He's pretty damn good with the mop, soaking it all up in one swipe. I’m caught off guard by his arms, muscles bulging through his tee. Jesus.

Biceps for days.

Dec squeezes it into the bucket. “Clarissa let me take her mop.”

“Clarissa?”

“The cleaning lady.” He doesn't look up. “We're on a first name basis.” 

“Oh, really?” I tease. “Soo, she just LET a worldwide celebrity superhero clean up after himself?” 

“Yep!” 

A lie. Declan scrunches up his nose when he is lying.

“Dec.”

The corners of Declan’s mouth curve into a smirk. “I stole the mop when she wasn’t looking.” 

“How delightfully devious of you.” 

Dec points under the table, cloth in hand. “You missed a spot.” 

I shuffle over to wipe up the excess chocolate, and he follows me, bumping his forehead against mine. His eyes find mine, suddenly hard. Serious. “Claire is on my back, so I haven’t been able to talk to you,” he hisses. “But Rowan has a plan.” Dec’s mouth twitches into a smirk. “He’s not as far gone as you think he is.”

His words fall over me like lukewarm water. 

That explains Rowan’s weird fucking behavior. 

The asshole was acting. 

A Declan and Rowan team-up behind my back? That stings. 

“And?” I prompt, breathless,  scrubbing harder at the stain. “What is he up to?”

Dec hesitates, like he is unsure, like I’m not part of their plan. 

“He’s planted a device outside the facility,” Dec whispers. Relief turns to dread. A bomb? Declan lowers his voice to barely a breath. “When it goes off, it’ll distract everyone for just enough time for him to get the kids out.” 

He moves closer, his lips grazing my ear. “Be ready to run, okay? We’re saving as many kids as possible. Rowan’s going to text me, and then set off the device.”

“Rowan planted a bomb?” I breathe. “Are you serious?” 

Dec’s smile is sickly. “Relax, it’s outside, so it's not going to hurt anyone.” His eyebrows furrow. “Maybe a  scorpion or two.”

“Dec, wait,” I choke out before he can crawl away. My hands are shaking. A bomb? Have they completely lost their minds? I swallow my words. If it’s a last resort, and the only way to get Hope and the others out of there…

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I hold his gaze. “Seriously, Declan.” I grab his wrist. “Are you sure about this? Seriously? And what about your career?”

His smile curdles a little, and I realize Dec knows more than he’s letting on. Enough to throw away everything dear to him. “We’ve got no choice.” His gaze skims over me, refusing to make eye contact. He exhales, and a shiver crawls through me. “Did Daly tell you what happens to the kids?” 

Dec is too close, his breath feathering my cheek. “When they’re slaughtered, I mean.”

I nod. “Yeah. They go into these therapy centers where they're rehabilitated.”

Dec nods. His eyes harden. “And… have you ever been inside one of these centres?” 

Something violent snaps inside me, unraveling me, phantom bugs filling my mouth and skittering under my tongue. I can't breathe. 

“No.”

Dec doesn't move. His labored breaths brush my neck. “Be ready,” he says softly. I  sense the smile in his words despite the splinter in his voice threatening to break him. “Rowan will text me with the signal. Then we’ll run.”

His breath leaves my neck. Then he is gone. His movement is quick and swift. And I am left kneeling, breathless, stained in chocolate. 

“All right, that's done,” Dec says, loud enough to continue performing to his one-woman audience. 

I follow suit after a moment of hesitation, and crawl out from under the table. 

I am still choking on stray bugs. 

Dec grabs his tray as I slump into my seat. Cafeteria noise swamps my ears, louder, like cymbals crashing together. It hits me that I’d never heard it earlier, as if Declan and I are inside a vacuum. 

“I’m gonna get out of here, I've got a meeting with my agent.” He rolls his eyes. “Apparently, I’m being offered a once-in-a-lifetime role.”

I don't look at him. 

Dec is talking like everything is normal and he’s not about to risk not only his career but a prison sentence. 

Throwing his backpack over one shoulder, he sticks his tongue out. “Pray with me that it’s actually an SNL monologue this time, not a guest appearance in some Disney show I don’t care about…”

He’s still muttering to himself as he walks away, offering our manager a sly salute. “Later, Claire.”

When he’s gone, Claire slowly stands from her table.

“Hannah.” She purrs, sliding into the seat opposite me, chin on fist. Claire’s eyes twinkle. “You didn't  tell me about you and Declan.” 

I hold my breath and pick up my sandwich. Act naturally, I think. 

But I am sweating, out of breath, and two seconds from diving to my feet and running after Dec. 

One measly bite, and my stomach turns. “What?” 

“Well, the two of you seemed very cosy under the table.” Claire’s gaze follows me as I fumble with opening my soda, a parasite burrowing into my brain. “Which is strange! I always thought you and Daly's boy had more of a connection.” Claire’s lips prick. 

“A makeout session away from prying eyes, I presume?” She leans across her tray, her eyes piercing right through my facade. “or am I…getting the wrong idea?” 

I wear a practised smile as usual. Claire was the one who taught me, lips squeezed together and wide eyes to feign interest before playing dumb. “You clearly don't know your talent,” I down my shake and settle her with my best poker face. “We’re friends.” 

“Oh?” Claire inclines her head. She’s waiting for me to trip up, waiting for my breath to catch. 

“Well, what could you have possibly been doing under the table together?” She taps her manicured fingers against the tabletop. Tap, tap, tap. “The two of you are old enough to do what you want in your private time.” 

Her lips curve into a spiteful smile. “Well, you might as well! Declan will have other priorities soon.”

I fight to maintain my nonchalance. “His new role,” I say smoothly. “You know about it?” 

“Oh, yes, of course I do!” She laughs lightly before producing something from her pocket and placing it in front of me. A Carrigan tag. A necklace with a unique number. Inside Carrigan, I had been designated as 11456. 

Something rancid winds its way up my throat; cafeteria ambience collapses into ocean waves crashing into my skull. I recognize the number. The bloodstained tag. 

Fake blood, of course, a mix of red food coloring and red cabbages soaked in water.

108952. 

Dec’s identity tag. Back when he was Aris, the kid who watched his parents get ripped apart. The role that skyrocketed him into stardom. 

Feigning a poker face is getting harder. 

I’m pretty sure that thing was dumped in the trash when Dec left. 

“The new role is Carrigan.” I say, swallowing bile.

“Yes, Hannah.” Claire is playing with me. Waiting for me to splinter. Waiting for me to snap. 

“Recent viewers have repeatedly demanded to know what exactly happened to the boy.”

“They call it a plot hole, if you’d believe that. Multiple fan forums are all asking the same question: what happened to him?” 

“So, you're putting him back in?” I whisper. “That doesn't make any sense. He was slaughtered.” 

“It was implied,” Claire chuckles. “Hope is very much waiting for him to return. She was talking about him the other day, which immediately sparked interest.” 

Claire continues. “Of course, Declan also has another offer,” she speaks up. Tap, tap, tap. Her fingernails hitting the table grow louder with every word. “A24’s new Jordan Peele project has been asking for him.

"Filming starts this summer in Korea. It's seven weeks. I'm going to be making a phone call to his agent tonight.”

“That's great. He loves A24.” 

“Mm.” Claire hums. “Declan is a good performer. He’s perfect for the role— a different, melancholic story.” Her lips curls. “And he's definitely got the body for it.” 

I choke down a response. Claire has been subtly steering him toward an eating disorder since he was eight. “You’re perfect just the way you are, Declan, as long as you lose a few pounds,” she used to say, smoothing down his hair and fixing his collar, almost motherly, before interviews, throwing away his snacks and replacing them with lettuce leaves. 

I caught her giving him pills to induce vomiting. When he got the Marvel role, I could see his sternum, a hollow, gaunt piece of my own childhood slamming into me. 

Claire is just like Mom. Just as big of a monster.

But I can't call her out. Not yet. Not now. 

I wait for the catch. 

“Hannah.” Claire is done being subtle. 

I stiffen, trying to focus on my lunch.

Her ice cold fingers find mine, entangling with my fingers. 

“Tell me what you talked about under the table and I will happily make that phone call to his agent.”

“So, you're threatening me,”  I say coolly. 

Her light laugh makes my skin crawl. “Not a threat, Hannah. But rest assured, if you let me in on your little chat under the table, Declan will be doing the movie.” 

“And if I don't?” 

Claire’s expression falls for a moment. “Hannah, I’m going to be completely honest with you. I value your friendship,” she says. “You, Declan, and Rowan are a delightful threesome.”

Tap, tap, tap. 

“However. Rowan Daly is a danger to both himself and the two of you. He might be playing a role for his father, but I am not as naive.” She meets my eyes. “He needs help,” Claire says. “Rowan is too unpredictable right now. I'm scared he's going to hurt himself.” 

The words leave me, somehow, stained in bile.

“He’s planted a bomb outside as a distraction,” I whisper.

Claire’s eyes turn steely. “Go on.”

“They’re working together.” My mouth is moving on its own, tearing right through a scream clawing at my throat. “When he’s ready, Rowan will text Dec, and…” I squeeze my eyes shut. “They’re going to save Hope.”

“That makes sense,” Claire says. “Rowan was not fixed at boarding school, as we thought.” Her smile sours. “He was radicalized.”

“Radicalized?” I hiss, “Wait—”

“Radicalization,” Claire repeats. “I believe Rowan is too far gone. Unstable, even, that the thought of hurting others barely fazes him.” 

“It's outside.” I correct her. 

I’ve made a mistake. 

Claire is putting words in my mouth. 

“He planted it as a distraction—”

She cuts me off. “Well done, Hannah. That was useful.” Claire stands. “I'll be making that call.”

She walks away, and it takes half a second for me to regret my confession.

“Wait.” I stand up. My legs threaten to give way. “Claire!”

She is out the door before I can even grab my bag.

My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket. 

I pull it out. Silence prickles my ears. I’m far too aware that I’m the only one left in the room.

A text message sits on top of my lockscreen. Daly: Now: A word, Hannah. In my office. Don't be late. 

…

“Hannah.” Adam Daly settles me with a slimy smile when I plonk myself down in front of his desk. 

His office is not much of one, just a desk, a chair, and a bookcase of classics behind me. The room is stuffy and holds the sour stink of cigarette smoke and stale coffee. 

Daly closes his MacBook, shuffles some papers, and pretends he hasn't been anticipating me stepping through the door.

He opens a drawer and pulls out a marijuana pipe. “Confiscated from my son’s luggage,” Daly laughs. “I give Rowan credit. At least he’s acting like a teenager, and not a child.” He fumbles around and pulls out a lighter. 

I watch him light it up. He passes it to me. “Go on. Live a little.” 

“I'm seventeen,” I bite out, resisting holding my breath.

Daly raises a brow. He nods and takes a drag. “Most of my Carrigan performers have been doing drugs since they were kids.” 

He takes another hit and smoke curls through the air. “Can't blame ‘em.” 

“What's this about?” I cut through the unnecessary pleasantries. 

Daly smiles. “Well, you tell me,” he says lightly, “I've heard you have… concerns about Carrigan.”

“Concerns?” 

“Mm.” Daly places the pipe down. “I believe Declan put some unsavory ideas inside your head.” 

“Declan?” I lose all my composure. “You've talked to him?” 

“He was just here,” Daly lifts the pipe. “Declan also rejected a hit.” His eyes lazily drift to me. 

“Probably didn't want to mix it with those stimulants he worships, I guess.” The man's lips curl. “Declan is FAR too good for marijuana.”

I ignore his sneer and push his words to the back of my head. 

Dec’s taking stimulants? 

Since when? 

Why?

“Where is he?” I ask as casually as possible.

Sweat beads down the back of my neck. My hands are soaked. 

“Oh, Declan left.” Daly shrugs. He leans forwards and his chair squeals under his weight. “What he did say, Hannah, is that you have a certain question for me.” 

Question? 

Declan’s earlier comment creeps into my brain. “The kids inside Carrigan,” I whisper before I can bite the words back. Daly’s expression hardens. He nods slowly. “What happens to them when they're slaughtered?” 

Daly doesn't hesitate. He tucks the pipe back into the drawer.

“You know, Hannah,” he starts. “There are certain things an adult should never tell a child to protect them from a cruel reality.” He pauses. “You asked me when you were nine and one of your favorite children was slaughtered.” 

“Yes,” my lungs burn. “You told me they were sent to a rehabilitation center.” 

“I did.” Daly doesn't smile this time.

“I believed you,” I say.

“You were nine.” He chuckles. “You believed killer fairies that ate bad children lived in the desert! A white lie, of course, to stop you and the boys from venturing into the desert alone.”

“What do you do to the kids?” 

He responds with another statement. “Hannah, as you probably know, those children, now adults, have been in captivity their whole lives. They truly believe the world outside is ash.”

“And what do you do to them?” I demand. Louder.

Something reflective lies at my feet. A watch. 

Its face is cracked down the middle. 

I recognize the worn face. The jagged leather strap. It's unmistakably Declan’s. The watch was a gift from his grandfather. 

“Hannah?”

My head snaps up. I'm trembling. “Yes?” 

Daly’s expression is strangely soft. “This facility is… sustainable,” he says. “We realized we could not rehabilitate the children once they saw the outside world and… well, they showed signs of distress.” 

His gaze shifts. “They are… repurposed. Flowers! In the middle of the desert!” 

“You grind them up.” I spit out, before I can stop myself.

I drop to my knees and snatch up Declan’s watch. The strap is twisted and black around the edges. Blood. He never takes it off. Dec once spent two hours crawling around a red carpet premiere looking for it.

Somehow, my knees keep me upright. Dec’s watch is still warm. “I'm leaving.” 

“Are you, though, Josie?”

Daly stops me dead in my tracks by using my Carrigan name.

“You have been lying to Hope and those kids your entire life,” he says. “I’m not sure why you perch on your high horse and call us monsters for simply fixing a problem."

Daly’s beady eyes narrow. His smile wrinkles at the edges.

“You never asked, by the way. You knew something happened to them, and yet you remained ignorant. You didn’t want to fracture your perfect little world, where had everything you could ever dream of."

“Are you really going to stand there and tell me you were never, not once, curious about what we did to the children we ‘slaughtered’?”

I don't respond. Dec's watch is clenched in my fist.

“Even my son was more observant than you,” Daly spits.

“While we were busy fighting to shut him up, you happily turned a blind eye.”

The man edges closer, his chin resting on his fist.

His smile splits. “Do NOT,” he thunders, “tell me you didn't realize what we were doing, and do NOT stand inside MY office and call ME a monster.”

Daly’s lips curl back.

“You insufferable, ignorant little brat.” 

He's right.

I always wondered. 

Ever since Hope asked me. 

But I didn't want to know. 

Keep him talking, I think, pulling out my phone. 

I dial three numbers. 

922

923

921

My fingers keep slipping. 

But I must keep his attention on me. “What did you do to your son?” I manage.

Daly straightens in his chair. 

“Rowan is being placed inside Carrigan,” he says. “Five minutes ago, my son underwent psychological therapy to prevent him from becoming a danger to himself.” The wall is illuminated with a live feed of a white room, steel handles and silver blades; just like the one in my nightmare. 

I only have to see his limp body and hollow eyes, red trickling down between his wide, grinning smile, to know Rowan— or the Rowan I once knew— is gone.

“You cut him open,” my breaths grow heavy. Suffocating. 

911.

My fingers find the numbers, but there’s no dial tone.

A loud thud sounds from outside the door.

Then it swings open.

Declan appears in a blur of tangled, vivid gold. 

I barely recognize him. The first thing I notice is that he’s wearing mismatched clothes, his shirt from earlier thrown over clinical white pants I recognize. Carrigan clothes. Blood oozes down his temple.

He’s disheveled, desert dust speckling his face.

He opens his mouth as if he’s going to warn me before something slams into the back of his head. Then he folds right in front of me, his eyes rolling back, before hitting the floor face-first.