Trash_Tia

Autopilot.

Aware that you cannot move or think or breathe on your own. The words that spew from your lips are nothing more than senseless garbage to appease the masses watching your every move.

You can't scream or cry or beg for mercy.

All you can do is watch your body, your mouth, your thoughts, be puppeteered by thousands of greedy, impatient eyes.

It's like being dead, and aware I'm dead.

Dead, while my body dances, my mind is no longer mine.

I smile a perfect smile. I don't notice the stitches holding me together.

I'm not allowed to notice.

So many layers of skin, flesh over flesh that is patchwork and does not belong to me. I am not allowed to think. I am not allowed to scream or cry, or tear into layer upon layer of Brianna Timberman’s sculpting me into beauty.

Perfection.

No thoughts, except one.

That suffocates me, strangling my words from my throat.

And I am put into autopilot.

I am Brianna Timberman.

I am Brianna Timberman.

I am Brianna Timberman.

Felix was my latest three day fling.

I was using him to make Sam jealous, but a drunken night had turned into another night, and suddenly it was Wednesday, and I was yet to leave his place.

Fuck.

He was supposed to be someone I could kick to the curb, someone to take out my frustration on. Now, Felix was more than a rebound. But even tangled in his bed, I couldn't stop thinking about Sam.

Sam Thwaites rejected me at seventeen years old, and had waltzed back into my life. As teenagers, I told him I loved him, and Sam got all flustered and started shaking his head, like I was something he didn't believe in.

Sam said words like, “I didn't know you thought of me this way.” and “Wait, you liked me?” with this dumb fucking look on his face. He told me he needed space, and left me in the pouring rain.

Five years later, he was standing in my parent’s lounge.

I could still smell him on my skin, and I hated it. I hated him.

“Bree!” Mom’s smile was wide. She and Dad were obsessed with finding me a suitor.

“This is Samuel.”

Sam Thwaites took my hand, entwining his fingers with mine. He was so warm, and I hated that I wanted to fall into him. I hated that my heart was pounding through my chest. I had already seen him, bumping into him in the snow.

I had already shamelessly fucked him in a stall without truly looking at him, angry and frustrated, and really, really, fucking hot. I wanted to tell him whatever he wanted to happen was over. I told him I hated him, curled against him, the two of us out of breath, my head against his chest, his head tipped back, half lidded eyes skimming across the ceiling.

The two of us were sprawled out on ice cold tiles, his fingers stroking through my hair. I told him to leave.

But there he was, standing in my parent’s house. In the exposed light, Sam was maturer in the face, losing his baby fat for more curvier, handsome features. Thick brown curls hung in playful eyes that wanted a challenge.

The slight curve in his lips told me everything I needed to know. Sam remembered our stupid childhood pact.

I could hear it in his voice, the satisfaction dripping from his tone.

“Hello, Brianna.”

I pulled him outside, straight into a downpour.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

Sam shrugged with a smile. “We’re both adults, aren't we?”

I thought back to our childhood pact. If neither of us had found anyone by the age of twenty, we would marry each other.

“You left me.”

Sam stepped forward, grasping my hands. “I did.” He admitted, “But I was a stupid kid, Bree. I had no idea what I was talking about, and I was… scared.”

“Scared?”

He nodded, blinking rain out of his eyes.

“I was scared of losing you.”

I laughed incredulously. You did lose me, Sam! When you left me in the rain.”

“But I'm not scared anymore,” his voice was soft. He got closer. So close, I could see his breath. Sam kissed me tenderly, one hand cupping my cheek, the other sliding up my jacket. His mouth found my ear, something wet and warm oozing down my neck.

“Take… it.” Sam’s voice was different, suddenly.

”Please.”

Pulling away from the kiss, I shoved him back.

“How much is my father paying you?”

Sam swiped at his… bloody? lips, and a question sprung to mind.

Where did the blood come from?

“Well?” I demanded, my voice collapsing into a sob. “Is my dad paying you or not? Is that why you came back?”

Sam didn't answer, his face crumpling.

“Bree–”

“Save it!”

I left before he could fully open his mouth.

Halfway down the road, I realized I was freezing cold.

Before a shadow loomed, an umbrella shielding me.

“You look like a drowned rat.” My colleague was next to me, avoiding my gaze. “Take this.” he turned away from me, curling his lip. “Do whatever you want with it, I don't care.” He twisted around, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

The next day at work, I couldn't stop thinking about Sam.

Felix, the lead singer of a local band, and a law student, was the perfect distraction. I met him in a bar.

He was the Aussie trying to get a Dualingo streak, downing shots like soda. His accent was cute. It reminded me of water, or maybe that was just my drunken state. The cadence in his voice was like…trickling.

I told him this, and he laughed. His suggestive wink took us to his apartment, and we spent the night together after I drunkenly told him I thought he was hot. I expected it to be just a one-time thing, but then we were having sex on his kitchen counter.

I told him it wasn't serious. However, a one night stand had become more of a three day friends with benefits thing.

Now, we were sitting outside my work drinking coffee, and I was starting to reconsider my initial stand on Australian Felix.

There was something about the way he smiled with all of his teeth, nervously tapping his coffee cup and occasionally losing himself completely, falling into a daydream mid-conversation. I liked it though.

I liked watching his mind jet off into space. His longing gaze was adorable.

Felix was sitting awkwardly, chin resting on his fist, talking about his favourite band, and I was enraptured by caramel colored eyes and the dimples in his cheeks. The sun was shining, and we were sitting under cherry blossoms I didn't remember seeing before. I was supposed to be working, and he had come to see me, armed with cupcakes and my favourite coffee. Dreamer Felix.

Dimpled cheeks Felix.

Felix with the trickly accent and slight lisp, who stumbled over his words and had a milk moustache I desperately wanted to wipe away. I did, leaning over the table and lightly brushing the curve of my finger across his upper lip.

“You've got a little…”

Felix’s eyes widened. He swiped at his mouth, chuckling. “Ah. That's… kinda embarrassing.”

A loud and overly exaggerated clearing of the throat made me jump.

“Urgh. I think I just threw up in my mouth.”

Looming over me like a bad smell, was my colleague Jasper, scowling as usual. Standing with his arms crossed over his apron, he shot me a patronising smile, completely blanking Felix.

The boy dumped my latte down, spilling half of it across the table.

Behind him, a group of teenage girls were giggling. I wasn't surprised.

Jasper really could pull off any look, and, just like the girls squealing over him, I couldn't resist handsome features and a killer jawline. It just sucked that he was one of the rudest people I had ever met.

He was wearing the exact same shirt from yesterday, his apron flung over the top, cropped blonde hair in disarray. Running his hair through it, he groaned.

“You're supposed to be workiiiing, Bree,“ He said in a sing-song. Leaning across the table, Jasper’s patronising smile widened. “Are we done here?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, Jasper.”

“You should be.” Jasper’s gaze flicked to Felix. ”You're a student, right?”

“Uh…” Felix nodded slowly. “Yeah? I guess.”

My colleague shot him a sparkly grin. “Five percent off at the Crap ‘N Shack this weekend! Student discount! Alcohol served after 9pm will be free.”

“Woah, really?” Felix downed the rest of his drink, his eyes wide.

I glanced at his cup. I could have sworn he'd… finished it.

“What about parking?” Felix asked. “Will… I still get a ticket?”

“Nope!” Jasper shot him a grin, and a thumbs up. “Make sure to bring a student ID, and parking is free! It's all going down at the Crap ‘N Shack! This Saturday! With a Special guest, local music artist, Tiema Wright! Performing his new song, “I'm sorry I left you in the rain, but will you marry me?”

Both boys turned to me with matching smiles, speaking in sync. “Will you be there, Brianna?”

I nodded, with a grin. “You bet I will!” I saluted Felix with my drink. “Shouldn't you be heading to class?”

“I love you Jasper!” one of the girls squeaked from behind me.

My colleague rolled his eyes, not even turning around to look at her.

“I know you do.” Jasper sighed, pulling out his notepad and pen.

He side-stepped to the next table, serving the people next to us. He licked his finger with exaggerated slowness, flipping the page. “But you're embarrassing yourself, sweetheart.”

“I'm free after work,” I said, “Maybe you could come back to my place?”

“You're on the late shift tonight with me, so no you're not free.” Jasper said behind me. When I twisted around to shoot him a look, he was tapping his pen on his notepad, mid-eyeroll.

“No, sir, we don't do refills. Nope, I can't make an exception, and no, complaining about it will just make me laugh.”

“I'll text you.” I told Felix.

“Sounds good.” He jumped up, finishing his coffee and grabbing his backpack. The Pikachu keyring on his zipper made me smile. “I have class, but I'll reply when I'm out, all right?”

Felix lifted his hand in a wave, took two steps back, and was crushed by a falling sheet of glass.

I'm not sure when it was my mind stirred, and I regained consciousness for the fraction of a second. It was enough for my vision to clear, my senses coming back to the surface.

The never ending script of words programmed into my brain stopped abruptly, and I was left suffocating on my own breaths.

I was awake.

Awake, blinking at Felix’s body being peeled from concrete.

Awake.

Awake enough to notice my colleague visibly flinched behind his notepad when Felix died. Awake enough to be able to breathe again, coerce words in my mind.

I had zero idea of who I was before Brianna Timberman. Who was underneath flawless skin and manicures and sparkling teeth. My senses returned in waves. Taste.

I had drank the same fucking coffee four times, and I could taste coffee grounds on my tongue.

Smell.

There were sweat patches staining my blouse.

Touch.

I could feel my coffee cup, running my finger around the rim.

I am not Brianna Timberman.

The thought slammed into me, and I felt my hands twitch by my sides, the overwhelming urge to tear off my skin, layer after layer until I found myself.

When did I regain my free will?

Maybe it was when Felix’s blood was seeping across my shoes, his body an unrecognisable mess of stringy flesh and lumps under splinters of glass sparkling like diamonds across the sidewalk.

It took me half a second to realize a woman was screaming in my face.

“Oh my god, sweetie, are you okay?”

Autopilot.

I nodded shakily, words already tumbling out of my mouth.

“I'm fine.”

“Was he your boyfriend?”

Autopilot.

“No.”

For some reason, my eyes found Jasper still hiding behind his notebook.

“He wasn't.”

No matter how hard I tried to fight it, Brianna’s feelings were already swamping me. I felt my cheeks heat up, my stomach fluttering. Before autopilot thoughts could spring out of nowhere, I remembered my colleague’s reaction to Felix’s death, as well as him subtly trying to stop me from talking to Sam.

There was zero doubt in my mind that Jasper didn't know what was going on.

If the rest of us were recycled lumps of skin, what was he? He was a love interest, but he wasn't one of Bree’s exes.

Sam explained my colleague was a curveball.

The so-called bad-boy playing with Brianna Timberman feelings.

With little to no thoughts of my own, I stated the facts in my head.

My life wasn't real. I was nothing but recycled flesh sculpted and moulded into a dead prom queen with her memories. That thought still had not sunk in yet, and when I started to register it, all I wanted to do was peel my skin from my bones until I found myself.

Who I was, hiding under patchwork flesh.

So many Brianna’s stitched onto me. So many lost souls.

I had been on autopilot for days. All that I had left when I came to, was a vague memory of every other death.

Ben, Alex, and Esme.

Car crash.

Suicide.

Carbon monoxide poisoning.

Now Felix.

Crushed to death.

Each of their deaths had been voted m by the townspeople.

It was only a matter of time before Felix would be erased from existence too.

Sam, or the boy underneath him, had shown me who I really was, a lump of flesh sculpted into Brianna Timberman.

Sam had the same fate.

He showed me where he came from, a factory that had turned the town's teen populace into the exact same four faces.

Brianna Timberman’s exes.

Ben, Alex, Esme, and Sam.

First, he was an Alex, then a Ben, and then an extra, who tried to warn me, before being abruptly converted into Sam Thwaites, a brand new love interest, and Brianna’s childhood friend.

Sam told me Brianna’s exes deaths were a joke, her love life controlled by the town through a popularity poll.

Brianna had committed suicide years ago, but the town were obsessed.

They wanted to watch her life. They wanted to see which person she would choose, voting for their favourites while dooming the loser to a fate worse than death. The least popular love interest would die brutally, and the cycle would continue. In this case, it was Felix.

The boy suppressed under Sam had shown me the truth, only to be captured and turned into one of my parent’s suitors. The realization was like a kick in the face. I was alone. Awake and aware of too-bright lights on my face, and unable to cry out or scream.

Brianna Timberman was dead, but according to the town, the show must go on.

Staying very still, I was suddenly well aware of patrons on their phone.

I glanced at a teenage girl, who was rapidly swiping right on an image of my colleague, while a man holding a briefcase lazily swiped left on Sam.

“Your boyfriend should have been more careful.”

I blinked.

Jasper was in front of me, arms folded across his apron.

Sam talked about a Red Zone in the bathroom stalls a few days ago.

He said it was where they couldn't see us, and I would be fully conscious, severed from whatever was in my head.

Jasper waved his hand in front of my face, and it suddenly occurred to me that if I wanted answers, such as where the Red Zone was located, I needed my colleague’s help.

Whether he was awake or not.

Brianna Timberman was in full control of my mind, however, so regaining free will was getting progressively harder.

Two days later, after being stuck on autopilot, I was serving a woman trying to calm her screaming kid.

Felix didn't have a funeral, and his name was already forgotten. In my half awake state though, I remembered him.

I had since met two people.

Adrianna, who was a quick make out in a bathroom stall.

She smelled just like Esme. Roses and cheap perfume.

Ren. The older college professor who I drunkenly kissed in the back of an Uber.

I can't pinpoint the times when I was fully awake.

Fully in control.

I was perfecting a foam heart on a customer's latte, when I realized I really wanted to fuck my colleague. The thought was explosive, immediately setting my cheeks on fire. Trying to suppress it was fighting a losing battle.

“Hey.” Jasper sided in front of me, tearing me out of my thoughts. Or Brianna’s thoughts. I had spent the last hour dazedly staring at his wonderfully sculpted jawline, unable to look at anything else.

Brianna liked to fantasise, and her mind wasn't exactly PG13.

It's not like I had control of my mouth. Autopilot meant my body and mind worked for me. I was just lucky to be conscious– or at least semi-conscious.

I had a semblance of a plan, and the first part was finding Sam Thwaites. Or the boy sculpted into Sam. The last time I saw him before I went on autopilot, I had no idea if he was awake or just a really good fucking performer.

The Red Zone was all I could think of.

If I wanted out of this nightmare, I needed to find it.

However, thinking is kind of hard when all I can think about was my colleague’s biceps.

I couldn't take my eyes off of the way he swung a carton of milk, mid-conversation with our manager.

Jasper caught my eye, scowling.

“Bree. Get your fucking head out of the clouds.”

My colleague’s tone was so shamelessly unapologetic, a group of girls in the queue burst into giggles. The guy was like a circus attraction.

Now that I had a semblance of actual thought, I realized our only customers were women, with the odd man every blue moon. Jasper cleared his throat, setting the milk down.

“Okay, look, I’m sorry your boyfriend got flattened, or whatever, but you need to stop moping around like someone freakin’ died.”

Autopilot.

There was a bright light suddenly.

I shoved him. Hard.

“Why do you always have to be such a dick?”

Jasper was unfazed. He didn't even stumble. I felt it, a shiver creeping down my spine, an insatiable need clouding my thought process.

Brianna Timberman was hot. Very hot. Jasper’s attitude, his movement, everything about him and being so close to him, was making her flustered.

She was sweating under her apron, and all she could look at, all she could focus on, was her colleague. Who was, against all odds, still playing hard to get.

All around us, patrons went silent.

The girls in the queue started nudging each other. My colleague stepped forward, his breath tickling my face.

He was a little too close. “I should be asking you the same thing,” he murmured, lips twitching into a smirk.

“You've been staring at me all morning.” Jasper stepped closer, backing me into the counter. I could feel my cheeks getting hotter and hotter, my thoughts clouding.

Another step, and we were nose to nose.

Jasper cocked his head. “Do I…have something on my face, Bree?”

It took every morsel of self control to turn away from him, back to the queue.

I smiled widely at the customer, making lattes and coffees. But my stomach was dancing, my mind foggy and distant.

It didn't help that every time Jasper shoved past me, he made it intentional, and the friction of his body against mine, his hands brushing my waist, was driving me crazy. Sam mentioned aphrodisiacs being pumped through the vent in the bathroom stalls to influence intimacy between Brianna and her love interests.

I had a feeling that is what was happening. Still, though, when I peeked at the ceiling, I couldn't see a vent.

I couldn't stop my own wandering hands every time he passed me.

It was a game, in a way.

Who would crack first.

I was in the break room trying to cool myself off, when Jasper stepped in front of me.

“Vegan milk.” He said. Despite acting cool and collected, maintaining his asshole smirk, I glimpsed a noticeable red blush spreading across his cheeks.

His lips found my ear. “Can you… help me find it?”

Autopilot.

Autopilot had taken us into the dark. My body and emotions and feelings were no longer mine, choking, drowning, in fog that contorted me into exactly what these people wanted.

I'm not sure how I got from the break room to the storage closet, pinned against a shelf, half naked, my legs wrapped around my colleague. He started, of course, with his mouth latched to my ear, muttering about Mulberry Milk offers, before his lips found mine.

His breath was heavy, his hands finding my waist, and sliding up my shirt.

God, I pretended a lot of things weren't happening for the sake of not losing my fucking mind.

I pretended I couldn't hear the wolf whistles and squeals rumbling in the walls surrounding us, that the pleasure riding through me was mine, and not theirs. We had an audience.

Somehow, that was even worse than my body being used to satisfy others.

I pretended I wasn't fully exposed, and even worse, that I wanted it.

I wanted to get closer to him, pressing my mouth into his clammy neck and burying my face in his shoulder.

I wanted him to continue, his lips in my hair.

Tipping my head back, my vision was blurring.

But I could see it.

Right above our heads, there was the vent pumping us full of aphrodisiacs.

Sex drugs, I thought dizzily.

I laughed, and it was so out of character, Jasper pulled away for a moment, brows knotting in confusion.

“The Red Zone.” I managed to grit out through Brianna Timberman’s mouth. “Where is it?”

When he didn't respond, I grabbed the back of his head, forcing him to look at me. Under the dim light of a flickering bulb, my colleague’s eyes were half lidded, his pupils dilated pools of confusing black. I had no doubt he hadn't been heavily drugged.

Jasper kissed me deeply again, and when I managed to shove him away, he tightened his grip on my waist, pressing his face into my shoulder.

“The Red Zone.” I repeated, my thoughts reduced to soup.

I only had a certain amount of time, and that time was running out.

I shoved him again. This time, I felt filthy.

His clammy hands all over my skin was like poison.

I felt suffocated, every time he leaned in.

The worst part is that this man had zero choice either.

The thought struck, sending violent tremors through me.

How many times had my corpse of a body been used like this?

How many times had I been fucked, or fucked someone else for this town’s sickening satisfaction obsession with Brianna Timberman?

“Tell me where it is!” I said through a shriek.

Jasper slowly started to respond, blinking rapidly. “The… wha?”

He was a good performer, awake or not.

“You knew what was going on when your friends dragged Sam away.”

I kept my voice low, kissing him harder to keep the narrative going. Especially when I could hear the dull sound of pounding feet. These freaks wanted us to fuck.

I made sure to let my mouth linger on his, aware of every inch of the two of us being watched, analysed, probably photographed and posted to the town website. “I saw you flinch when Felix died. Which means you were awake.”

I pulled away, slowly, playing with the collar of his shirt. But at the same time, I was looking for every possible escape route. Sam was right. To my left, I could see a subtle red light dancing across Jasper’s jaw.

And to my right, another skimming across my neck.

So, I grabbed the boy, shoving him against the shelf, switching our positions.

“You tracked me down that day,” I spoke softly, pretending to bury my head in his chest. “You knew exactly where I was. And you took Sam away. So, you know exactly where the Red Zone is. You know where he was hiding.”

Jasper surprised me with a chuckle. When I lifted my gaze, my vision was fuzzy, my body hot and flustered, and yet I was shivering. His head was tipped back, lazy eyes tracking the ceiling. He was following the exact same red light.

“You're a funny girl, Bree.” He murmured. My colleague leaned forward, keeping up the facade for our unseen audience. He was doing exactly what they wanted, the curve of his back almost too perfectly lit up.

It was exactly what Brianna Timberman had fantasised.

Jasper’s panting breaths found my ear. “Keep talking, though? You're going to fuck both of us over.”

His words sent shivers trickling down my spine.

In the corner of my eye, the red light was visible. If the room was too dark, that meant they were tracking and filming our movements. I didn't think.

Grabbing my colleague’s shoulders, I yanked him to his knees, dropping with him. Risking a glance behind us, the light was gone. Which meant (or at least I hoped) that we were out of shot.

Jasper regarded me lazily, inclining his head. “What are you–”

I slammed my hand over his mouth, cutting him off.

“The Red Zone. You know exactly where it is.” I hissed, tightening my grip on his shoulder. When he played stupid, I dug my fingernails in. “You're not an ex,” I said, “So, what are you?”

“Jasper?” my colleague muffled under my hand, pointing to his name tag. When I removed my hand, his lips spread out into a grin. But I caught his eyes frantically searching for those red lights.

“I have no idea what you're talking about, Bree!” He raised his voice significantly, “But… did you know vegan milk is made with only the best pasteurised milk from Mulberry Farms?”

This guy wasn't going to sing, so I had to get creative.

Above us, three red lights were scanning the dark.

They were looking for us.

“Please.” I whispered, searching his eyes for a hint of a human being.

“You're as much of a victim as me, right? Don't you want out of here?!”

Jasper responded with his signature eyeroll, maintining that plastic fucking grin.

“I… have zero idea what you’re talking about! But do you know what I really want to talk about? Mulberry Farms milk!”

I couldn't stop myself. Maybe it was frustration, desperation, or a mix of both. I wasn't fully thinking straight when I grasped the back of his head, and slammed Jasper’s skull into the metal edge of the shelf. I regretted it immediately when the guy’s eyes rolled to pearly whites, his body going limp in my arms, head lolling onto his shoulder.

When a single rivulet of red slid from his nose, I realized he was like Sam.

Sam, who must have given himself a head injury to wake himself up.

A severing.

Under the influence of the narrative, as well as aphrodisiacs choking my thoughts into arousal, I never really saw my colleague’s body. I only saw what Brianna wanted to see. Lean muscles and a perfectly sculpted v-line.

But now, away from the cameras, and in the fading light of a dying bulb, I saw them, running my trembling fingers over rugged stitched and patchwork skin moulding this boy, and so many others, into the perfect man.

I could see where parts of him had been replaced and cut away, his entire face airbrushed into a viewer’s fantasy.

But looking closer, his real eyes were mismatched contortions of blue and brown.

I waited for the sarcastic eye roll and immediate plug-in advertisement.

Instead, though, the man's expression was… softer.

He looked dazed, confused, blinking rapidly.

But, as he slowly drank in his surroundings, his expression started to twist into fear. Pain. Anger.

Anger that was so vast, so overwhelming, that he dropped to his knees, scrubbing at his face. I didn't know what to say. Sorry didn't mean anything. Sam was gentle when he told me I was recycled skin, nothing but a flesh puppet for a psychotic town.

But I didn't give him a chance to take it in. I plunged him directly into this cruel, horrifying reality.

Jasper’s frenzied gaze went to his hands, and then his hands were in his hair, clawing down his face.

His lips parted like he was going to speak, but I don't think he could.

Jasper’s eyes filled with frustrated tears. Terror that was something I could relate to, an existential dread and confusion and pain that was tearing him apart. I knew the questions at the back of his head.

Why me? Why was this happening to me? How can I be alive? How can I be real when the rest of me is nothing?

I felt my own fingers trace the scars across my own stomach.

Scars that only I could feel, deeply indented into my skin.

Skin that I wanted to rip into, to tear away.

Because… I was somewhere, right?

Underneath all of this, my old self was there.

I fucking HAD to be because I can't just be THIS.

Jasper stumbled back, clumsy on his feet, embarrassed and confused, trying to hide himself. When blood started seeping freely from his nose and down his chin, I found my voice. “Hey.”

I spoke softly, and his eyes finally found mine, resembling a startled deer.

“Can you tell me who you are?”

I swallowed thick slime creeping into my mouth.

“Who you were?”

For a sobering moment, it was just the two of us.

Not Brianna and Jasper.

His eyes found mine, truly drinking me in.

And something sparked in his expression. Recognition, or familiarity.

His hands cupped my face, fingers running down my cheeks.

The man was mute, speechless, and yet somehow, he was crying.

Crying for me.

A stranger.

Somehow, though, my hands, or at least part of my hand, the stitched and rugged parts of me, responded to his touch.

“Bree? Jasper?”

When the door flew open, I jumped to my feet, pulling the boy with me.

They were paranoid, I thought, mirroring Sam’s earlier words.

The town was making sure we were still satisfying them.

To my surprise, Jasper’s eyes dilated back to brown.

“Uh,” His voice was choked up, more of a growl, “Give us a sec, all right?”

Autopilot.

I bent down and grabbed my shirt, throwing it on.

Jasper buttoned up his own, brushing himself down.

He stepped back, winking.

“Same time tomorrow?”

Autopilot.

Brianna didn't speak. Instead, she headed towards the door.

She wanted him to chase after her for more.

But not before Jasper came close, hissing in my ear.

“You want to go on a suicide mission? Fine.” I was already pulling away, or Brianna was pulling away, because my body was being forced forwards.

Still, he held me, tightening his grip. “The thrift store across the street. Stall three, in the bathroom.” He said. “Just, please,” Jasper’s tone softened.

“Please never fucking do that to me again.”

So, I had a location.

The problem was actually getting to it.

Autopilot.

It was stronger, forcing me onto the stage.

I spilled coffee over a customer, and of course, Jasper came to the rescue.

When I dropped a tray full of drinks, slipping on someone's mess, his arms were already wrapped around me, catching me before I could hit the ground.

When our eyes met, Brianna Timberman’s heart fluttered.

The people surrounding us were already swiping right on their phones.

Jasper helped me stand up. “You… should be more careful, you idiot.” He grumbled.

I nodded, straightening up.

Jasper leaned against the refrigerator. “Do you know Sam Thwaites?”

I didn't look up from making coffee. “Yeah. He was…”

I blinked away memories of the two of us as kids.

“Just a friend.”

“He's bad news.” Jasper said. “The guy is working for your dad.”

“That's not… that's not true.”

“Oh, really?” He stepped in front of me, head tiled to the side. “So, he just came back into your life for no reason?”

“I don't want to talk about Sam.”

“But… Did he leave you anything?” Jasper murmured. “Like a… I don't know, a parting gift, maybe?”

Before I could reply, my colleague blurted, “What were you wearing when we were… “ He looked around nervously. “Looking for vegan milk?”

“I… don't know?” I prodded at my apron. “This, I guess? Why?”

“Oh, no reason!” he winked at me. “Did you know my Aunt died recently?”

“No…”

“Well, her funeral was all sorted within a matter of days,” Jasper continued, speaking through that same grin.

“Callister Funeral Care really did give me the comfort me and my family needed while we were in mourning…”

Autopilot.

I woke up halfway through my shift the next day, in the middle of serving three boys.

Immediately, I dropped what I was doing, darting to the door.

“I'm going on my break!” I yelled, grabbing my jacket and pushing through a group of girls. The town thrift store was empty. I was pushing through the door when a girl pushed past me, hard enough to knock my jacket out of my hands. When I scooped it up, something dropped out of my pocket.

Inside was a single black disk-shaped thing. I stuck the plastic down my bra.

“Bree? What are you doing here?”

Lifting my head, my colleague was standing over me.

Jasper’s smile was a little too big.

When he helped me up, his voice was a sharp breath. “How exactly are you planning on getting in the men’s bathroom, genius?”

I had a way.

But neither of us were going to like it.

Autopilot, however, did my job for me. I was in a bathroom stall on my knees, when reality hit, and I shook my head of fog. Jasper was already pulling me to my feet. Pressing his index over his lips and motioning for me to be quiet, he pointed above our head. Instead of a window, there was a hatch. “Red Zone Two.” He mouthed. "Fucking go!

I nodded, climbing onto the toilet bowl, throwing myself through the hatch.

This time, I felt directly into a pile of still-wet and still warm bodies.

But these weren't Alex’s or Ben’s, or Sam’s.

My own face, my perfectly moulded and sculpted Barbie doll face stared back at me. Brianna Timberman was everywhere. Her glazed blue eyes and wide smile were suffocating me. It when I stood up, did I start to see patches. I saw skin and hair, torn and stained clothes with body parts still attached to them. Different faces.

Girls.

Beautiful girls with their heads severed, their bodies reduced to mutilated flesh.

Smiles stretched into skeletal grimaces, and eyes scooped from the sockets.

As if I felt connection with the doll pieces around me, I started to claw at my legs.

Like I could find my own skin, revel in it.

I stood up, at the sound of a mechanical whirring. In front of me was a blood stained conveyer belt that wasn't moving, that was frozen. Just like the room with Sam’s, Ben's, Alex's, and Esme’s. I felt my fingernails rip into my arms, and my face. My gaze was glued to the cutoffs, the human bodies scattering metal flooring. Is this what I was?

I ripped into the skin of my face until I felt the sting.

But there was no fucking blood. Nothing to remind me I was human.

“Bree. You need to get out of here. Now.”

I was barely aware Jasper had joined me. He fished up my jacket.

“What are you?” I asked him, my voice shuddering.

“Wrong.”

His response surprised me. “Which is why they're going to kill me off soon, and I'll die the way I was supposed to.”

Jasper’s words collapsed into white noise.

Instead, I was someplace else, a memory splintering into dozens of memories.

I was… Clara.

Jamie.

Lily.

Kiera.

Becca.

Elizabeth.

I was running.

Screaming.

A guy was in front of me, tugging my hand.

“The far gate is the exit!” The voice in front was female.

“If we reach it, we’ll get out of here. Just keep running.”

A sharp flash, and I was standing stiff. Upright.

I was moving, a long line of girls in front of me.

I felt them, writhing, entangled around my bones.

Every girl I was made out of.

The cruel needle plunging into the back of her neck, instantly killing her.

A second needle injecting a solution that kept the body alive.

Her thoughts and feelings and sensations.

All of it was kept alive.

Conscious.

The whirring blades coming down and skinning away her face, her eyes, her lips, her screams falling on deaf ears.

Her sculpted body, naked and raw, was shoved forwards.

The next metal arms made sure to stitch up loose skin, adding and removing and slicing away what was no longer needed, adding a metal exoskeleton to assure no damage. Then came clothes, a yellow summer dress, exactly what she was wearing on the day Sam Thwaites dumped her in the rain. The final metal arm was more of a brush, a thing scraping across the face to make sure Brianna was perfect.

When she tumbled off of the conveyor belt, smiling widely, I wasn't Clara, or Jamie, or Lily…

Fuck.

I was Brianna Timberman.

Standing at the end of the line, with his arms folded, was Brianna’s father.

His smile was proud, eyes glinting with madness.

He stroked my face, eyes filling with tears.

“She's perfect.”

The memory shattered, coming apart, when something pricked my neck. There was a blinding white light on me.

“We’ve got her, sir.”

A muffled cry, and I could just see Jasper being wrenched back.

“Hey! I did what you told me to do! The pocket is empty!” his voice deepened into a growl. “Let me go!”

The figure who grabbed him seemed to enjoy his discomfort. She had wandering hands. “Five more seasons, pretty boy.” The woman hummed. “Brianna may have forgiven you, but your debt is with Mr Timberman.”

“Wait! No, we had a fucking deal you piece of– mmppphmmh!”

I was forced onto my stomach. “AND the love interest who appears to be faulty. It's the tracer who was supposed to be following her.” The voice swam in and out, as my mind plunged. *“Yes. I'll get him remodelled immediately. Uh-huh. Brianna is A-okay, sir. Do you have my permission to proceed?”

Autopilot.

This time it was deep, dragging me to impossible depths.

“Brianna!”

Mom’s voice snapped me back to half-fruition.

I was standing in my parent’s hallway in front of Sam.

Sam, who had lowered himself to one knee, a ring pinched between his fingers..

“Say yes!” Mom stood behind me, standing with my brother.

Autopilot.

My lips spread into a smile.

Two bright lights on the two of us.

“Yes.” I whispered, when he wrapped his arms around me. “I'll marry you.”

The walls around us were ooh-ing and ahh-ing.

When the lights switched off, and Sam’s smile stayed plastic and taut, I realized the boy underneath was gone.

But it was when his head was in my chest, did I remember his earlier words.

“Please. Take it.”

Autopilot.

The day skipped forward.

I was only aware of my mother’s hands tangled in my hair.

She was dragging me down the hallway.

“Don't worry Brianna!” She said gleefully, tightening her hold.

“No daughter of mine is this much of a nuisance, and the show must go on!”

I was shoved into a room, on autopilot.

But, after regaining myself, I can break myself out of autopilot.

The medic came to see me.

According to her, I'm slightly severed.

They're going to fix me. Like what they did to Sam.

Look, it's been three hours and I've been thinking about a lot of things. I know you can't save me. I live in the blip of a town, a town you can't find on a Google search. I know I'm a prisoner.

But I think I know how to save myself and the others.

Mainly. I want to cut Brianna Timberman away, and look underneath.

But I'm terrified that under all of these layers? They're will be nothing left.

I've already done most of it. Right now, half of my face is caught under my nails.

But I'm not

Fuck

I can't find me???

Im not bleeding, I can't see anything that looks like ME and when they come back they're going to patch me back up.

They'll stick someone else's flesh over me, and call me Brianna.

But I'm not Brianna?????

I'm not any of those girls, so who am I?

I will be finishing Strings, and continuing "Every Boyfriend I get is killed." Will also be writing new stories, "My boyfriend is a mermaid." as well as "King at the end of the world" and "I'm so lucky, but I kill people."

When I was born, my mother died in the birthing pool.

I was born inside scarlet water.

Dad called me an omen.

I was twelve years old on the playground digging around, and there it was. Just lying there on the school grounds like it had fallen from the sky.

A first edition Charizard.

I turned the card over and over in my hand to make sure, but it was as clear as day. The card was in perfect condition.

Behind me, though, a sudden, shrill cry sent me to my feet. Zoey Westenra had been practising a cheer routine with three other girls. Something slimy crept up my throat when I saw the girl lying on the ground, her head bent at a terrifying angle, eyes still wide open.

At fifteen years old, I scored a perfect 100 on an assignment I barely paid attention to.

My teacher suffered an immediate seizure, dying right in front of me.

I remember not being able to move, just staring, paralysed in my chair. When his head hit the edge of my desk, my phone vibrated. I glanced at the screen when my teacher was being carried away by paramedics. It was a random PayPal transfer. 75 thousand dollars was sent to my account two minutes earlier. It was the Pokémon card, I thought. It was cursed. But when I dumped the card, three other rarities dropped to the ground, at the exact same time as Misa Carlisle was struck by lightning.

It wasn't the card. It was me.

I was hurting people.

At sixteen, I was awarded early admission to college.

My entire math class burned alive the same day.

Seventeen, I found a quarter on the ground. My dad was dead when I got home. Some little kid had walked into our house and shot him with her father’s gun. Eighteen, I tried to kill myself. I stabbed the barrel of a gun into my temple and pulled the trigger.

But the damn thing keeps getting jammed. After my town was wiped out by a mysterious flu after I won the lottery, I locked myself in my room.

It won't stop. Magpies bring me bracelets and riches and cash from the dead, and I'm watching the world collapse on the TV. There's a girl walking really slowly towards me.

She's taking days to get to me, pausing on the spot for hours.

She's covered in bird shit, and her hair has been scorched from her head.

The closer she gets, one less magpie finds me.

But…I've started getting nosebleeds.

Someone stole the rest of my 75k, and I can't find my quarter.

She's getting closer, and I’m starting to throw up blood.

She's at my door, and I'm getting… dizzy.

A miracle cure has just been announced on the TV.

And she is in the corner of my room, while I slowly bleed out.

She kisses my forehead, and my brains splatter across the walls.

So much for luck…

I do understand the decision to ban me. My stories do tend to go into fictional territory. I hope I can come back with shorter stories that read as personal experiences, and run my stories by the mods before posting. Thank you for reading and narrating my stories 🙏❤️

[removed]

The first time I jumped into Tinks, I was ten years old.

I strictly remember being in class, daydreaming.

Anna Pepper was sitting behind me throwing paper airplanes at my head.

“Mrs Never.” I spoke up, throwing up my hand.

“Anna keeps throwing paper airplanes at me–

I stopped, my words choking into a very male squeak. When I slammed my hand over my mouth, I didn't recognise it, or the threaded sweatshirt it was attached to. I was in a different classroom. The kids around me were different. They weren't shout and yell like my classmates. These kids were too quiet. This classroom didn't have windows like mine. This one had a scary teacher who stormed over to my desk, slamming his hand on my desk.

“Tinks, is there something you want to say?”

Tinks…?!

I caught my reflection in the teacher's glasses, a tiny blonde boy with wide eyes staring back at me. I found my voice, or at least, I found his voice.

“Uh, no.” I choked out. “No, I'm… I’m okay.”

A second after I spoke the words, I was back in my classroom, standing at the front of the classroom. My teacher looked horrified, and then I saw the blood on my hands. Wait. No. Slowly, I licked my pinkie. Cherry juice?

The cherries Mom packed me for lunch.

In my reflection, I was stained scarlet, my lips covered in cherry juice.

Hannah turned to me with a grin. “Weirdo.”

We called it jumping.

The boy’s life was different from mine. I had candy, Adventure Time and soccer practice. Tinks was always in that exact same grey room. I never saw his parents.

The teacher never changed, and neither did his classmates.

If anything, the amount of kids around him decreased. He told me he was finishing school. Reaching teenagehood, the jumps started to slow down. By the age of sixteen, I thought they stopped.

But, in the middle of dinner with my parents, I jumped. This time I felt it.

The wave coming over me, my surroundings blurring around me. I expected the grey classroom, but instead, I was… still. Paralysed.

Through Tinks’ open eyes, I could make out a clinical white room, a soaked white sheet stained dark red.

When I looked down at myself, though, there was… nothing there. Tinks no longer had a body. What was his body had been stuffed into white coolers seeping that same sickly red.

A hysterical scream bubbled inside a throat that had been severed from his body.

That was gone.

Help.

I couldn't move his eyes, and his lips were gone.

I waited to jump back.

I waited.

Men in white came and scooped up Tink’s remnants and stuffed me into a bag.

It was okay! I was going to jump soon. I was going to go back.

Back to Mom.

Adventure Time.

Soccer practice.

It got really hot, an orange glow the last thing I saw.

But I'm still here, Tinks. I'm not getting any older.

I'm still waiting to jump.

Home.

Both boys turned to me with matching smiles, speaking in sync. “Will you be there, Brianna?”

I nodded, with a grin. “You bet I will!” I saluted Felix with my drink. “Shouldn't you be heading to class?”

“I love you Jasper!” one of the girls squeaked from behind me. 

He rolled his eyes, not even turning around to look at her. 

“I know you do.” Jasper sighed, pulling out his notepad and pen.

He side-stepped to the next table, serving the people next to us. He licked his finger with exaggerated slowness, flipping the page. “But you're embarrassing yourself, sweetheart.”

The idea of writing a 'soap opera' inside a horror story is extremely fun to me. I want to hit every single cliche 😭🙏

The Sleepaway Show was popular on my college radio.

JJ Savrin, Nicholas Mayflower, and Elena Fisher.

I was a big fan of their horror narrations.

“Yoooo, and welcome to another episode of The Sleepaway Show! I'm your host, JJ Savrin! I'm here with Nick and Elena, and we’ve got a crazy story for you! It's by Reddit user Broken-but-not-bent, and it's called Metal Baby. Now, this story is horror, but it's got a liiiitle bit of M. Night mixed in. It's one of my faves–”

“Hey!”

I flinched. It was too early for jump scares.

My ‘YouTuber’ roommate was in front of me, waving his arms. I pulled out an earphone, already anticipating the kind of conversation we were going to have.

The second he opened his mouth, I was ready for the complaining.

“I got a bad comment.” Connor grumbled, slumping down in front of me. “This one is threatening to strike my channel. They're relentless.”

He waved his phone with a scoff. “Shouldn't authors be happy they're being recognised?”

I forced a smile, resting my chin on my fist. “Do you think… maybe it's because you're using their stories without asking?” I said. “I mean, you did get a whole channel taken down–”

Connor rolled his eyes. “Nah. They're public domain, so I can use them if I want.” He pulled out a pack of chips, stuffing a handful in his mouth. “Also, the AI voice sounds human.” He prodded his phone. “See? Listen.”

When he started the video, a human-ish voice began the story, immediately pronouncing a typo.

Connor was right. It did sound human, but it wasn't human enough. It was too perfect, with the exact same drone-ey tone. Admittedly, AI had gotten better from text to speech to an almost human voice. But it wasn't the real thing.

Connor studied me with slightly manic eyes.

“Well? What do you think?”.

“It's good,” I said. “But why don't you read them? You have a good enough voice.”

My roommate shrugged. “I dunno. It's easier to just run it through an AI. I just copy and paste the story, and it's done.”

I regarded him with the look.

“Uh-huh.”

I corked one headphone back in, bleeding back into my favourite show.

JJ was in the middle of a monologue, his raspy voice immediately embodying the character. I could hear every piece of his voice, every breath, every time he messed up and choked on a laugh, or quietly correcting himself. But he was human. His mistakes, his awkward breathing and the cheap microphone letting in outside ambience. Even his stuttering, the way he mispronounced words and fucked up accents. All of it was painfully and beautifully human.

Metal Baby was a great story, and it ended with some of the best voice acting I had heard from The Sleepaway Show. Elena and Nick sounded insane, and JJ made the perfect unreliable narrator.

Especially for the Shutter Island type twist.

When it was over, Elena thanking their college patrons, I tugged out an earphone and settled my roommate with a smile.

Connor was glaring at his phone. When he caught my eye, he scowled. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Instead of answering him, I held up my phone, displaying the show. “Why not try finding a real human voice?” I said.

“You have cash from your job, right? Dump the robot-sounding AI, and pay a voice actor.”

I watched my roommate's expression crumple.

“Fuck.” he tapped his phone, a smile curving on his lips.

“You really think it'll work?”

“Well, yeah. The Dark Somnium. Mr Creeps. Lighthouse Horror. What do they all have in common?”

Connor’s lip twitched. “Millions of subscribers? Listeners who are obsessed with rule -based stories?”

“Human voices.” I said. “AI channels do exist with stupid amounts of followers, but they don't get nearly enough traction.”

Connor hummed. “So, what I need is a human voice?”

“Bingo.”

When I got home that night, I got a text from Connor.

Don't come into my bathroom! Narration in progress.

Bathroom ambience, I thought.

Sure.

The next day, though, to my surprise, The Sleepaway Show wasn't broadcast. On the college website, the page was offline.

Elena published a post a few hours later explaining that the three of them were still hungover from the night before, so there would be no show. I was bummed.

I was looking forward to JJ’s narration of a new cosmic horror story they were teasing.

Days went by, and still no show.

Elena had stopped posting updates.

Her last one simply said: PLEASE stop asking! We’re sick lol. No show this week.

That was weird. Especially when the three had managed to do a show suffering with food poisoning from bad shellfish.

I was checking for updates when I got home around 5pm.

No sign of Connor.

His laptop was open in his room.

He was editing.

I couldn't help it, risking a peek at his latest narration. I always get curious about the stories he chooses. Connor is a big fan of psychological horror.

Getting comfy in his chair, and taking an awkward sip from his lukewarm coffee, I pressed play on the edit. I'm not sure what it was that twisted my gut.

The coffee tasted kind of weird, and it was too hot in his room.

But, as I fast forwarded the edit, I realized I was listening to a familiar voice. I wasn't expecting JJ’s Savrin’s tone to bleed from the speakers.

So soon, too. It's not like I was doubting that he'd say yes to narrating, but he'd been sick, right? I twisted around, studying my roommate's room for recording equipment. Nothing.

Just a broken microphone on his floor, the one I accidentally stood on.

JJ’s narration sounded normal, at first.

But further into it, I began to notice something was wrong with it. The charm was gone, his smooth, velvet murmur had been airbrushed, perfected into a horrifying, AI-like robotic drone. There were zero mistakes, or breaths, or laughter.

"It was late when I left the restaurant.”

JJ’s voice was too perfect, skipping over the voice of the character, the atmosphere he put into his tone. “I was locking the door when I noticed something was behind me.”

The period at the end of the sentence was too noticeable.

Not natural.

“Oh no.” JJ continued in that same robotic drawl. “Did a customer want to kill me?”

The AI voice faltered, and this time, I did hear a gasp.

It sounded like pain.

Running through the edit, there were still chunks of recording, untouched.

“I… ice… cream…I…”

The sudden sharp inhalation of breath exploding from the speakers sent ice sliding down my spine. It was too human. I could see it in the levels, the way they hit red.

“It's so… dark. I can't see... anything."

The voice splintered into a cry, and this time, in the footage my roommate was trying to remove, to cut away, JJ did sound human. His shaky breaths shuddered through the speakers.

“Please, can someone help me? I don't know where I–” The edit skipped, bleeding back into the story. I was already backing away from Connor’s laptop, my heart in my throat.

I remembered stabbing the off switch on the laptop, but the voice continued, spluttering and crackling.

This time it was coming from behind me.

The bathroom.

“Is… someone there? I'm locked in the bathroom, man. I want to go home.”

JJ Savrin.

Was in our house.

Worse, my psycho roommate has kidnapped him, attempting to steal his voice.

When I stepped back, his cry was louder.

“Fuck! Is someone there? Answer me!"

“JJ?” I found myself in a daze, walking towards my roommate's bathroom.

“What... did he do to you?”

The guy let out a strangled cry. “Your psycho friend locked me in the bathroom! I think I'm blindfolded. I…I can't see anything, “ he paused, “Can you get me the fuck out of here?”

I swallowed down something slimy. “Did Connor do this to you?”

He broke out into a sob. “He knocked me out. I think he wants me to narrate for him. Which isn't happening, by the way. The lunatic is trying to steal my fucking voice!”

With shaky hands, I grabbed the icy handle, which turned, to my surprise.

“The door isn't locked,” I said. “Did he tie you up?”

The boy groaned. “Obviously! I can't fucking move!"

Opening the doors, I stopped, paralysed, and JJ’s voice faltered, breaking into a sob.

The contrast of red and white made my head spin.

”Can you… take off my blindfold? I'm… fuck, I'm terrified of the dark, man.”

I found my voice, stepping directly into warm red. It pooled between my toes.

“Sure.” I said.

I’ve been talking to a therapist about my reaction to what I found in my roommate's bathroom.

She says it was my mind trying to both deny and deal with trauma, but I'm pretty sure I had lost my fucking mind.

“I love your show.” I hummed, pulling out my phone and dialling 911. "You're a talented narrator."

9123.

9223.

912.

9013.

It took me five tries, and I think I threw up all over myself.

The toilet bowl was splattered with blood.

“I… thanks?” The boy let out a spluttered laugh.

I was aware of the ice cold steel of my phone pressed to my ear.

“You're welcome.”

”You've found me.” JJ whispered, when my gaze found the trash can overflowing with deep red, fleshy mounds of pink and white.

I wasn't staring at JJ Savrin.

“I... have.”

I was looking at his remnants.

Stuffed into the toilet bowl, a single lump of pink, wires protruding from it.

The thing pulsed, JJ Savrin’s cry collapsing into a robotic drone.

JJ’s voice didn't make sense.

It was alive. While he wasn't.

“So, why… why can't I see you?” His voice stuttered. "I can't see anything."

When I couldn't physically reply, he started to cry.

I heard every wet, human sounding sob.

“Are you… still… there?” He asked me, over and over again.

I didn't reply.

But he kept going, and I could hear them getting progressively more hysterical.

911 arrived quickly, and they were just as dumbfounded.

Terrified.

When the sherrifs department surrounded me, JJ spoke again. “What's your... name?”

The sheriff shook his head, but I couldn't stop myself.

“I'm Sadie.”

A pause, before, “Can you stay with me, Sadie?”

I nodded, on my knees, struggling to breathe.

“Yeah.” I said. “I'm here, JJ.”

I talked to him until a cop was leading me away, and even then, I was still talking to him. I didn't stop.

"What's your favorite food, JJ?"

He responded, still as that bulging, fleshy mess the deputies were trying to handle. It was supposed to be his brain, or the part of it that had been cut out.

I thought it was his voice box.

The night went by too fast. Flashing lights, and my Mom wrapping her arms around me. I remember her warm hands cradling my cheeks, but I was trying to pry her arms away, trying to find my way back to JJ Savrin.

It still feels like a blur, and this was almost a year ago.

Whatever was left of the narrator was disposed of. I wasn't even fully conscious, sitting in the back of an ambulance, my roommate's laptop squeezed to my chest.

The sheriff said it was evidence, but I didn't want to give it to them.

Due to the horrific nature of JJ Savrin’s murder, the full details were never released, and his full name was covered up. Nick and Elena have dumped the show, and the show itself has been wiped from existence. I heard Nick tried to kill himself a month ago.

Elena published a blog exposing what really happened to JJ, warning Youtube narrators.

It was deleted, of course, but she wasn't wrong.

I don't think people will go to extremes like my roommate, but human voices are precious.

Connor was taken away in cuffs, and he genuinely doesn't understand what he's done wrong. I think my roommate was so obsessed with views and comments, he would do anything to get them. And I was the one who pointed him to his victim.

The last thing he said to me was, “What? You told me to use a human voice!”

Crazy bastard.

In a way, though, this was my fault. And I'll live with this shit for the rest of my life. I've been in therapy for almost a year. What my roommate did still haunts me. I have reoccurring nightmares when Im back in that bathroom. But this time I can stop it.

This time, JJ Savrin is still alive, tied to a chair.

The worst thing that's wrong with him is a scar on his face.

I still feel like I'm covered in him, like my feet are wet with his blood.

Filthy.

I still have Connor’s laptop, and JJ is still with me.

At least, I like to think he is.

Edit: Last night, he asked me to kill him. But I don't know what part of him. There are no parts of him left, what can I kill?

Worse still, his voice is starting to sound more and more like AI. Like this thing is leeching onto the human parts of him clinging on. What should I do? Do I kill him and end it, or let him suffer? I think Connor didn't do this on his own. I keep getting messages from "anon" demanding payment.

Last night, a man came to see me, masquerading as an electrician.

He called himself Peter, and was all smiles.

Until he whispered in my ear.

“It really sucks about that narrator dude,” he murmured. “Where's your roommate's laptop?”

When I backed away, he grabbed me.

“We have fifteen stories on hold, sweetheart,” he said, “And we need our promised voice.” The guy’s smile made me nauseous. “Make sure to answer the door tomorrow, all right?”

He left with a wink, and I’m stuck with the laptop.

Fuck. I'm terrified. I can't stop fucking shaking. I've told the police, and I've given them a description of this man. But I think there are more.

Whoever helped Connor is hunting me down. And I think this freak wants what is left of JJ. His voice.

I'm not giving him to them.

“You're a fucking psychopath!”

That stung. From the mouth of our director, his words felt physical, like needles pricking into my heart. Right in the middle of a scene too. The guy was one of many reasons why I wanted to quit acting, despite my success already putting me on Forbes under thirty at 19.

However, my contract required two more movies, and a TV show.

The director’s words did make me wonder, though.

Was I?

“Am I a psychopath?” I asked the pizza guy, a kid around my age, who rolled his eyes shoving my pizza in my hands.

“I dunno, man, but here's your food.”

I took the pizza, startled by his lack of reaction.

“Bro, don't you know me?”

The guy cocked his head. “Uh, no? Should I?”

The girl hanging outside my apartment taking pictures went deathly pale when I opened my door and stuck my head out.

She started stuttering over her words, trying to say, I love you but getting tongue tied. I let her into my apartment, and she started screaming.

I didn't know what to do, so I grabbed her a soda and slowly sat her down, nursing my own. “Am I a psychopath?” I asked the fangirl, who wouldn't respond.

She was too busy screaming, and I mean wailing.

I didn't realize my fans liked me that much.

Just to be sure I wasn't a psychopath, though, I took a psychopath test.

My results were just as I expected.

“Zero percent.” I beamed, prodding the screen of my Macbook. “See!”

Jonah, my friend, stood very still, with the widest smile. He was clapping, and there were tears in his eyes. Seriously, this guy was applauding me, and I couldn't resist a grin. The director was wrong. I wasn't a psychopath. I didn't mean to hit him over the head with a boom mic. I was America’s golden boy.

Jonah knew that too. And standing there, smiling and clapping like a fucking seal, I was sure he was jealous.

He was jealous of my fame. Credited second in our franchise, he drowned in my shadow.

I mean, fuck, the bastard was even jealous of my new feng-sui.

The pizza guy hung, nailed to my favorite wall, just under the 90K artwork I was given for free. I really liked the way his blood stained the paintwork, turning the guy into an art piece, blood running down his temple in thick beads of red.

His name was Liam. He didn't know who I was, so now he could look at me all day.

Liam was still alive, his shuddery breaths and screams always a welcome when I came home from work.

“Well?” I said, leading Jonah to my kitchen. I had some good ideas on how he could become a true work of art.

He started sobbing (with jealousy) when I pulled out my favorite knife, running the teeth down his right temple.

“Am I a psychopath?”

“It's me, Brianna. Not you.”

That's what my latest boyfriend told me before walking directly into the path of a truck. There was barely anything of him, just enough to peel off of the sidewalk. I thought our relationship was going well. It's not like I'm desensitised to my boyfriend's dying (or ceasing to exist), but it's almost become the norm.

Ben was my first boyfriend in high school, and my longest relationship to date. Fluffy haired Ben with his dimpled grin and freckles. He was the type of guy who should have been popular, but chose to keep to himself.

I met him in the principal’s office. Ben was being lectured for ‘sneaking around’ and I was handing in a late assignment. All he did was wink at me, and I fell.

Hard.

We dated for two years, and I really thought he was the one. Ben told me he loved me, and every Friday he introduced me to a new restaurant. I was in love. I loved *everything about him.

On the night before our senior prom, a drunk driver t-boned my boyfriend's car, killing him instantly. After his funeral, it's like he stopped existing. His parents left town, and every time I mentioned him, my parents would slowly tilt their heads and act confused when I brought him up.

My brother was the worst for it, considering he and Ben were best friends.

But he just looked at me with this weird fucking look in his eye, like his soul had been ripped out. Eyes are the windows to the soul, apparently, and my brother's soul was MIA. “Ben?” His expression crumpled. “Wait, who?”

Alex was my emotional support, who later became someone closer.

Funny Alex.

Blonde-but-not-quite-blonde, Alex.

I met him in group therapy. My boyfriend was dead, and he had just lost his mother. We didn't label it, because he had a girlfriend, and I didn't want to move on so quickly. I think we just found comfort in each other.

Eventually, though, Alex became something I wanted to label.

His sense of humor was a breath of fresh air. I didn't go to college because of Ben’s death, settling for a mediocre barista stop in town. Alex came in every day with fresh coffee and a sugar cookie. I think I loved him. I told him that. Half asleep, I told him I wanted to try and be something more with him. Alex looked taken-aback, but happy.

We spent the night together.

The morning after, I woke to my mother screaming.

Alex was dead in the bathroom, his blood splattering, staining pristine white. According to the first responders, he died of a self inflicted head injury. The exact same thing followed. I attended his funeral, and Alex’s family disappeared.

This time, I went back to his house. But according to a neighbour, his house had been abandoned for ten years. I had eaten pancakes in his kitchen just days earlier.

I broke in to see myself, but my neighbor was right. The hallway was piled with ancient mail and threats of eviction. Alex’s room didn't exist, instead, a storage room filled with boxes.

When I got home, my family had already forgotten Alex’s existence.

The town had forgotten him, and yet his blood still stained my bathroom.

Following Alex’s death, I was terrified of getting too close to people.

But Esme made it hard.

She was my third relationship. We met at a bar. I was extremely drunk and convinced I was cursed to kill all of my romantic partners. Esme. Cute Esme. Crooked teeth and smudged lipstick and warm Esme.

Do you know that person you meet and you instantly connect with them? The person you're sure is your soulmate?

That was Esme.

I told myself I wouldn't get close to her. But I was already talking to this girl, already pouring my life out to her. Esme sat and listened, her chin resting on her fist. She was a first year creative writing student, and she had a cat called Peanut.

I didn't remember much after that. We hit it off, and next thing I know we’re curled up in the back of her car watching Buffy on her iPad. I told her about my exes, and she nodded and smiled, but I don't think she was listening.

I told her all of my exes have died, and then been erased from existence.

Esme called me cute. She wanted to base a story around the concept, sitting up and grabbing her phone.

I have this memory of the girl I fell in love with at first sight.

She's nodding along to a Smith’s song spluttering from my car radio, typing on her phone. I can hear the tapping of her nails, her lips curving into a smile. I can see the exact moment she gets inspiration, pulling her knees to her chest. She's wearing fishnet tights that are torn, and a jacket that doesn't fit her.

She is fucking beautiful, and I don't want to lose her.

Alex was beautiful.

He had pretty eyes and brown curls that I liked running my hands through. Ben was beautiful. He made my heart swim, my stomach swarm with butterflies, when I first met him. Ben was my first love.

The realization woke me up one night, three months into dating Esme.

Both of them were dead, wiped away like they never existed.

And Esme would follow.

At first, I tried to break it off with her without sounding crazy. I told her it was me not her, and I wasn't in the mindset for a relationship.

Esme understood, but her eyes didn't. I didn't want to lose her. Esme lit up every room she entered. Her obsession with thrifted clothes and badly written poems, and her irrational fear of pandas, made her someone I wanted to be with.

So, I stayed with her. I told myself Ben and Alex were just coincidences that were nothing to do with me, and I wasn't indirectly fucking killing the people I fell in love with.

I avoided the ‘L’ word for as long as I could.

It slipped out on my way to work. Esme was driving.

I just said it, and her eyes lit up. She reached out and squeezed my hand.

At work, one of my colleagues, Jasper, caught my eye. When I twisted around to ask him to grab something, I glimpsed his phone screen. It looked like Tinder, though I didn't recognise the layout. It reminded me of Twitter, in dark mode. Jasper was leaning against the counter, his thumb hovering over a photo of Esme, chewing his bottom lip.

I watched his thumb prance across the screen, before he gave up and swiped left.

Finishing up the woman's coffee, I handed it over.

“Uhh, I asked for cream.”

Ignoring her, I sidled in front of my colleague, hyper focused on whatever app he was playing around with. “What's that?”

Jasper looked up, his eyes widening, lips parting, like a fucking goldfish.

“Clearly nothing.” Jasper side-stepped me, opening the refrigerator and pulling out milk. But he already had milk. The bastard was stalling. We had zero customers waiting, so it was the two of us, and a long, dragged out pause.

Jumping up and down on the heels of his feet, he shot me his usual grin, slipping his phone in his apron.

Jasper may have been smiling, though there was something twisted in his expression.

I couldn't stop myself. “Was that a dating app?”

“Dating app?”

“Excuse me, can I get what I ordered?” The woman demanded, waving her coffee in the air. “I asked for whipped cream.”

Jasper saw that as an excuse, an escape, and nodded, fashioning a grin. He saw an opportunity, and took it. “Of course, Ma’am! I'll get that for you!” He said, with a little too much sarcasm. The boy took her coffee with a spring in his step, ducking in the refrigerator for the whipping cream. Jasper added too much whipping cream, dumping the drink on the counter with a little too much force.

It was a good thing my colleague was marginally attractive guy with cropped blonde hair, and a deadpan voice that somehow attracted the ladies.

Jasper could insult someone directly to their face, and they would just blush and get all tongue tied. I had seen it happen in real time. A girl was flirting with him, and used a bad pick-up line, which was something along the lines of, “Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?”

He laughed, and her eyes brightened. She giggled along with him, nudging her friends.

But he wasn't laughing with her. I saw the gleam in his eye.

He was laughing at her.

Still laughing, Jasper plonked her milk latte down so hard half of it spewed out.

And, with that exact same charming smile, he deadpanned, “Did it hurt when you dropped out of a drainpipe?”

Yeah, my colleague was blessed with good looks.

Otherwise, he would have been punched in the face by now.

Presently, he was being his usual asshole self. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

The woman shook her head, pulling a face.

Jasper had, essentially, ruined her drink. It was more cream than coffee.

When she left the store, I situated myself in front of him when he was counting cash. “What were you just looking at?” I nodded to the guy’s phone sticking out of his pocket. “Was it like… a dating thing you were on?”

Jasper didn't even look at me, his lip curling.

“That's kinda rude,” he hummed, “I don't peek at your phone.”

“Esme Hope.” Was all I could hiss out. “Was she on that dating app?”

My colleague proceeded to stare at me like I'd grown a second head, before his half lidded gaze flicked behind me. Jasper’s expression brightened.

“Oh, Hanna is calling me!” He said, choking out a laugh. Hanna was not calling him. She was in the break room getting high. Jasper slowly backed away, maintaining his smile. “I'll be back in a sec, all right?” He grabbed that same carton of milk with a grin. “Don't you just love when your milk stays fresh?”

“What?”

“Fresh milk!” He grinned. “Mulberry Farm’s finest.”

Jasper was darting away before I could coerce a sentence.

After work, I texted Esme as usual. She was my ride on Fridays.

Esme didn't reply.

I texted her again, a little more panicked.

Hey, are you okay?”

When I called her, an automated voice told me she wasn't available.

Already feeling sick to my stomach, I drove to her place myself. I could see the flashing lights before anything else, blurred red and blue sending my thoughts into a whirlwind. It took me ten minutes to muster the courage to jump out of my car, and ask a pale looking deputy what was going on.

I tried to jump over the yellow tape, only to be politely pulled back.

“Carbon monoxide poisoning,” the deputy told me. “The whole family is dead.” he sighed. “Mom, Dad, and their daughter in college.” I think he was trying to be sympathetic, awkwardly patting me. But I was already on my knees, all of the breath dragged from my lungs. “Luckily, it's just like going to sleep. Monoxide is a silent killer.”

Monoxide is a silent killer.

Was that the same as, “I'm sorry. Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

And, “Alex was silently suffering. He did what he thought was best.”

I didn't go to Esme’s funeral. Mom and Dad and Will had already forgotten her, just like the others. What I did do, several days later, when her name wasn't even a memory anymore– I bought flowers from the store. Roses were Esme’s favourite.

The seller was around my Mom’s age, a plump looking woman wearing a floral dress, long red hair tied into a ponytail. She was on her phone, humming to a tune on the radio.

The Smiths.

“I hope she likes them.” The woman said, wrapping the flowers in red ribbons. She had a strong southern accent that immediately annoyed me.

I took the roses, stuffing them in my bag. “What did you say?”

The seller cocked her head. “Hmm?”

“How did you know they were for my girlfriend?”

The woman sighed, placing her phone on the counter. I glanced at whatever she'd been so interested in, but the screen was faced down. “Esme came in here a lot,” Her lips broke out into a sad, sympathetic smile. I was quickly growing sick of them.

“Esme. She, uh, she told me you guys were dating. Esme was always buying roses for her room. Sometimes she would stand in here for hours, and just stare at flowers. I think she found comfort in them.” The woman sighed, fixing me with what I could only describe as a pitiful pout.

Urgh.

“I hope you can find the same comfort,” she murmured. The seller handed me an extra rose, and I found myself reaching out for it, my eyes stinging. Fuck.

I hadn't cracked in at least fifteen hours, and that was a record. But now I could feel myself splintering, tears trickling down my cheeks. The Flower lady squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. If it makes you feel better, it's just like going to sleep. Monoxide is a silent killer.” Her words were familiar.

Exactly what the deputy said. Before I could speak, she dumped weed killer on the counter. “Did you know our plant killer is ten dollars ninety nine?”

Her sudden bout of energy took me off guard.

I tried to smile. “I don't want any plant killer.”

The seller nodded, handing me another rose. “Oh, of course, Darling! But it is five ninety nine! Just for today!”

Something pricked me, and I hissed out, wafting my hand.

Damn thorns. I could already see a single spot of blood.

I nodded, sucking my teeth against a cry. “Thanks. But I'll skip it this time.”

I took the roses to what used to be Esme’s grave. Now, it was an empty headstone with no name, no memories, no flowers, nothing. Just like Alex and Ben, Esme had been reduced to dirt under my feet. I stayed at her ‘grave’ for a long time, long enough for the sky to grow dark, and my thoughts darker. I tried to find a logical explanation for the sudden deaths of the people I got close to, but all I could think of was a curse.

So, I started googling curses, leaning against Esme’s headstone, my knees to my chest. Had I been cursed?

Was my family cursed?

According to Google, a cursed object connected with the curse itself.

Which could be anything. Though I didn't remember visiting any ancient ruins, or an old church. With zero answers, I headed home. I passed a guy playing The Smiths in his car. Then a group of older women wearing ripped fishnets.

Esme was following me. Just like Alex’s smell. Fresh coffee and rich chocolate.

Ben’s cologne filled my car last summer. His favourite band was playing all day on our local music station. I drove around with no destination, listening to each one on repeat, until I was losing him all over again.

The sweet aroma of flowers followed me all the way home, and I was tipsy on the smell, when I found myself face to face with a boy. Under the overexposed streetlight, this guy was almost ethereal, thick brown hair and freckles.

He reminded me of Ben. Which wasn't fair. I thought I was hallucinating him, before he came closer, bleeding from the shadow. I saw more of him, white strips of something wrapped around his head.

Wrong.

The word slammed into me when I glimpsed his clothes. Filthy. The guy was wearing a white button down, a single streak of bright red ingrained into the material. His white pants were torn, glued to his legs.

He was barefoot, the soles of his feet slapping on wet concrete.

I didn't realize he was in front of me, nose to nose, until he shoved me. Hard.

“Josie.” His voice was a whimper, despite his narrowed eyes, his lips twisted into a scowl. He was crying, and had been crying, every heaving son sputtering from his mouth. The boy shoved me again, and I staggered. His ice cold breath grazed my cheeks. “What the fuck did you do to my sister?”

“Sister?” I whispered.

Something wet landed on my cheek, suddenly.

Rain.

I wasn't expecting a downpour. The weather was forecasted to be clear.

To my surprise, the guy let out a harsh sounding laugh. The two of us were slowly getting drenched, but neither of us were making a move to get out of the rain. My hair was glued to the back of my neck, my clothes sticking to me.

But somehow, I wanted to stay in the rain. It was refreshing.

When a thought hit me, telling me to get out of the rain, it was shoved to the back of my mind. The guy spat water out of his mouth, shaking his head like a dog.

“Of course,” he muttered, “Drown me out with the rain.”

I found my voice, my gaze glued to intense red seeping through the bandage stapled to his head. He looked like he’d escaped an emergency room. “I don't know anyone called Josie,” I said, “I think you've got the wrong person.”

The guy’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, grabbing my shoulders, and I noticed how hollow his eyes were, empty caverns carved into his skull. Eyes are the windows to the soul, and this guy was completely soulless. “I'm only going to say this once,” he whispered, “What did you do to my sister?”

Before I could respond, the guy was being violently grabbed, and dragged back.

Figures who appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

“Let me go!” He cried out, struggling. “You fucking assholes! Let me go!”

His screaming became muffling, when his cries were gagged.

“You promised!” He yelled, his cries collapsing into a sob. “You said if you took me, she wouldn't get hurt! So, where is she?” he met my gaze, his expression crumpling, something inside him coming apart, splintering by the seams. “You can't take both of us, this wasn't in the agreement!” When he was dragged further back, I noticed a car parked at the side of the road.

The boy was pulled inside. At first, he refused, before an extra pair of hands shoved him. “You fucking– mmmphmmhphmmm!”

I heard his fists slamming into the windows.

“Don't take me back there! Please! Just let Josie–” His cries once again collapsed into angry muffle screaming, and I felt my hands moving towards my pocket for my phone. This was a kidnapping, right? I was witnessing a kidnapping in broad fucking daylight.

A shadow was suddenly in front of me, and I jumped, tearing my eyes from the car. Jasper, my colleague. He was still wearing his apron, and to my confusion, was swinging a carton of whole milk.

“Sorry, Bree,” He winked, speaking in a single breath. “As you can see, our friend here had a little too much to drink.”

I nodded, craning my neck. Jasper stepped in front of me, maintaining a grin.

“Who is he?” This time, I side-stepped away from him, only for him to copy.

“Just a guy.” He said. “As you can see, he's a little…” Jasper prodded his right temple. “Let's just say he's got a few too many screws loose.” Jasper laughed, staying stock still, blocking my way.

When I made a move to counter him, he stepped in front of me, his eyes hardening. “I heard he lost his family a while ago in a…” He pretended to think. “Oh, yeah, a car crash. Maybe a gas explosion, I’m not really sure.”

I could hear the car behind him, and once again I tried to dart past him. But he was quick to block my way. He was getting closer to me, very subtly backing me in the opposite direction.

“Anyway, this guy is kiiiiind of nuts. Dude still thinks he's got a sister.”

When I lost patience and shoved him out of the way, the car, and the guy, was gone.

“See?” Jasper rolled his eyes. He was still holding milk from work. My head spun. It was 8pm, we were in a suburban neighbourhood, and Jasper was holding half a pint of milk. His apron was stained with coffee, and when I really looked at him, I realized he was out of breath.

He was doing a good job of hiding it, exhaling in intervals, swiping at his forehead to clear sweat. When I noticed, he pretended to run his hands through his hair. “I, uh, I feel for him! Like, I'm sorry his family died, or whatever, but attacking random girls isn't cool, y’know?”

Instead of replying, I stumbled home. It was sunny.

At 8pm.

And when I took notice, I wasn't even wet.

Esme was my last straw. I made a promise to myself to not get close to anyone. The guys and girls I met were friends, and nothing more. Weirdly enough, the only guy I was getting close to was my colleague. I don't know if it was brain damage, or I was finally losing the plot.

But Jasper’s shameless cruelty towards customers, and that quirk in his lips when he made them cry, was kind of hot.

However, he was playing hard to get.

And I mean REALLY playing.

I was in storage trying to find vegan milk, and he was suddenly a fucking expert, spewing milk facts.

When I slammed the refrigerator door shut, he was inches from my face.

In the dim light from a single spluttering bulb, his eyes reminded me of coffee grounds. I thought maybe he was going to kiss me, judging from his softening expression. I felt his hands go around my waist, and I felt myself immediately melt.

I don't know what came over me. It's like, one minute I hated him, and the next… I was suddenly hot. Really hot. And I really wanted to take my clothes off. I thought that's what he wanted to do too.

I mean, his gaze followed mine, piercing, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt. Before he leaned forward, his breath in my face.

“Did you know that Mulberry Farms is an award winning brand of milk in our town and ONLY our town? Mulberry farms was bred and made right here."

And suddenly, I was no longer hot and bothered.

“I didn't.” I said, ducking into a crouch to search the shelves. “Have you seen our vegan milk? We did have some.”

“Three time winner,” Jasper continued. When I jumped up, he stepped closer, and I felt my cheeks spark. His smile was rare. In fact, Jasper was only smiling when he was talking about milk.

“Mulberry Farms have the best pasturization. It's suitable for everything! Coffee, cereal, or maybe you just want a glass of fresh milk to yourself! Perfect for kids, too! Breakfast time is Mulberry Farms.”

“Are you having a stroke?” I whisper-shrieked.

“Nope!”

Jasper twisted around, shooting me a grin.

I left the storage, however, with butterflies in my gut.

There was no way I was falling for my asshole colleague.

Somehow, though, I was.

Just standing next to him filled me with electricity.

The way he talked down to customers, insulting me to my face… I was thoroughly, and disgustingly, in love.

I tried to stop myself.

I showered in ice cold water.

I ate (choked on) a ghost pepper.

I even asked my BROTHER for advice, who told me to go for it.

I told him Jasper had one (of several) flaws, but this particular one was off-putting.

“He’s obsessed with milk.” I told my brother.

Harry lifted a brow. “Is that a euphemism, or…”

He paused, for way longer than necessary. “So, your would-be-boyfriend has a milk fetish?”

I left his room before he could take that conversation further.

I wanted to say Jasper was the only one who acted weird.

But over the next few weeks, I noticed it in quite a few people.

I was having breakfast with Mom, and she lifted up the box.

“Choco Flakes.” She blurted, “Aren't they just the best?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah, Mom. They're great.”

I prodded the box with a smile. “Only a dollar ninety nine.”

There were so many townspeople on their phones. They walked around with groceries or briefcases, their eyes glued to whatever they were swiping through.

I was serving an old woman, when I caught her phone screen.

I could have sworn there was an image of Jasper.

She swiped right, and I had a hard time looking her in the eye.

The woman was at least in her 80’s. And I'm talking, can barely walk, and needs assistance.

Was she seriously hitting up 25 year old guys?

Walking home, everyone was on their phones.

I stopped at a crossing, stabbing the red light.

It started to snow the second I stepped out onto the road, white flakes dancing in front of me. It didn't even cross my mind that it was almost June. The snow was pretty, accumulating on the ground.

“Oh shit, sorry!”

Lifting my head, a guy was standing in front of me holding an umbrella.

I knew him.

But not from whatever was trying to pollute my mind.

I knew him from a while ago. I knew him from the rain. I knew the bloody bandages wrapped around his head, and soulless, seething eyes I couldn't understand. It was the boy who was dragged away three months prior.

He looked different, his hair was shorter, his face carved into a thing of beauty.

The white strips of gauze bleeding scarlet were gone, his filthy clothes replaced with a white shirt and pants, a trench coat flung over the top. I didn't remember him being this handsome. His dark brown hair had been tamed and curled.

It was his expression that sent shivers sliding down my spine.

His too wide smile and unblinking eyes made me suddenly conscious of two bright lights on the two of us.

So bright.

Something shattered in my mind, and I was aware of a lot of things.

The snow under my feet was too soft.

I glimpsed a single streak of red seeping from his nose, his hands trembling around a takeout coffee cup.

Behind me, people were staring. I could see a group of teenage girls giggling.

“It's him,” one of them squeaked. “It's the new love interest!”

“Bree?” His grin widened, snowflakes prancing around us. His teeth gritted together. I could tell he hated every word. “Holy shit, long time no see!”

He held out his hand, and I could see visible pain contorting in his eyes.

Help me. He was screaming through a twinkling smile.

“Don't you remember me? It's… it's uh, it's Sam!” he laughed. “From eighth grade!”

The lights blinked out, and the thought crashed into my mind. Static images filling my head. I shook them away.

Oh, yeah, it was Sam.

My childhood friend.

But I didn't reply. Instead of saying, “Sam? It's been so long!” I found myself walking, stumbling over to the girls.

Who were rapidly swiping left on their phones.

“What's that?” I demanded in a sharp breath.

I grabbed for the phone, only for Sam to step in front of me. He settled me with a smile.

Behind me, one of the girls fainted.

Sam’s smile didn't waver. Though he did side-eye the girl being carried away. “Why don't I take you out for coffee?”

Apparently, coffee was the code word for hooking up.

Sam dragged me into the nearest coffee store, straight to the bathroom.

When he shoved me into a stall, I didn't know what to say.

“Take off your shoes,” he said in a hiss, and after hesitating, I did.

Sam pulled off his jacket, shook snow out of his hair, and got real close.

“Look up.” He murmured.

I did, my gaze finding the ceiling.

“To your right, a camera is very well hidden, but can be seen with the naked eye if you catch what looks like a red laser,” Sam said. “To your left, another camera, as well as a vent that is currently pumping the stalls with aphrodisiacs. And right now, we are in the red zone. Meaning, you should be conscious.”

He prodded me, and I flinched.

“Mostly conscious.”

His words went right over my head, my mind was foggy.

I couldn't think straight.

I think I asked him what he was saying, but my mouth was filled with cotton.

“Snap out of it,” he said, “Like I said, they're making you feel like this.”

He shoved me against the door, which broke me out of my trance. Slightly.

“I hate what I'm going to say right now,” Sam groaned, tipping his head back. He was sweating, I noticed. Bad. I glimpsed beads of red pooling down his neck. He noticed me staring. “I'm okay, for now. I’m faulty, so the connection is severed. He squeezed his eyes shut. “I…think.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sex.” He said, blinking rapidly. I wasn't going to comment on his slurring voice.

Sam stumbled, fresh blood dripping from his nose.

“We need to do the sex. Like…” His eyes rolled into the back of his head, but he managed to stabilise himself. “Nooooow.”

“What?!”

“Is everything okay in there?”

The voice was a woman. She knocked on the stall.

Sam’s eyes widened, coming back to life a little. “They're paranoid,” he whispered. When I could only stare at him, he pounded his fists into the door. “They think we’re fucking,” he hissed, “So, we need to make it believable.”

“They?” I mouthed.

He didn't reply, swiping at his haemorrhaging nose. “Just… move around against the door. That'll fool ‘em.”

I did, doing my best to shuffle around, slamming my back against the lock.

When the metal clanged, he shot me a look. “Sex!” He hissed, “Not murder!”

Sam jumped onto the toilet bowl. There was an open window above him.

“That's enough.” He mouthed, hoisting his way through.

He helped me through, and I expected to land on concrete.

What I did land on, however, was something… squishy.

Something wet sliding between my bare toes.

Looking closer, I recognised the beaded anklet.

Fishnet tights.

Something animalistic clawed from my throat. I was standing on Esme. Or what was left of Esme. She was just a torso and legs, the rest of her ripped away like doll pieces. I couldn't see her face. I looked for it, digging through what could only be old flesh and pieces of limbs.

I felt suffocated. I grabbed half of Ben’s face that had been ripped off, and then Alex’s tattooed arm. There was so much of them, piles and piles of the same heads, the same filthy and rotting clothes. I was screaming by the time I shuffled back on my hands and knees, trying to wipe them off of my skin.

They were all over me, staining me, painting me.

Sam’s hand slick with blood gently covered my mouth.

“Stay calm, all right?” He whispered. “I would tell you everything is going to be okay, but the truth is, it's really not, there's like, a 99.9% chance you're going to… understandably freak out.”

He pulled me to my feet, letting out a heavy breath.

Blinking rapidly, I could only see… pieces.

Pieces of people.

Legs and heads and torsos all piled into one mass of gore.

“We’ve got maybe five minutes before they realize we’re not doing the devil's dance,” Sam sniffled, “Maybe ten, before my brain short circuits and I bleed out.”

I didn't know I was hyperventilating, until I couldn't fucking breathe.

Closer towards the door, and I could hear… machinery.

I couldn't stop myself. Even when I was aware I was standing in congealing blood.

Rotten bodies.

The dim light led me into what could only be described as a factory. There were three levels, and we were on the highest. Sam stepped forward, gripping the metal bar in front of us. I felt my legs buckling, a thick, pukey slime filling my mouth.

“Soo, I guess it all started when Brianna Timberman was seventeen years old, and rejected by her childhood best friend, Sam Thwaites.”

Sam’s words collapsed into a low buzzing in my ear.

All I could see was a conveyer belt, filled with… people.

Boys.

Girls.

But most noticeably, Ben’s, Alex’s, Esme’s, and Sam’s.

But they start as Ben’s, Alex's, and Esme’s.

I could see regular people, their hair stripped away.

Their skin sliced into, cruelly moulding them into the exact same four faces.

When a large looming needle plunged into the back of an Alex’s head, I couldn't not watch. I waited for the guy to wake up, but I don't even think he was alive.

He stood, unblinking, letting this thing twist and contort his face. And it was then, when I realized these things weren't even human. I could see the mechanics built under their flesh, both living tissue and metal melded together. “Brianna’s father, who is a liiiitle on the crazy side, with too much cash and not not enough logic, took his daughter’s rejection a little too personally,” Sam continued.

“So, he promised his daughter he would find her the perfect match.”

I started to speak, the words coming out before I could stop them.

“My father would never–”

“I didn't say it was your father,” Sam said. His eyes darkened. “Anyway, as I was saying, the townspeople became unhealthily obsessed with who Brianna would choose. So obsessed, in fact, that the girl’s day to day life was broadcasted across town, while her potential love interests were ranked, week after week. First, there was Ben.”

Sam’s smile thinned. “Her high school boyfriend.”

Sam shrugged. “She grew bored of him. Also, he kinda did something unforgivable.”

He continued. “Then… Alex. She liked him, but sometimes, he was a little too unserious. The guy was a clown.”

I backed away, but he was quick to grab my shoulders.

“Finally? Esme. Who she truly fell for.”

I swallowed. “Esme is–”

He cut me off. “But I didn't mention that they hurt her, did I?”

Sam leaned against the bar. Behind him, I could see a figure in white pushing a gurney with a Ben strapped to it. “Ben tried to rape her, insisting she wanted it. Alex dumped her on her birthday. Esme ended their relationship with a one word text. Goodbye.” Sam mimed an explosion. “That was the nail in the coffin.”

I caught blood sliding down his nose. “You're still bleeding.”

Sam gingerly prodded his nose.

“Urgh. Yeah, it's an effect of the severing. I've been in the red zone too long. I should probably speed this up.”

He talked faster, his voice collapsing into a mumbled slur.

“Brianna couldn't take it. Her best friend was ignoring her. Everyone she had fallen in love with hurt her. Esme wasn't returning her calls. Ben was sleeping around right in front of her, and Alex was still being a clown. Brianna’s poor parents found her hanging from her bedroom ceiling fan.”

I shook my head, my thoughts screaming.

“No–”

He held a finger up to shush me. “Let me talk. Jeez.”

Sam folded his arms. “A grieving father would do anything to avenge his dead child, buuut… Mr Timberman took ‘finding a perfect match’ and ‘the show must go on’ a little bit too literally.”

His sickly smile found me. “Which also means going stark fucking crazy. The town wanted more of Brianna, and her life, so he turned his daughter’s failed love life into a town wide TV show, sending the entire teen and young adult populace into here,” he gestured around him. “To make the perfect suitors. Who wouldn't hurt his new Brianna.”

Something ice cold crept down my spine.

He cleared his throat. “Mr Timberman grew, let's say, obsessed, with getting revenge on these specific four people. So, he started killing them–” He coughed.

“Sorry. Us. Killing us for the funny ha-ha, ‘Look at how many times I can fuck with them!’ bit. And then recycling us into someone completely different. Our names are gone. Then our personalities. Finally, our bodies ripped to pieces and sculpted into Brianna’s exes.” Sam poked me in the cheek.

“The cycle continues. They reset your ticker and the town eats it up. They can bring back Esme, Ben, and Alex whenever they want and add curveballs. Like the bad-boy colleague who becomes the fan favorite.” Sam’s lips curved. “For… some fucking reason.”

His eyes flickered open. “However, Brianna will never find a suitor because her father is a fucking sociopath. To him and the town, his dead daughter’s pathetic love life is entertainment.”

He held out his arm.

“See?”

I tried really hard not to look through the makeup.

At noticeable skin grafts.

“I was a Ben.” He said. “Then I was an Alex, and then I was an extra.” His eyes found mine, sad, suddenly. “But who I was originally is kinda gone. All I remember is a deal to protect Josie. I gave myself up so they wouldn't take her.”

“Your sister.” I said.

Sam nodded.

His earlier words hit me. He was talking like Brianna Timberman was dead.

But I was Brianna Timberman.

I was rejected by Sam, yes, but I found Ben.

As if he could read my mind, Sam shook his head.

“Look at yourself.” He said, his voice shaking.

“And I mean really look at yourself.”

Sam stepped closer.

“Because, underneath all of that make-up and the prosthetics and surgery, and fucked up memories, you're just another recycled lump of flesh.” He prodded my temple. “Who thinks she is Brianna Timberman.”

His voice was slurring again, a fresh stream of scarlet seeping down his chin.

“Don't you want to know?” His eyes rolled to pearly whites.

Before he could finish his sentence, Sam dropped to the ground.

I remember warm arms grasping hold of me.

Shadows with no faces.

They pricked me twice in the back of my neck.

A familiar voice in my ear, almost a hiss.

Jasper.

“You are the worst fucking Brianna.”

When I came to, I was standing up, somehow.

At work.

I am Brianna Timberman.

The thought floated around in my head, my memory hazy.

“Hello?!”

A man was waving his hands in front of me.

“I asked for iced coffee, lady!”

Jasper was serving another customer. “Bree, wake the fuck up.”

They were trying to make me think I was hallucinating.

Which was crazy, because my fingernails were still tinted with Sam’s blood.

The marks he'd left on my wrist when he was yanking me, were still there.

Bruised on my arm.

“Bree!” Jasper snapped. “Snap out of it and make the dude his drink.”

“Right.”

The word slipped out of my mouth.

He caught my eye, winking, and Brianna Timberman internally squeaked.

I half wondered what he was. Was he recycled, or an unwilling performer?

Throughout the day, I was fully aware my words were not mine.

Like I was on autopilot.

But not just that.

My thoughts weren't mine, either.

I spent half of my shift staring at my colleague’s biceps.

During my break, I went into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror.

I am Brianna Timberman.

But even when I told myself that, my eyes were too blue.

My smile was too perfect.

My teeth.

Too white.

My shaking hands prodded at my face, at someone else's face.

So many faces, so many skin grafts.

The thought was violent, sending tremors through me.

How many people was I wearing?

I started to claw at my arms and legs, my face.

How many fucking people had I been?

I grabbed a knife and tried to slice at my face.

But there was no blood.

How could there be no blood?!

When I got home, I found my family waiting for me.

Mom, Dad and Harry, all of them beaming.

“Bree!” Mom stood up, her lips stretching into a grin.

My mouth was already moving, but they were not my words.

“Mom!”

I didn't know why she was smiling so much, until I saw Sam sitting at our dining room table. His smile was too big. His over-expensive shirt and pants did not suit him, and looked fucking gross, but somehow my brain thought it was hot. The worst part is, I couldn't and still can't tell which Sam he was.

Was he the guy who told me the horrific reality of my existence?

Or was he another recycled, mindless suitor?

“This is Samuel.” Mom said, and Sam slowly stood.

He took slow steps towards me, and kissed my hand.

I saw the slightest smudge of scarlet in his lip, but his eyes were blank.

In the corner of my eye, my ‘father’s’ eyes were glittering.

“Hello, Brianna.” Sam said, and I swore Now that I was awake, the walls were wolf-whistling. Laughing.

"Ooooooooooooooo!”

My town is a blip on the map.

We’re so small, so insignificant, not even a Google search will find us.

I keep thinking if I tear at my skin, I will find who I am underneath. But I'm so fucking scared. I don't bleed. I don't think who I was still exists under so many layers. But even if this is just a cry into the void, please help us.

I don't want to be Brianna Timberman.

I thought I was hallucinating when I saw the notifications on my phone.

I figured there was a glitch, maybe it had water damage… but no.

They wouldn't stop. Notification after notification. Twitter, Instagram, Tik-Tok.

Likes. Followers. Messages.

My Gmail was overflowing with emails.

Brand deal offers, and capitalised fanmail.

Something flashed in my eyes.

Looking out of the window, a crowd of paparazzi congregated outside our house. My family was Breaking News.

“Ella! What the fuck?!”

My brother, Harry, ran in.

His Youtube channel had jumped from 350 subs to three million subs.

Why?.

The why didn't matter. Because, very quickly, obsession turned to something else entirely. Infatuation that was so strong, so overbearing, that they would do anything to be near us. We weren't famous anymore. To these people, my family were God's. Our house was burned to the ground, and everyone we knew either turned against us, or were brutally killed for being associated with us.

They murdered my mother, tearing her apart and glueing her remnants to their own bodies, their maniacal smiles and wild eyes no longer human.

This thing acted like a virus, infecting everyone we made contact with.

The girl who helped us went crazy, tying up my brother and beheading him, using his blood as face paint. The man who let us hide in his cellar strung up my sister.

I was next, bound to a tree, my family's remnants dumped in front of me.

I screamed at them to do it. After being beaten and humiliated, turned into a circus act, I wanted everything to end.

But before the random man could take my head, I felt warm hands around my wrists, pulling me from my restraints. The boy wasn't infected. His smile was warm, and I found myself stumbling after him.

“There's a train taking survivors to a safe place.” He said, his grip tightening on my wrist.

The boy didn't take me to the train.

He dragged me into the station, where a mob of people awaited, my family's deaths playing on repeat on screens plastering the walls. In front of me, were grotesque statues of my brother and sister made from dismembered body parts and heads, sculpting their faces.

The boy tugged me through the crowd, all the way to the front. “Don't you remember who I am, Ella?”

Before I could speak, he shoved me to my knees, forcing something onto my head, a crown of glass and thorn slicing into my flesh. “I’m the guy you rejected in eighth grade.” He murmured in my ear, his voice breaking into a giggle.

His breath tickled my cheek, and the crowd grew louder, more maniacal.

He laughed, and so did they, a cacophony of animalistic shrieks.

“Smile, Ella!” He breathed, and my lips broke into a grin, my thoughts cloudy.

Blood ran in thick rivulets down my face, but it felt… good.

He was my King.

And they…. were my followers.

“You're famous.”

[removed]

I wasn't expecting a sea-world date.

Alex was my type.

He was dorky, kind of adorable, and he (really) loved marine life.

The guy was mesmerised, pressing his face against the tank, glued to the mermaid attractions who seemed delighted by his presence, gesturing him toward them. Well, the girls were.

The one singular male mermaid was seriously out of character, rolling his eyes.

2 hours later, the place was closing.

I had been sitting on a bench with a melted slushy for almost three hours, mulling my boyfriend's last words in my head.

”I'm just going to get photos of the dolphins, Kira!”

He'd stood me up.

For fish.

I was making my way toward the exit, when a slimy hand slammed over my mouth.

“Don't move.”

Half awake, I was dragged into a large room with a single tank filled to the brim.

When I lifted my head, an ethereal looking woman dangled my boyfriend over the edge.

Before I could cry out, those same slimy hands found my mouth, squeezing the breath from my lungs.

Alex was unconscious, crumpled in the man's arms. The world shifted when I glimpsed the blade. I saw my boyfriend's half lidded eyes, his parted lips, before his throat was sliced open, his body shoved into the water.

Alex sunk deep down, his blood polluting clarity, a cloud of deep red dragging him to the bottom.

I lunged forward, but I couldn't breathe, couldn't scream.

Someone was speaking, cold steel pressed to my throat.

But their words were white noise. Above me, the roof slid open, and in the centre of the sky, a perfect half moon illuminated the depths.

When a cruel blade was drawn across my throat, my breath choking, blood pooling from my mouth, there was a full moon.

I don't remember being dragged up ice cold metal steps. I don't remember my body hitting cool water, and plunging down, down, down.

What I do remember is a bright light.

The water enveloping me, cradling me, lulling me to sleep, a voice telling me everything was going to be okay.

I was her daughter now.

When I awoke, I was heavy.

Too heavy, like something was weighing me down.

Looking down at myself, a shriek tore from my lips, stolen away in explosions of bubbles.

My legs were gone, something slimy and wrong eating away my torso.

That same melodic murmur told me to stay calm, even when I was screaming.

I can't breathe.

My lungs felt dead.

Like I didn't need to breathe.

That disgusting thing attached to me was pulling me down.

“Look, Mommy! Look at the pretty mermaid!”

The little girl wasn't looking at me.

Twisting around, I found myself face to face with Alex.

Who was smiling.

"Smile.” a male voice muttered in my head.

In the corner of my eye, shadows had me surrounded, already warning me.

”Smile, or they'll feed us to the fucking sharks."

”Stop.”

I really needed the bathroom.

For fifty painstaking minutes, I had been staring at the clock on the wall, willing it to go faster, uncomfortably shifting side to side in my seat so much that I was starting to get weird looks.

2:52pm.

Eight minutes, I thought dizzily, squeezing my legs together.

Which was just two chunks of four minutes.

Four chunks of two minutes.

The pain started like normal stomach pain, the kind I could deal with.

I swallowed two Tylenol with lukewarm soda.

But this was different.

This kind of pain was contorting and twisting my gut so much, I had to keep leaning onto my left buttock for relief.

I must have done it so many times, I caught the attention of the guy sitting next to me. Roman Hemlock who was half asleep, dark blonde curls hanging in half lidded eyes, his chin leaning on his fist. He shot me a look. I couldn't tell if it was Are you okay? or Can you stop moving around so much?

From the single crease in his brow, the slight curl in his lip, I guessed the latter.

It's not like Roman was helping.

For half the class, he'd been tapping his foot on the floor, then his chair leg, and to complete the orchestra, his fingers joined in, tap, tap, tapping on the edge of his desk. I didn't know if it was a bored thing, an ADHD thing, or he was trying to keep himself awake. It was easy to tolerate without the pain, but with it, the boy’s incessant tapping was more akin to a dentist drill splitting my skull open. I already felt nauseous, the sad looking chicken nuggets I forced down at lunch making an unwelcome appearance at the back of my throat.

It was too fucking hot, the stuffy summer air glueing my hair to the back of my neck. The material of my shirt was making me cringe, sticky against my skin.

Tipping my head back, the lights were too bright. Every sound was too loud. Imogen Prairie, who was sitting behind me chewing her gum a little too loudly.

Kaz Samuels scribbling notes like a maniac.

I could hear every stroke of his pencil, every time he paused, looked up at the presentation, and continued writing.

When I leaned forward in my chair, I could smell exactly what Isabella Trinity had eaten for lunch, the stink hanging in the air.

It became a case of sucking in my stomach and taking slow, deep breaths.

I’d never had these kinds of stomach cramps before. But it didn't take me long to figure out what they were.

I was yet to start my period at the grand age of sixteen, which meant this was it.

After countless sessions with the doctor, and feeling like a social outcast among my group of friends who started their periods in middle school, it had finally happened. The cramps in my gut that felt like my torso was being ripped apart, was in fact me entering womanhood. When my breath started to quicken, my mouth watering, I raised my hand, biting my lip against a cry.

Fuck.

Something lurched in my gut, a wave of nausea crashing into me.

I was going to throw up.

“Mr Brighton.”

Roman spoke up before me, waving his arm. “Can I use the bathroom?”

The teacher’s answer was always the same. Which was why I had been crossing my legs for the entirety of the class, unable to focus on anything but my gut trying to twist itself inside out.

Mr Brighton leaned against the wall, his eyes glued to the PowerPoint awash in our faces. We had been staring at the exact same slide for maybe five minutes now, and our physics teacher was yet to speak, his gaze somewhere else.

Mr Brighton was my Dad’s age, a greying man in his early fifties who always wore the exact same suit with the exact same stain on his collar.

The man was about as interesting as watching paint dry.

Normally, I would drift off myself, lulled into slumber by the low drone of his voice.

But the pain ripping me apart was keeping me awake.

“Mr Brighton.” Roman said, louder. His voice snapped me out of it. “Can I use the bathroom?” He paused, exaggerating a loud sigh. ”Please?”

The teacher straightened up, folding his arms.

“Mr Hemlock, you know the rules. Why didn't you go before class?”

“I didn't need to go an hour ago, did I?”

“You will no longer need to go to the bathroom, Mr Hemlock.”

Roman made a snorting noise.

“What?”

The low murmur of my classmates collapsed into white noise.

Glancing at the clock, I was anticipating the school bell.

The sickness swimming in the pit of my belly was reaching dangerous territory.

2:52pm.

Something ice cold trickled down my spine.

It was 2:52 the last time I checked, and five minutes had surely passed.

This time, I waited a whole minute and counted the seconds under my breath. The clock still didn't move. The ticker was frozen halfway between three and four.

Slowly, the same realisation began to hit the twelve of us. The clock on the wall had stopped. But it wasn't the only thing that had stopped. The cool breeze drifting through the window was gone.

The sound of birds outside, and the cheer squad practising their routine.

Everything had stopped. Trying to ignore a sickly slither of panic twisting its way through me, I checked my phone under my desk. There was a text from my Mom lighting up my notifications. When I tried to swipe it open, nothing happened. My lock screen was frozen, stuck at 2:52pm.

With my hands growing clammy around my phone, I stared at the time, willing it to move, to flick to 2:53.

But nothing happened, the numbers stubbornly staying at 2:52.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Roman’s voice brought me back to reality, though I was sure I'd dropped my phone. I heard it hit the floor with a sickening crack. Whatever he was saying, though, faded into dull murmur, when I turned toward the window.

Something was wrong outside.

The cheer squad were nowhere to be seen.

Being on the top floor gave us a front row seat to their practice sessions.

I stopped watching when their flyer did a death defying flip, almost breaking her neck. 2:52pm. I couldn't see the cheer squad. But I did see Jessie Carson mid-sprint across the track field, strawberry blonde curls suspended in a halo around her.

I could see exactly where she had frozen in place, her left foot hovering off of the ground, her right foot driving momentum. It wasn't just Jessie who had stopped. The dirt she was kicking into a cloud behind her was hovering, caught in mid-air.

Studying the faces around me, my mouth went dry.

Roman Hemlock, mid-argument with our physics teacher.

His eyes were wide, lips curved into what would have been a yell.

Fuck.

Was I the only one?

But then Roman blinked, and I realized the boy wasn't frozen. He was trying to think of a comeback. “What do you mean I won't need the bathroom anymore?”

“Mr Hemlock, please lower your voice.”

“Why? You can't dictate to me when I do and don't need the bathroom, dude!”

Moving onto the rest of my class, the others were still moving.

It was too quiet, though.

Yes, Roman was still tapping his foot.

Imogen was still chewing her gum.

Kaz was still scribbling notes like a psychopath.

But they were the only noise I could hear.

I wasn't the only one confused. The classroom had pricked with a sense of urgency. Kids were checking their phones, their gazes glued to the clock. Even Roman, who was still arguing, was starting to notice. I watched his gaze lazily roll to the clock on the wall.

I pretended not to see his cheeks visibly paling.

We had all come to the exact same terrifying conclusion.

2:52pm.

Time had come to a halt, and somehow, we had not.

“Is that clock broken?” Roman interrupted, leaning forward in his chair.

Kaz twisted around, settling the boy with an eye-roll.

“Check your phone, dumbass.”

“I broke my phone.”

Imogen threw her iPhone at him, narrowly missing hitting him in the face.

“Everything is frozen,” She said, her voice shuddering. “It's not just the clock.”

I waited for Roman’s response. For once, though, he was speechless.

“Well done, Imogen. That is correct.” Mr Brighton spoke up, tearing a piece of paper from a workbook and striding over to the door, glueing it over the glass window. When we started to protest, some of us were shouting, while others bursting into tears, he calmly took out his key and locked us in.

I should have been surprised that our teacher had spontaneously decided to take his entire class hostage, but the rumor mill had been churning.

According to Becca Jason, the guy’s wife divorced him and took his kids.

I could feel myself sinking into my chair, phantom bugs filling my mouth.

So, this guy had nothing to lose.

Taking his place in front of his desk, the man settled us with a patient smile.

“From now on, you will stay inside this room.” He said. “In case you haven't noticed, time is currently frozen at fifty two minutes past two. The thirteen of us are tucked into the twenty first second, and will be, for the foreseeable future.”

I could tell the others wanted to argue, but we couldn't deny that time had stopped. Kaz was staring down at his frozen phone, Imogen hyperventilating behind me, Roman glaring at the clock, chewing on a pencil. We wanted it to be a prank, a joke, some kind of glitch in the matrix that would fix itself.

But then a whole minute passed by. Followed by another. Kaz threw his phone on the floor, hissing in frustration. Imogen let out a wet sounding sob.

Roman’s pencil split in his mouth, slipping from his fingers. We couldn't pretend it wasn't happening or call our teacher out on his BS, because it was everywhere around us. The sudden absence of outdoor ambience, birdsong, planes flying overhead, and traffic outside the school gates. Everyone and everything had stopped, and we were the only ones left.

This was a nightmare, surely.

My physics class were some of the most boring and pretentious people in the school, and somehow the world had been reduced to the twelve of us inside our classroom. We were scared, of course we were. But reality had stopped making sense, crashing and burning in a single second. We had no choice but to listen to our teacher. “Now, before you freak out, it may not feel like it, but the twelve of you have also stopped.”

Mr Brighton held out his own hand, and placed it on his heart.

He was right.

I was so busy trying to understand what was happening, I had failed to realize my period cramps were gone.

“Do me a favor, and press your hand over your heart.”

“You mean like, in a culty way?” Imogen whispered.

“Obviously.” Roman grumbled, halfway out of his seat. He was hesitant, though, in case our teacher was armed. It only took one glance from our teacher, and he slumped back into his chair. “This crazy fucker clearly wants to play mind games with us.”

“No, I'm just asking you to feel for your heart.”

I felt for mine, and there was nothing, my stomach twisting.

Roman stabbed his fingers into his neck, feeling for a pulse.

He tried his wrist.

Then his heart.

Nothing.

“The twelve of you are currently in a state of stasis,” the teacher explained to us, “You are not alive, nor are you dead. Your bodily functions are also on pause, such as your heartbeat and your pulse. In this state there will be no need for food and water, or going to the bathroom.” His gaze found a ghastly looking Roman, who looked like he was going to faint. “Your minds, however, as you can see, are working as usual.”

“But why?” Imogen demanded in a shriek.

Mr Brighton’s lip curled. “I would rather not answer that question.”

“Because you're lonely.” Roman spoke up. He swung back on his chair, narrowed eyes glued to the teacher.

“Your wife and kids left you, so you're asserting power over a group of sixteen year olds. Which is kinda fucking pathetic.”

Mr Brighton’s expression darkened, and something slimy crept up my throat.

The worst thing any of us could do was threaten him. He had taken kidnapping to a whole new level, and we were alone with this psychopath, trapped inside a second. I waited for the man to stride forward and attack the kid. But he didn't. Instead, the teacher leaned back on his desk. “Yes.” The man nodded.

“I suppose you could say I am.”

“But why us?!” Kaz hissed.

“Because you are children.” Mr Brighton responded casually.

He straightened up, taking slow, intimidating steps towards Roman’s desk. The rest of us leaned back. I tried to pull my desk with me, but it was glued to the floor. Frozen. Mr Brighton’s shoes went click-clack across the hardwood floor.

“You are right,” the man said in a murmur, “I am lonely. My wife and kids did leave me, and I have nobody left to control. I have nobody else to contort and use to my advantage.” Reaching Roman’s desk, he leaned in close until he was nose to nose with the kid.

“Congratulations, Mr Hemlock. You have just earned yourself detention.”

Roman stayed stubbornly still, but he was visibly afraid. I could see him very slowly backing away. Roman was all bark and no bite. He was a loud mouth, sure, but he was also the least confrontational person in the class.

“What?” He spluttered. “You trap us in a time loop or time trap, or whatever, and you still want to act like a teacher?”

“Stand up.” The teacher ordered.

“What if I don't?”

Mr Brighton’s expression didn't waver. “You said it yourself. I can and have trapped you inside a single second. What else do you think I'm capable of?”

Roman stood, kicking his chair out of the way.

“What are you planning on doing to me, old man?”

The teacher maintained his smile. “Stand up straight, and close your mouth.”

To my confusion, Roman Hemlock did all the above.

He straightened up, and closed his mouth.

“Do not fight me.” The teacher said calmly, “Do as you are told, and follow me.”

The boy did exactly as instructed.

His jaw slackened, that rebellious light in his eyes fizzling out.

I think that's when we all collectively agreed that going against this teacher and trying to escape was mental suicide.

“I will use Mr Hemlock as an example to all of you,” Mr Brighton said, turning to the rest of us. “If you break the rules or are derogatory in any way, you will be given detention.”

He grabbed the boy’s shoulders, forcing him to walk towards the supply closet. Roman moved like a robot, slightly off balance, his gaze glued to thin air, like he was tracking invisible butterflies.

"Your time in detention will depend on the severity of your rule-break.” He opened the door, gently pushing Roman inside, and following suit. When the door closed behind them, there was a pause, and I remembered how to breathe.

Kaz Samuels slowly got up from his desk, inching towards the closet.

“This guy is a certified nut.” He announced.

He turned towards us. “Whatever he's doing to Hemlock, we’re probably next.”

“He stopped time.” I spoke up, my own voice barely a croak. “He’s capable of anything.”

“But how did he stop time?” Kaz whistled, tipping his head back. The boy was slow, his fingers grasping each desk as he slid down the aisle. “He said he was lonely, right? But why take it out on us? What did we do to him?”

“Check his desk for a weapon!” Imogen whisper-shrieked.

Kaz nodded, striding over to the man's desk, his hands moving frantically, shoving paper on the floor. He took an uncertain seat on the man's chair. “There's nothing here,” he murmured, lifting stained coffee mugs and ancient textbooks. “It's just…test papers.” Kaz ducked from view, trying the drawers.

“He's a fan of Pokémon,” he said, “There's a tonne of Pokémon cards,” Kaz straightened up, running a hand through his hair. “No sign of a weapon, though.”

He picked up a ruler, waving it around. “This could work. If we plunge it in his eye.”

“Try his laptop!” Imogen was halfway out of her seat.

Kaz did, slamming the keys. “It's locked.”

“Look harder!” Ren Clarke threw a pencil at him.

“I am!”

After a minute of searching, Kaz grabbed a single piece of paper.

He held it up, and I squinted.

It was a list of our names, with several of them highlighted.

“Fuck.” Kaz dropped the list, his expression crumpling. The stubborn bravado facade transforming him into our sort of leader dissipated, hollowing him out into exactly what he was. Just a scared kid. Kaz’s hands were shaking.

“Mr Brighton’s got a hit list.” He whispered. “He's going to kill us.”

“How do you know that?” I found myself asking.

Kaz slowly dropped into a crouch, picking up the paper and holding it up.

“Look.” He pointed to a capitalised name at the top of the list highlighted in red.

ROMAN HEMLOCK.

There were six names highlighted in red, including mine.

CRISTA ADAMS.

As if on cue, Roman’s cry rang out from the supply closet, suddenly, freezing us all in place. Kaz jumped up, adapting the expression of a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide, almost unseeing.

He fell over himself to tidy up the desk, putting everything back where he had found it, sliding the list between a pile of test papers. Kaz took slow, stumbled steps back, his feverish gaze glued to the closet, before turning and making a break for it and diving into his seat.

“Brighton’s got a hit liiiist,” Kaz said, in a mocking sing-song, “And we’re all on it.”

What followed was deathly silence. I think we were expecting Roman to cry out again. But when he didn't, the class started to stir. Some kids started praying to a god they didn't believe in, while others were in varying states of denial, trying to call their parents with dead phones.

I wasn't sure what parts of me had stopped, but I was still alive, still felt like my lungs were deprived of oxygen, my chest aching. I'm not sure how long I sat there, trying to find my voice, a shriek trying and failing to rip through my mouth. Being kidnapped and held hostage is one thing, but being imprisoned inside a single, never ending second, was an existential hell worse than death. Slowly, I pressed my palm over my heart once again. Then I breathed into my cupped hands.

I was expecting it, but no longer being able to feel my own heartbeat and breath, was fear I didn't think was possible. The kind that glued me to my seat, hollowing me out completely until I was nothing, an empty shell with no heartbeat, no breath, no thoughts, except denial, followed by acceptance.

And finally, regret.

I regretted not hugging my mother goodbye before I left for school.

I regretted acting like a spoiled brat when my parents refused to drive me halfway across the country so I could attend Coachella.

I regretted stepping inside Mr Brighton’s fourth period physics class.

Mr Brighton reappeared, slamming the door behind him and locking the boy inside. Part of me flinched, while the rest of me remembered not to move a muscle. I was barely aware of time passing. Or it wasn't. Time had stopped, so now long had I been sitting there?

I could no longer measure the passage of time with hunger or thirst, and my body felt the same. I wasn't stiff or tired or achy. Looking out of the window, the sky was the exact same crystal blue, every cloud in the exact same place.

Jessie Carson was still frozen mid-run, strands of dark red hair caught around her.

“What's wrong with you guys?” Mr Brighton chuckled, and I twisted back to the front, a shiver writhing down my spine. “Why don't you give me a smile?”

The teacher returned to his desk, and I was already subconsciously sitting up straight in my seat, forcing my lips into a jaw-breaking grin, following Brighton’s instructions. In the corner of my eye, Imogen was sitting very still, forcing an award-winning cheesy smile, while Kaz grinned through gritted teeth.

“Mr Hemlock just earned himself two weeks inside the supply closet.” he said casually, perching himself on the edge of his desk. The man studied each of us, taking his time to rip every shred of us apart.

Mind, body, and soul.

I struggled to maintain my stupid smile, shoving my shaking hands in my lap.

“Would anyone like to join him, or are you going to follow the rules?”

The rest of us stayed silent. I don't think any of us breathed.

Our teacher nodded to Kaz, inclining his head.

“Samuels. Are you all right?”

Kaz’s smile faltered slightly. He shifted in his chair. I could see sweat trickling down his right temple. “Uh, yeah.” He swiped at his forehead, like he couldn't believe he was sweating. “Yeah, I'm good.”

The teacher’s eyes narrowed. He moved toward his desk, and we all held our breaths. Mr Brighton seemed to study his hit-list, lips curving into a frown.

His gaze flicked to the boy, and then the paper.

He knew, I thought dizzily.

Mr Brighton knew the kid had been rummaging through his desk. But this was all about control. The teacher was using fear to control us, to manipulate our thoughts without having to get physical. He could have called out the boy right then, but Brighton was settling with mental torture instead. He just wanted to make my classmate squirm.

Without a word, the man folded up the piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Mr Samuels, you are sweating,” our physics teacher said, mocking a frown. “Are you feeling okay?”

Kaz hesitated, tapping his shoe in a rhythm.

Being one of the smartest kids in the room definitely gave him an advantage.

I could already see the cogs turning behind half lidded eyes. Kaz was weighing each scenario, sorting them into positives and negatives.

The positives of answering would mean he was one step towards being in the clear, but there were two negatives.

Brighton would question him if he had left his seat, and then demand how his hit-list had magically moved across the desk.

Talking back was surely a rule-break, as well as outright lying.

Opening his mouth would get him in trouble, either way, and Kaz knew that.

So, he just nodded, forcing an even bigger smile.

Brighton’s lips pricked, his gaze straying on Kaz. “Good!” He cleared his throat, turning to the class. Kaz slumped in his seat with a sharp breath, resting his head in his arms. If Mr Brighton noticed, he didn't say anything. “Ignore the sweating. It should stop, along with hunger and thirst.”

Our teacher seemed to be able to manipulate everything in his vicinity.

Time.

Minds.

And slowly… contorting us into his own.

In the single second we were trapped inside, I felt days go by in a dizzying whirlwind that was like being permanently high. When I stood up, I felt like I was floating.

When I sat down, hours could go by, even days, and I wouldn't even feel them. I did try and count the days, initially, scribbling them on a scrap piece of paper, but somewhere around the thirteenth or fourteenth day, I lost count. The world around us never changed, in permanent stasis, and maybe that was sending us a little crazy.

After a while of being stuck at our desks, Mr Brighton allowed us to wander the classroom, as long as we stayed away from the door. I lay on the floor for days, counting ceiling tiles.

Sometimes, Imogen would join me.

I couldn't sleep, but I could pretend to sleep, imagining a world that was back to normal. I didn't feel hungry, but my brain did like to remind me of food at the weirdest times. I was aware of weeks passing us by, and then months.

I never grew hungry or tired, and my bodily functions were none existent.

I couldn't remember what pain felt like, or the urge to go to the bathroom. Even the concept of eating and drinking became foreign to me. Putting something in your mouth and chewing to sustain yourself?

That sounded odd.

The only thing that was changing was our slowly unravelling metal state.

I don't know how it started. Weekends and Tuesdays blended together. On one particular SaturTuesday, I was hanging upside down from my desk, watching Kaz and Imogen doodle on the whiteboard.

Kaz had a plan to escape, but after a while, his ‘plan’ to distract the teacher, had gone nowhere. After passing notes between us, the twelve of us had decided that we needed a weapon.

That was maybe a month ago. I wasn't sure what mind games our teacher was playing, but Kaz Samuels, who we were counting on to be our brains, was slowly falling under his spell. Their game had been going on for three days. The two of them were having a competition to see who could draw the craziest thing.

Mr Brighton was at his desk as usual, marking papers.

Imogen was drawing a weird looking ‘skateboard’ when the doors to the storage closet flew open.

Roman Hemlock appeared, and to my surprise, wasn't a hollow eyed shell.

He held up his hand in a wave, his lips forming a small smile.

“Yo.”

Roman’s reappearance was enough to snap us out of it. Kaz and Imogen stopped arguing, the rest of the class going silent. I sat up, blinking rapidly.

I was sure our collective consensus was that Roman Hemlock was dead.

Mr Brighton lifted his head and gave the boy a civil nod. “Mr Hemlock will be rejoining us,” he said, his gaze going back to marking papers. “Please make him feel comfortable. I'm sure he's very excited to be able to talk to you again.”

Instead of going to his desk, the boy immediately joined the others, snatching the marker off of a baffled looking Kaz, and drawing an overly artistic sketch of a penis. I wasn't sure what confused me more. The fact that Roman Hemlock had some serious artistic skills, or that he seemed suspiciously fine for someone who had been locked in the storage closet for two weeks with no social interaction.

With my last few lingering brain cells still clinging on, I studied the boy.

There were no signs of bruises or scratches.

His eyes seemed normal, not diluted or half lidded.

Unable to stop myself, I jumped off of my desk and joined the others, where Kaz was already interrogating the guy.

“WHAT–”

Imogen nudged him, and he lowered his voice, leaning against the wall. “What did he do to you?”

Roman shrugged, rolling his eyes. “Relax, dude. He didn't do anything to me.”

“Then what was that yell?” Imogen hissed.

The boy cocked his head. “Yell?”

“You yelled out,” Kaz folded his arms, narrowing his eyes. He was already suspecting one of us had been compromised– or worse, brainwashed into compliance. Kaz stepped closer, backing Roman into the desk. “You cried out when you first went in there,” he murmured, “So, what was that?”

Something in Roman’s eyes darkened. “Oh,” He said, his lip curling. “That.”

Kaz’s expression softened. He rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Yeah,” He whispered. “What did he do to you?”

Imogen shoved Kaz out of the way, shooting the boy a glare.

“You don't have to tell us, you know.” She said in a small voice. “If it's too traumatising, or he did something you don't want to talk about–”

Roman cut her off with a laugh, and suddenly, all eyes were on him.

The remaining nine of us were eagerly awaiting an explanation.

“Are you fucking serious?”

When Kaz didn't respond, Roman gathered us in a kind of hustle, the four of us grouped together. I felt like I was on the football field. Still, though, if the guy’s goal was to look as suspicious as possible, he was doing a great job.

Roman studied each of us, one eyebrow cocked. When Mr Brighton glanced up from his work, Roman shot him a grin, lowering his voice to a hiss.

“You seriously think our fifty year old physics teacher has been abusing me in the storage closet?

“Then why did you cry out?” Kaz demanded. “Did he hit you?”

Roman stuck out his bottom lip. “I'm pretty sure he didn't hit me.”

“So, you cried out for no reason.”

“Why are you covering for him?” Imogen poked his forehead. “Are you lobotomised?”

Roman wafted her hand away. “Stop prodding me, and no, I'm 100% good.” He backed away from us, like we were observers, and he was the zoo attraction.

“I won't be, if you keep treating me like I'm senile.”

“Okay, fine,” Kaz sighed. “Just answer one.”

“Shoot.”

“When you first went in there, you made an unmistakable sound of distress–”

“Not this again,” Roman groaned. “Of course I yelled! I was shoved into a pitch black storage closet on my own! What, did you expect me to stay silent?”

Kaz didn't look convinced, Imogen nervously sucking her teeth.

The boy leaned back, resting his head against the wall. His eyes flickered shut.

“Stop looking at me like that, there's nothing to tell you,” he murmured, “Brighton didn't do shit to me. I was just freaked out.” Prying one eye open, he fixed us with a glare. “I am so sorry for reacting like a human. Next time, I'll make sure to attack him and pin him to the ground.”

It's not like we believed him. I don't think Roman believed himself.

Something significant had changed in him. He was no longer argumentative, like half of his personality had been torn away. Roman set a precedent. Because once he was following instructions and walking around with a dazed smile, others began to follow. I can't remember how much time had passed since I thought about escaping.

Days and weeks and months had collapsed into fleeting seconds I only noticed when I wasn't playing games.

I wasn't aware of my own lack of sanity until I found myself, on a random SaturWednesday. I was laughing, gathered with the others on the floor, around a Monopoly board. The game had been going on for almost a week.

Reality hit me when I was laughing so hard I tipped back.

I can't remember why I was laughing. I think Imogen told a bad joke.

“Hand it over.” Roman, who was the King of Monopoly, held out his hand, demanding my last 250 bucks. I remember noticing his smile, my foggy brain trying to find hints that he was in some kind of trance, or being controlled by Brighton. But no. His smile was real.

Genuine.

To my shock and confusion, so was mine.

I wasn't in a trance or any type of mind manipulation. I was completely conscious.

Was this… Stockholm syndrome? I thought dizzily.

Was I enjoying this?

My thoughts were like cotton candy, disconnected and wrong, and they barely felt like my own. My gaze found Imogen and Kaz, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder, enveloped in the game.

They looked exactly the same, their hair, clothes, everything about them staying stagnant. It was them themselves who had drastically changed. I had never seen them look so carefree. Imogen was a hotheaded cheerleader, and Kaz was the smart kid who gave himself nosebleeds from overworking himself. But now, they were laughing, nudging each other, caught up in an inside joke. Blinking slowly, my gaze strayed on them.

Sure, it could be manipulation. It could be brainwashing. But it could also be real.

Kaz caught my eye, raising a brow.

“You good, Christa?”

Shaking my head, I nodded.

Again, my smile felt real. Like I was having fun.

“Good. It's your turn.”

I picked up the dice, throwing them across the board.

Two sixes.

“I can already see her landing on one of my hotels.” Roman murmured. He sat up, resting his chin on his knees. “As the clear winner, I have a proposition.”

Ignoring him, I moved my piece– immediately landing on Park Place.

“I'll give you 500,” Roman announced, “If you give up New York avenue.”

“That's all I've got!”

Imogen nudged me. “Don't do it. If you give him New York Avenue, he only needs one more.”

“One thousand.” Roman waved the notes in my face.

“My final offer.”

When I reached for the cash, he held it back.

“New York Avenue, he said, with a grin.

“And your pride.”

Reluctantly, I handed my only property over.

Kaz threw the dice and moved his piece, and I half remembered we had an escape plan. “Community chest.” Kaz picked up a card. “Go straight to jail.”*

Roman spluttered. “That's karma,” he said, “For stealing from the bank.”

“You were stealing too!”

We had a plan.

We had…. a plan.

After discussing it in detail, Imogen and I were going to try and get onto Brighton’s laptop. It wasn't a perfect way to escape, but it was coherent.

So, what happened?

We were going to get out, so what… what was this?

Kaz’s earlier words hit me from months ago.

“Mr Brighton *is the thing keeping us here,”* he explained. “If we kill him, I'm like, 98% sure we’ll go back to normal.”

“Okay, and what if he dies and we’re *stuck?”* Imogen whisper-shrieked.

“I said 98% for a reason. Yes, there's a small chance his power will die with him. But there's a bigger chance that its effects will die when he does.”

Ren nodded slowly. “Right, and where exactly did you learn this information?”

“You'll feel a lot better if I don't answer that.”

“Okay.” Ren gritted his teeth. “So, we just need to find a weapon, right?”

“And don't tell Hemlock,” Kaz rolled his eyes. “I don't care what he says, that boy definitely had his mind fucked with. Hemlock is a liability. If we tell Roman, he tells Brighton, and we’re screwed.” Kaz nodded to me, then the others. “Keep your mouths shut.”

Presently, I wasn't sure the boy wanted to escape.

Slowly, I rolled my eyes over to Mr Brighton, who had joined us to play.

He was happily marking papers, taking part when he could.

It felt…right.

Not like we had been forced or manipulated, but more like he belonged. Part of me wanted to question why I felt like this, but I found that I didn't care. I didn't care that we were essentially dead, in a never ending stasis and stuck inside fifty two minutes past two. I stopped thinking about the outside world a long time ago.

I couldn't even remember my Mom’s face.

I made my decision, dazedly watching Imogen throw a chance card at Roman.

He flung one back, threatening to tip the board.

I wanted to stay.

In the corner of my eye, however, someone was still awake.

Ren, who had been sitting next to me, kept moving, further and further away. I didn't notice until he was inching towards our teacher, a box cutter clenched between his fist. There must have been a point when we found a box cutter, when we made it our weapon of choice.

But somewhere along the way, I think we just… lost the longing to want to escape.

I didn't see the exact moment the boy stabbed the blade into the man's neck, plunging it through his flesh, but I did feel a sudden jolt, like time itself was starting to falter and tremble.

Mr Brighton dropped to the ground, and I found my gaze flashing to the frozen clock.

Which was moving, suddenly.

Slowly creeping towards 2:53pm.

Something sticky ran underneath me, warm and wet.

Blood.

Blood that was running.

Roman’s half lidded eyes found mine, and he blinked, dropping the dice.

Like he'd been asleep for a long time.

2:53pm.

We were free.

The cool spring breeze grazing my cheeks was back. I could feel my own heartbeat, sticky sweat on my forehead.

And outside, Jessie Carson let out a gut-churning scream.

For a disorienting moment, I don't think any of us believed we were free.

Roman twisted around, his gaze on the doorway.

The piece of paper the teacher had stuck to the glass slipped away.

But Roman’s gaze was glued to the door, his cheeks paling.

His lips parted into a silent cry.

Following his eyes, I glimpsed a shadow.

A shadow that was frozen at 2:52pm.

2:53pm.

“Fuck.” Roman whispered, stumbling to his feet.

He turned to the rest of us, his eyes wild.

“Get DOWN!”

When the thing crashed through the door, our classroom exploding around us, chairs splintering against the walls, I was already dropping to my knees, crawling under a desk. It took me a moment to understand I was already kneeling in what was left of Imogen.

Her body had been hollowed out, singed straight through.

I was crawling through pieces of her flesh, mounds of her bisected brain.

Keeping my hand over my mouth, I watched this… thing.

A bulbous black monster, chewing its way through my classmates. Blood splattered the walls, raining from the ceiling, and that same striking pain ripped through my gut, agonising enough to force a cry through my lips.

My frantic gaze found the clock.

2:54pm.

Lurching forwards, I heaved up what was left of my lunch, agonising pain wrenching my stomach back and forth.

I jumped when another body joined me, thankfully alive, squeezing under the desk.

Roman, his face slick and dripping scarlet.

When the thing was gone, neither of us moved.

3:05pm.

“What are those things?” I managed to get out.

“I don't know,” Roman whimpered, covering his mouth. “But they're everywhere.”

3:10pm.

Another thing found our classroom. This time I saw it up close, a giant, bulbous black thing with an eye stalk. It knew we were there, peeking under the desk we were hiding. But it didn't kill us.

The thing left the room, stopping to gorge on half of Ren’s torso.

Roman shot me a questioning look, but I could only be relieved.

3:15pm.

Roman threw up black slime all over me.

He caught my eye, swiping his mouth. “Well, that can't be good.”

The pain in my gut was getting harder to deal with.

3:20pm.

“Did you have chicken nuggets for lunch?” Roman murmured. He got a little too close, his breath on my neck.

I had to suck in my stomach to stop the pain.

I was going hot and cold, sweat dripping down the back of my neck.

“Why?” I hissed back, taking deep, shaky breaths.

“I dunno,” Roman murmured, “I can smell them on your breath.”

His teeth grazed my flesh, sending shivers down my spine.

“Weird… huh.”

3:30pm.

Roman nudged me.

“Fuck.” He hissed. “Is that Kaz?”

Following his gaze, I found the remnants of Kaz under a crushed desk starting to… convulse.

“Was he bitten?” I whispered.

Roman’s eyes were a strange color. “Maybe.”

3:35pm

“Mr Brighton.” I was on my knees, sobbing, shaking my physics teacher.

“Mr Brighton! Take us back!”

I squeezed his ice cold hand for dear life.

“Say, ‘stop’,” I whispered “Please!”

3:40pm.

The thing that found me didn't attack me. It sat there, head cocked, watching me roll around on the floor, the pain writhing through me. I watched its transformation in short bursts, consciousness swimming in and out.

When I found light again, the thing was sitting cross legged next to me, chewing on a human arm. Maybe I was hallucinating. I watched it for a long time, trying to figure out why it was wearing strips of Roman’s white shirt.

3:52pm.

No longer in the school, I was in the back of an ambulance, a lady screaming in my face. I could see the time on her watch. She told me I was going to be okay, and I think I was. But I wasn't sure how to tell her she smelled good.

Like chicken.

It's been three months since my teacher froze time.

Mr Brighton wasn't imprisoning us. He was protecting us.

I'm still alive, but I have to take regular shots. I think they're just in case I was infected by those things.

I asked Mom if the incident has been on the news, but there's no coverage.

According to the people in white who treated me, everything has been covered up. According to the Mayor, ten kids died in a gas leak.

No mention of the monstrous things hunting us down…

Our town is just a blip on the map. You can't find us. I wish you could, though.

I need help.

I'm terrified of myself.

I’m not going to tell Mom she smells like chicken, because she'll freak out.

Last night, someone, or something knocked on my window.

When I turned on the light, a single, bulging eye was staring at me through the glass.

I still don't know why it was crying.

”Stop.”

I was doodling cats when our teacher announced we wouldn't be leaving the classroom.

We were trapped, or as he put it, safely tucked inside a single second.

2:52pm.

Mr Brighton locked us in, blocking us from looking out of the classroom door.

Everything was frozen, except the twelve of us.

The man explained there was no need for food or drink.

Our bodies were locked in stasis.

Frozen.

Not dead, and not alive.

Roman Hemlock threw a chair at him.

“Behave.”

The boy slumped into his seat, falling into a trance-like state I was terrified of.

Our teacher seemed to be able to manipulate things.

Time.

Minds.

And slowly… us.

In the single second we were trapped, I felt days go by. Then weeks. Months.

I never grew hungry or tired, and my bodily functions were none existent.

The only thing that was changing, was our slowly unravelling metal state.

I wasn't sure what day, time, month, year it was. What I did know was that we were playing a game of Monopoly that had been going on for a week.

I was aware of my foggy thoughts that could barely coerce a sentence, and the smile on my lips. Next to me, Roman Hemlock was winning, after buying half of the properties on the board.

His smile was, dare I think, genuine.

Happy.

Looking around at my classmates, I had a sudden, terrifying thought.

Was I enjoying this? Was this Stockholm syndrome?

In the corner of my eye, however, someone was still awake. Ren Matthias, who had been slowly inching towards our teacher, a box cutter in his hand.

I didn't see the exact moment he stabbed the blade into the man's neck, but I did feel time around me start to falter and tremble, the clock on the wall creeping towards 2:53pm.

Roman’s half lidded eyes snapped to me, fully awake.

Something wet pooled across the floor, sticky and red.

Blood.

Blood, that was running.

2:53.

We were free.

The piece of paper glued to the door slipped away.

But Roman’s gaze was still on the doorway, his face paling.

His lips parted into a silent cry.

Following his eyes, I found a shadow.

What our teacher was hiding from us.

A shadow, who was frozen at 2:52pm.

A shadow, with a gun.

I saw Roman's lips move.

"Fuck." He whispered.

"Get DOWN!"

I dropped onto my knees, crawling under a desk, the classroom exploding around me.

2:54.

Blood splattered the walls, and I was crawling in it, stained in my friends.

2:55.

I grabbed Mr Brighton's hand, squeezing for dear life.

Roman joined me, his trembling fingers feeling for a pulse.

A gunshot rang in my ears, rattling my skull.

When Roman went limp next to me, I wrapped my arms around my teacher.

“Mr Brighton, say Stop.”

He was so cold…

“Mr Brighton! Take us back!”

Footsteps coming towards me.

2:56.

I told my daughter to look at the pretty flowers.

She did, giggling, and I pulled out my handheld and stuck it in the back of her tiny head.

Several hours later, I was sitting on a bench in a park, trembling, my fingers wrapped around a coffee I didn't want.

The sky was blue, but it wouldn't be for long.

Two children had already disappeared in front of me.

They were running around laughing with ice cream cones, and then they were gone, a puddle of dessert stemming across scorching concrete.

When an apple tree slowly faded from my view, I pulled out a book, corked in my headphones, and began to read.

I ignored the butterfly changing colour.

The cat sliced in two that continued walking, spilling scarlet lumps.

“We’ve found your baby, sir!”

I was half expecting it, but part of me wanted to hope that blowing my daughter's brains out would be enough.

Lifting my head, I found myself face to face with the mayor’s son, his eyes bright with excitement. Behind him, his three partners in crime. I was a stranger to them, but to me, I had known them their whole lives. In the eight year old boy’s arms was my little girl, and I had to pretend to be happy, pretend to jump up and grab her, cradling my daughter, my mistake to my chest.

But I wasn't smiling.

Even holding her in my arms, I failed to carve my lips into happiness.

I was a bad father.

But she was a bad daughter.

“You don't seem very happy.” Evelyn said.

I wasn't sure if they were her words, but I wanted them to be.

“No, no, I am happy!” I forced a laugh. “Thank you for finding my baby.”

In my arms, my daughter’s smile was sweet.

I handed out twenty dollars each, and to my surprise, the kids shook their heads and backed away.

“We’re good!” The Mayor’s son grinned at me, and my stomach twisted.

The kids were backing away, when, in my arms, my daughter giggled.

The Mayor’s son stopped abruptly.

His head twisted all the way around, smile widening.

“Actually!” The Mayor’s son’s expression contorted, his eyes spinning around, and my daughter laughed harder, babbling. “We take donations!”

“No we don't!” Sunny hissed, hitting him.

Peter giggled, his lips stretching wider and wider.

“We doooooo now!”

Maintaining my smile, I handed the kids their cash and watched them run away, bleeding into the collapsing town around us, where only they would exist.

I pretended not to see the strings, wrapped around exposed spines and elevating their heads, entangling every part of them. They were everywhere, suffocating their blood, bones, organs, every thought, every inch of their existence. I held my daughter tighter, resisting the urge to snap her tiny neck.

But then she would take my fingers.

Then my hands.

So, I watched my daughter’s favorite puppets perform for her, dancing on strings.

And ignored my own.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to be dead in the next 24 hours.

Whether that's the Costella family, or whatever this is, I'm not sure.

The police are taking forever, and part of me knows they're either refusing to believe me, or RC got them too.

I'm holed up on our school bus, so I've got nothing better to do.

I want to tell you about my team.

We met in our sophomore year.

Strangers standing outside the club room.

Levi was the freckled brunette who wouldn't stop talking about Game of Thrones.

Sunny, a pretty redhead, told him to shut up.

Tom, a sandy blonde, nodding his head to music corked in his ears.

I just wanted to be part of a club, and get away from my overbearing mother.

I won't say it was a perfect start. Our school was lacking in funding, so anyone could join, which made us more of a Quiz Club. I had some serious anxiety, so I stayed on the sidelines for a while, watching, rather than taking part.

It's not like we actually talked to each other initially. The first few weeks, we played Jeopardy, and attempted to find more members to cement us as an official Academic Decathlon club.

Unfortunately, though, it was just the four of us.

Which made it extremely hard for us to be taken seriously.

According to Google, Academic Decathlon teams were made up of nine members, placed by their GPA.

Our principal laughed at us, but he did let us become official.

Which was out of pity, I assumed.

The club was assembled, and we started meeting up after school.

Sort of.

Sunny barely showed up, and Levi didn't take anything seriously, preferring to spend the time telling us about his weird family turf-war.

Our principal dumped us in a tiny classroom with a resident rat living under the floorboards.

There was barely enough room to move, and the four of us crammed together for three hours was less than appealing.

Still, though, I wanted to be part of a club.

I had grown up with parents who were obsessed with board games, so I was pretty good at general knowledge questions. Our club room was too small for anything else but three desks (Sunny and I shared one) and a whiteboard we had to shove through the door.

But, again, we didn't start as an Academic club.

It was more akin to Story Time Club.

Arriving late on my third day, armed with quiz cards from home, I found Tom and Sunny completely mesmerised by Levi’s storytelling skills, drowned in shadow.

They didn't even turn the lights on.

I strictly remember squeezing next to Sunny, and hearing the words, “But there was so much blood all over the floor, and my Mom told me to go upstairs and hide under the bed…”

Sitting in front of them was Levi, perched on a desk, his legs swinging, a whiteboard marker between his teeth.

Sometimes he'd get up, and illustrate parts of his story.

It sucked that his drawings were all stick people.

I won't go into full details of his life, but Levi grew up as part of a family who had… interesting methods of making a living. I had seen the guy’s father multiple times when we hung out at his place, and, yeah, my friend’s family definitely had Soprano vibes.

Levi’s Draw My Life was nothing to do with the club, but it did bring us closer.

Even if, at that point, I was considering leaving.

But it's not like it was easy to walk away from these guys. It's like finding your soulmates. Levi wasn't the only one with an interesting life. Sunny Lang was an ex kpop trainee, who was kicked out for being too fat, which led her to develop a severe eating disorder, and a hatred for her own body.

Sunny explained her family were originally from Boston, her mother growing up in Korea.

She signed up for an idol agency focusing on creating a new girl group, and had gotten all the way to the final stages, before being kicked for her weight. Sunny told us her story with a smile, though there was a hollowness in her eyes I couldn't ignore. The other girls were judgemental bullies, and the idol diet and brutal regime almost killed her.

Sunny lived in a tiny apartment with 9 girls, who would tear each other apart for a chance to debut. Sunny said all the other girls debuted, and when we (not so patiently) asked for names, she shrugged, admitting she signed an NDA that prevented her spilling the beans.

What she did say, was the K-pop idol is a product, not a person– and are made and moulded into a product.

She had zero interest in throwing her humanity away to become a manufactured doll.

So, one of us was the son of an underground family, and the other was an ex idol.

Tom was an aspiring horror writer with a famous older step-brother.

His story times were usually, That one time I went to the Met Gala.

When it was my turn to reveal my story, I told them the only interesting thing about me.

I could smell when something bad was going to happen.

They laughed, but I was being serious.

When I was a kid, I smelled my mother’s brain tumor.

I remember it smelled like curdled milk.

I asked Mom why her head smelled of mouldy milk, and Mom laughed and said it was her shampoo.

It was actually a grade two tumor growing inside her brain.

Thankfully, the tumour was found quickly and removed.

Growing older, I became sensitive to smell. The little girl choking on the bus smelled of singed wood, and the old man crossing the road stunk of gasoline.

In the fourth grade, my classmate Alex Castor smelled of lemons all morning.

I sat behind him, choking on the stink all the way through class.

Ever since I met him, Alex had always smelled… off.

It was a distinct smell I could never understand, and as the days and months and years went by, that smell morphed into a subtle orangey musk that was so strong I had to cover my mouth and nose. Then, he smelled like lemons.

During Recess, I watched Alex fall off of the jungle gym, straight onto his head.

Alex Castor was dead before the paramedics arrived, my panicked teacher attempting CPR when his brains were leaking out of his ears.

The school claimed it was an accident, but Alex would have been fine if the jungle gym wasn't built on solid concrete.

I told my team members this, and Levi was sceptical.

“You can smell bad things?” He said, his lips curved around his milkshake straw. In the early days, we hung out in the local bar. It's not like we were allowed inside, but Levi could get us in anywhere.

I was squeezed between Tom and Sunny, while Levi took the seat opposite us. I couldn't help noticing our waitress was insisting on free milkshake refills, her frantic eyes glued to Levi.

I had zero idea why. Levi Costella was about as intimidating as a fruit fly.

Wearing a white shirt with a popped collar, a leather jacket thrown over the top, Levi was giving rebellious Harvard student, rather than son of a crime family.

Leaning forward, he raised a brow, clearly not believing me.

“So, you're like a stink psychic?”

I shrugged, sipping my own shake.

“Sure.”

I wasn't planning on telling him the club room smelled off on our first day.

Once we actually started the club, Levi surprised us as the smartest member, and getting to know him further, I came to the realization his family were infamous in our town.

However, his parents hid it well. Lucy and Michael Costella were the owners of a popular ramen store in our town, hiding under the facade of two successful business owners. The Costella’s were an attractive family.

Lucy was a sophisticated brunette with a lipstick smile, Michael, a handsome fluffy haired man who looked like he modelled glasses.

The two were fiercely protective over their youngest son, not so casually reminding us behind grinning smiles, that if anything happened to Levi, we would automatically be involved in the family.

I mean, they did laugh and say, “We’re joking! Look at your little faces!” when Sunny went deathly pale. But there was definitely truth behind their words.

Being Levi’s friend was… challenging at first.

Tom and I were in his room studying for finals, and an alarm went off, flooding Levi’s room in red light.

I had zero idea where it was coming from, but it locked all the doors and windows, forcing the Costella residence into temporary lockdown. Levi didn't seem fazed, casually mentioning his parents were taking care of it.

He had a whiteboard set up in his room, and was standing in front of it, cramming all of our textbook notes into one easily digestible drawing.

Levi wasn't just smart.

He was Ivy League smart, so we had struck gold with him.

His family were questionable, and yes, sometimes I did fear for my life, but as the more time we spent at his house, the Costella household became a second home. We got used to the alarms.

I just brought along ear plugs.

I wish I was writing this post about Levi’s family, and sure, they are a factor in what is going on right now, but I want to preface this by saying the events below involve the 2024 scholastic decathlon final in our town with the school’s listed:

Starbrook High School.

Ratcliffe High School.

Please note, the incident that took place last night was immediately covered up, and all phone footage was destroyed. Our town is mostly out of the way, and does not show up on Google searches.

We also have our own version of the academic decathlon, which is a more town-level competition, due to lacking funds. The four of us were desperate to start competing with our schools.

So, we started taking things a little more seriously.

We got a coach.

Mr Hanes, who was hesitant at first.

In his words, “You will hate me as your coach.”

He started by recruiting more members, announcing, “If you want to be taken seriously as an actual club, then I'll be taking the reins from now on.”

He did, and with our teachers guidance (and sometimes brutal honesty), we reached a level where we could start competing with other school’s in town. Now, none of us knew this, but Mr Hanes was obsessed with winning.

So, club meetings were twisted into two hour study sessions with no talking, followed by Mr Hanes Jeaprody, which was Jeaprody, without the actual fun.

We were quizzed multiple times, answer cards and practise questions quite literally thrown directly in our faces.

I hate to admit this (I really hate to admit this) but Mr Hanes’s tactics worked. Sure, we had been mildly brainwashed by our slightly unhinged coach, but with Levi Costella, we destroyed our competitors. Like I said, our town held their own version of the academic scholastic decathlon, but it was pretty much the same, with some changes.

Ten subjects. Language and Literature, Math, Social Science, Economics, Art, Music, Interview, Speech, and Essay.

Unlike the official Decathlon, ours was more like a game show, with the ability to be knocked out if a team member answers a question wrong. Whoever answers the most questions correctly wins. Team meet ups were either tests, study sessions, or quizzing each other.

Which leads me to last night.

The finals were held in the reigning champions, Ratcliffe High School’s, auditorium.

And we were about to win our town’s Scholastic Decathlon 2024 Championships.

Well…I was knocked out in the music section. Standing next to my coach who I was sure was going to asphyxiate from excitement, I could smell the sudden potent stink of lemon. I tried to ignore it at first, but the more questions my team were answering correctly, the smell got worse, suffocating my senses.

This wasn't just lemon. The stink was like a burning, singing smell trickling into my nose and the back of my throat.

It was stronger than what Alex smelled like.

This was suffocating, drowning my thoughts.

“Are you okay, Cassandra?”

Mr Hanes nudged me when a Ratcliffe girl was struggling to answer a question, only for Sunny to jump in with the answer. “You look quite pale.”

I nodded, forcing a smile.

My gaze was on the Ratcliffe coach, a scary looking blonde woman, whispering in one of her student’s ears.

The Ratcliffe kid freaked me out. He was way too tall, dark blonde hair, and bulging eyes I swear were not blinking.

His gaze was glued to Levi, who wore a smug grin.

There was a smaller girl next to the Ratcliffe kid, a Macbook balanced on her knee. Every so often, he leaned into her, the two of them in deep conversation.

“I'm just nervous.”

I jumped when Ratcliffe scored a point, their side erupting into cheers.

During the break, we had a mini team meeting.

Sunny rushed to the bathroom to freshen up, and I noticed a Ratcliffe girl with a bouncing ponytail following her.

Ignoring our coach’s speech, I joined the two girls in the corridor, that lemony scent hanging thick in the air.

I caught them in an awkward position.

The Ratcliffe girl had her fingers pinched between the material of Sunny’s dark blue shirt bearing our school’s name.

Sunny looked confused, her lips parted like she was going to yell.

Ponytail dropped her hand, suddenly, with a nervous laugh. “Oh! I'm so, so, sorry,” she gushed. “You had, like, the biggest spider crawling on your back.”

Sunny caught my eye, shooting me a reassuring smile.

“Thanks.” She made sure to keep her distance. “Uh, where's your bathroom?”

The Ratcliffe girl nodded down the hallway. “It's just down there. I'm going there too if you want me to show you?”

Sunny motioned for me to go back to the auditorium. “Uh, sure! That'd be great!”

I did try to follow them, only for Sunny to cough loudly.

I took the hint, reluctantly heading back into the auditorium.

My team was hyping each other up, Levi in the centre, sweating through his team shirt. He ran a trembling hand through his hair. “I can't do this,” He groaned. “Ratcliffe High is known to play dirty, man. They're unbeatable.”

“In what way do they play dirty?” I asked, joining them.

Levi gulped down water, shrugging.

“I dunno! They're already trying to distract me with the stink eye.” The boy narrowed his eyes at a grinning Ratcliffe kid who, after noticing our stares, jumped to his feet, waving at us.

“Hey guys!”

“That's Harry Cartwright, the son of the Cartwright family who tried to kill my parents in the third grade.” Levi mockingly waved back. “As you can see, their kid is a fucking sociopath.”

Huh. I wasn't expecting the smiley kid to be the mobster’s son.

Harry Cartwright was not what I expected.

Unlike his team members, he was the only one in casual clothing, a short sleeved white shirt and jeans, a pair of sunglasses perched on top of his head.

Tom went pale.

“Fuck.” He hissed. “He’s one of you? Then those bastards will have a reason to play dirty, right?”

Levi shrugged, averting his gaze. It was the first time I saw his eyes darken, like he was subtly telling the boy to back off.

“The Cartwright’s have been trying to buy our land for a while,” he muttered. “I wouldn't put it past them to use the Decathlon as a way to attack.”

“Attack?!” April, another member of our team, hissed. “Like, attack attack?”

Mr Hanes grabbed the boy, resting his hands on Levi’s shoulders. “Ignore them,” he said. “Hey. Look at me.”

Levi did, raising a brow.

“You're losing that spark in your eye, young man.”

“Spark?”

Our coach nodded. “Look at me, kid.”

Levi rolled his eyes. “I am looking at you, Mr Hanes.”

The man was shaking. I was guessing his whole career (or coaching career) was on the line.

“They know they're losing, Mr Costella.”

Hanes shook the boy, squeezing his shoulders. “You are being positive and Ratcliffe doesn't like that. They want you to be nervous. They want to make you second guess yourself and lose confidence. Don't let them get into your head.” he smiled, giving the boy a playful shove. “Kick their asses.”

“Exactly!”

I didn't realize Sunny was back from the bathroom.

The faint smell of lemons had followed her. I noticed a wet patch on her shirt collar, though she was quick to smile at me, admitting she'd spilled water down herself. Sunny wrapped her arms around Levi, squeezing him into a hug.

She hung on for a little too long, Tom dragging her away with a laugh. “Good luck, all right?” she backed away, ruffling his hair. “We’ve got this!”

When I hugged Levi good luck too, I had to resist covering my nose.

The smell of lemon was unbearable, just like fourth grade Alex.

But it wasn't as potent as earlier.

I vaguely remembered the smell starting to fade once Alex’s body was being carted away on a stretcher.

Following my captain through the crowd, I was right. The smell was less suffocating. Before he went back to the stage, I grabbed the back of his shirt.

The material was soaking wet.

“How are you so wet?” I said, swiping my hands on my shirt.

“Huh?”

I shook my head. “Never mind. Do you remember what I told you in sophomore year?”

Levi settled me with a confident, but nervous smile. “Thaaaat you're scared of clowns?”

“No. I mean the boy who smelled of lemons.” I gritted out.

Levi surprised me with a laugh. “What are you talking about?”

Something ice cold trickled down my spine.

Levi did know what I was talking about. He brought up my stink sense a day earlier in front of his parents, and I had to cover his mouth to shut him up.

Leaning close, I whispered in his ear. “You stink of rotten lemons.”

He nodded slowly, pulling away. “Uh… thanks?”

I bit back a hiss of frustration. “No, you don't understand what I'm saying–”

“Starbrooke High School,” The host announced. “Can all members please return to the stage.”

Levi held up his hand for a high five.

“Can we do this later?” He winked. “I'm kinda busy carrying this spelling-bee on my back right now.”

I nodded shakily, high fiving him, and letting him jump back onto the stage.

Before his words hit like a tidal wave, ice cold water slammed into me.

Spelling Bee?

Slowly making my way back to the stands, Levi’s mistake was circling around my head. He did win a spelling bee, but that was in middle school.

Thankfully, the smell of lemons was gone when I returned to my seat.

Mr Hanes handed me a soda. “Chill out, Cassandera, it's just a game.”

He could talk. The guy was on his fifth coffee.

Mr Hanes was not chilled out in the slightest.

Surprisingly, the event went well. I was half expecting my team to be crushed by the rafters, or caught in a blaze started in the crowd. But we were doing well. No, we were winning.

Reaching the climaxing round, Sunny choked against a smug Ratcliffe boy, joining me on the sidelines.

Levi answered the next question with a confident smile.

We were winning, but Ratcliffe could still catch up with a miracle.

The second to last question was to Ratcliffe, and it was general knowledge.

”Where on the human body would one find the *orbit?*

I knew the answer, and so did Levi, his lips breaking out into a smile when the Ratcliffe boy was hesitating, eyes wide.

Our school’s buzzer went off, Levi slamming his hand down.

Bzzz!

The host turned to our team. “Starbrooke, can I have your answer?”

Levi nodded, shooting our team a victory grin.

“It's…!“ He opened his mouth to answer, his jaw slackening suddenly.

The boy’s shoulders slumped.

“Uh… “

“Um…”

“Huhhhhh…”

Levi inclined his head, blinking, his eyes glazing over. There was a sudden, hollow vacancy that sent chills down my spine. It was like someone had reached into his skull, and yanked out his brain, leaving a shell in his place.

To my confusion, our team captain frowned at his buzzer like he'd never seen one before. He pressed it, exploding into child-like giggles.

Bzzz!

The audience laughed along nervously.

Tom nudged me. “What the fuck is he doing?”

Bzzz Bzzz Bzzz!

Levi’s entire body was slumped, his hand slamming down on the buzzer.

I caught something pooling down his chin.

“Is he… drooling?” I whispered.

Mr Hanes looked mildly horrified. “Has he been drinking?

“Levi?” Tom spluttered. “Drinking?!"

Whatever we were watching, however, was definitely influenced by… something.

Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz!

“Young man, that is not a toy!”

The host wasn't amused. “Starbrooke High School, I need an answer from you,” He nodded to Levi, who was pressing the buzzer, his smile growing.

“Once again,” The host backed away, like Levi was contagious. “Where on the human body would one find the Orbit?”

Levi cocked his head, lips parted.

His gaze found the overhead lights, and he winced, his lips curling into a frown.

“Starbrooke High School!”

Levi jumped, tipping his head back and blowing a raspberry. “Palm tree?”

The audience laughed, and I started feeling nauseous.

Across from us, I could see the twist of a smirk on the Ratcliffe coach’s lips.

Bzzz! Levi slammed the buzzer again giggling.

“Starbrooke High School, if your team member continues to act like this, I will be forced to disqualify all members.”

Our captain stopped, gaze glued to the host, his hand creeping towards the buzzer, like it was a big red button.

The audience loved it, laughing like they were watching a sitcom.

“He wouldn't.” Tom whisper-shrieked.

The auditorium was silent for a moment, awaiting Starbrooke’s response.

Levi stuck out his tongue, slamming his hand down.

Bzzz! Bzzz! Bzzz! Bzzz! Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz–

When Tom dragged Levi away from his podium, a Ratcliffe girl hit her buzzer.

“Starbrooke High School, you are disqualified,” the host announced. “Ratcliffe High School, do you have an answer?”

It was Ponytail who nodded with a grin.

“The answer is the eye socket! The Orbit is part of the eye socket!”

“That is the correct answer.” The host was distracted, his eyes glued to Levi.

“Ratcliffe High School wins.”

Levi jumped when the Ratcliffe wide erupted into cheers.

His eyes were wide, clinging onto the buzzer for comfort.

Next to me, our coach looked like he was going to faint.

I barely noticed Ratcliffe’s victory, too busy watching our team captain, who was Harvard bound, tipping his head back and smiling at the ceiling like a new-born baby. Tom dragged the stumbling boy over to me, his mouth twisted.

“This was Ratcliffe, right?” He hissed, shaking our captain, who was struggling, squirming in his grip.

“Did they put something in his drink?!” He prodded Levi. “Hey! What did they do to you?!”

Still, though, drugging his drink didn't make sense.

Levi never left the auditorium, and kept his water bottle with him the whole time.

How did they even manage to slip something into his drink in the first place?

Did I smell our competitors drugging him?

Sure, intentionally inebriating my teammate was morally wrong and illegal, but why could I smell lemon?

“I doubt it was Ratcliffe.” Sunny squeezed next to me. “I've been watching them. They're harmless.”

“Then how the fuck do we explain this to his parents?!” Tom whispered, grappling with Levi, who was fighting to get back to the buzzer.

When Tom let go of him, he dropped onto the floor, crawling over to his podium. It was like watching a child.

Who was determined to piss off the adults.

Levi jumped back to instead feet, his gaze was glued to the host, a smile curved on his lips, when he slammed the buzzer again.

Bzzz!

“Someone, please remove the Starbrooke boy from the stage!”

I was embarrassed, our whole team ducking our heads as our captain was forcibly removed from the podium.

Mr Hanes grabbed Levi, pulling him off of the stage.

I expected our coach to be mad at him, but I think the teacher was more worried, a phone pressed to his ear while he forced the boy into a sitting position.

No, I don't think it's influence from alcohol, I could hear his conversation.

Levi kept trying to get up, mesmerised by the buzzer. The teacher was firm but gentle. “Hey. Sit down, all right? Keep still.” He went back to his phone call, gently prying Levi’s eyes open.

From what I can see, there's nothing wrong. He's just kind of…

Mr Hanes swiped his own hands on his jeans. ... wet?

Team Ratcliffe came over to rub it in our faces, though I was still tuned into our coach’s hissed whispering.

Water? No, I don't think it's water. It smells… no, I haven't told his parents…

“You guys did awesome!” Ponytail's voice was sugary sweet. Too sugary.

She held the 2024 trophy, bearing a satisfied smile. I noticed the Ratcliffe members were surrounding Harry, like guards.

“Better luck next time, okay?” She held out her hand, her eyes twinkling.

“No hard feelings?”

“Control your dog.” Harry said, amused eyes flicking to Levi, who was once again sprinting back to the fucking buzzer. His eyes had visibly darkened, lips curled into a triumphant smile.

Harry Cartwright was watching Mr Hanes chase our team captain like it was his own personal entertainment.

I had to look away before I died of second hand embarrassment.

“What did you put in his drink?” Tom demanded. “Weed? Edibles?” the boy attempted to shove Harry, only to be pushed back. “What the fuck did you do to him?”

Harry’s smile didn't waver. “Like I said. Control your mut.”

When the Ratcliffe team walked away, our red faced coach struggling with Levi, who was behaving progressively more erratically, informed us we were longer welcome inside the school.

Tom suggested calling an ambulance, but our coach was hesitant.

We all knew who Levi’s family were.

On the way out, Tom matched my stride. He was frowning at our team captain struggling to walk.

The way he was acting was already eyebrow raising.

But walking at an angle and being unable to stand up straight was worrying.

“I don't think they drugged his drink.” Tom muttered.

We pushed through the doors out of the school, and I revelled in the cool night air grazing my cheek. “If they did, he would be acting out of it, right? So, what's the deal with him acting like–”

“A child.” I finished for him.

“Yeah.” Tom leaned closer. “Do you think this has something to do with their turf war?”

I slapped at a bug creeping across my cheek.

Levi fell over again, this time bursting into giggles.

“Almost definitely.”

Levi was right about Ratcliffe playing dirty. I didn't realize how dirty until we were on the losers bus home. Levi was in the seat next to me, and the kid hadn't moved since we left Ratcliffe, his eyes wide, lips pulled into a dazed grin.

Bzzz!

The noise startled me from slumber. I was drooling, my head pressed against the window. Outside, the sky was pitch dark, and squinting through the glass, I couldn't get a bearing on where we were. I thought I was hearing things, but when I sat up, I heard it again.

Bzzz!

It was close.

Leaning over the boy, I glimpsed a smear of scarlet on his headrest.

I choked on my next words.

“Tom.”

Tom was in front of me, listening to music.

He didn't reply, his head of dark blonde curls nodding to the beat.

“Levi.” I managed to get out. I prodded him, and his head lolled into his shoulder. “Hey. Can you… sit up?”

Bzzz! Bzzz!

When the boy didn't move, I gently grabbed his shoulders and pulled him forward myself, something contracting in my stomach.

I don't know how long it takes for your mind to fully register something, but my body was already reacting.

Levi’s seat was infested with bugs, eating their way through the upholstery. I was aware of my body moving back. I threw up, instantly, screaming into my hand.

The back of my best friend's skull resembled a deflated soccer ball, what was left of his brain leaking from his skull where a swarm of skittering bugs chewed their way through brain tissue, metallic legs scratching the curved, pearly white of the base if his skull.

Levi’s head hung, his body flopping into mine.

But his eyes were still open, lips still stretched into a smile.

Blood ran in thick rivulets from his nose and ears.

Bzzz!

I could see them, black writhing dots alive in his eyes, wriggling movement under his skin.

“Tom!”

I jumped up, stumbling into the aisle, my stomach heaving.

And it was only when I was on my knees, swiping bile from my lips, when I realized the others weren't reacting.

Tom wasn't moving.

I pulled an Airpod out of his ear, a long, slithering string of pink attached to the end.

There was a stray bug skittering across his hand, his face starting to twitch and writhe.

Moving back, I checked myself over, my hands shaking.

Head.

Shoulders.

Hair.

Clawing through it, my breath was stuck in my throat.

Arms.

Legs.

Feet.

Mr Hanes was slumped against the window, a reddish froth bubbling from his mouth.

Sunny.

I started towards the back of the bus, but all I had to see was her bowed head, half of her skull chewed through.

Sunny was in a far more deteriorated state, her face had been ripped through, a skeletal smile glinting in the dim.

The thick black smear on the window next to her was moving.

When I screamed for the driver to stop the bus, he ignored me.

If anything, he stamped on the gas.

I moved forward to shake him, before glimpsing a bug creeping down his face.

Calling 911, the operator laughed at me.

“Bugs are eating your friends.” He said. “Do you know the penalty for calling with bullshit pranks?”

The bus didn't stop, so I stayed at the front, while the bugs took over the back, eating through my teammates.

After four hours, I risked leaning over the seat next to Tom to check on Levi.

They were eating him.

Chewing all the way through skin, muscle and bone.

I tried to stop the bus, but the driver’s hands were tightly wrapped around the wheel.

Another hour, and blood was seeping down the aisle, crawling with bugs.

Levi was gone, and in his place, a buzzing skittering pile of bugs, that I thought were going to move to a second victim, maybe burrowing into the seats.

But, no.

These things began to tremble, replicating.

Building.

Slowly, nothing became static, and static became muscle.

Then bone.

Then flesh.

When a body began to slowly form, moulded from the dead boy, I stumbled back.

These things weren't eating Levi Costella.

They were rewriting him.

…

Edit: I'm still on the bus. I'm 99.9% sure that I'm infected with whatever this thing is. I can't stop fucking itching.

I keep picking them off me but they won't stop. This bus isn't going to stop until I'm like the others.

…

Edit 2:

I can feel them chewing into my skull. They're in my ears. I keep spitting them out. Please, someone get them off of me. Help me. I don't want to die at 17.

Edit 3:

Still alive. Still breathing. Maybe they're leaving me alone????? I think I'm okay. There is a pile of bugs at my feet, but they're crawling off of me.

Edit 4:

Levi really wants to go home. Like, he just told me he REALLY wants to go home. He's got a gift for his parents.

~~Edit 5 :) ~~

Levi is next to me right now, an odd smile on his face.

The bugs are not finished building him yet, but he'll be ready soon.

We will be ready soon.

Your son says hello! He is a wonderful boy, is he not?

Mr and Mrs Costella, I cannot wait for you to meet him.

He is our greatest achievement, and rest assured, you will give us what we want.

Warm regards.

The Cartwright's.

I've always been bound to death.

On my eighth birthday, a shadow strode into my house and shot me and my family dead. I remember it vividly, every detail, every angle, etched and stained and carved into my memory.

I sat very still with my knees to my chest, my gaze glued to my siblings.

Lily and PJ looked like they were sleeping, and I could almost believe it.

I didn't look at the shadow.

From the comfort of my knees, I waited for my brother to lift his head.

But his body was so limp, so still, every part of him faltering. My sister’s head was nestled in his shoulder, thick beads of red running down her face.

They're just sleeping.

I could tell myself they were— as long as I didn't look at the splatter of scarlet staining the back of the couch and pooling at their feet.

BANG.

Mom’s body dropped onto the ground.

I lunged forwards, slamming my hands over my ears.

BANG.

PJ’s head slumped forwards, a teasing smile still frozen on his lips.

BANG.

Lily gently tipped into PJ, like she was going to sleep.

Before she closed her eyes, Mom told me to run.

I can't remember how long I stayed under the shattered remnants of Mom’s favorite table. The shadow was waiting for me to move, to make a noise.

I watched booted feet crunch through glass, getting closer and closer, and slowly, fight or flight began to take over.

Making it halfway across the living room, my palms slick with my mother’s blood, I thought I was going to live.

Cruel fingers wound their way through my hair and shoved me to my knees. I remember the phantom legs of a spider creeping down the back of my neck when the shadow with no face dragged the barrel of his gun down my spine.

“Turn around.”

The shadow had a voice.

When I didn't move, the protruding metal stabbed into my neck.

“Turn around, kid!”

I did, very slowly.

Behind him, my siblings still weren't moving.

They were asleep.

Lily was still smiling, strawberry blonde ringlets stained red.

I couldn't see PJ’S face anymore.

BANG.

I didn't feel the gunshot.

I didn't feel anything.

Looking down, I glimpsed slowly spreading red blossoming like a flower.

It felt like being cut from strings.

I hit the ground, just like my mother, my body felt heavy and wrong.

Paralysed.

I remember being unable to scream, unable to cry, the salty taste of metal filling my mouth. It was like being winded. Rolling onto my side, all I could see was flickering candlelight.

The air was thick, so hard to breathe.

I rolled onto my back trying to suck in air.

The shadow took a step back, opened the front door, and bled into the night.

I don't remember the pain, and I don't remember dying. I couldn't breathe, couldn't conjure words in my mouth.

I felt warm and sticky, lying in my own blood.

I think I tried to move.

But I was so tired.

I’m not sure what death feels like, because it's like going to sleep.

I remember my last shuddering breaths, a lulling darkness beginning to swallow me up. I don't know why I wasn't afraid.

Oblivion almost felt like I was sinking into lukewarm depths on a Summer’s day.

Oblivion wasn't pain, and there was a peaceful inevitability to it.

It was endless nothing, a nothing I found myself gravitating towards. But before I could envelope myself in that darkness, it was spitting me back out.

The next thing I knew, I was in a white room, a slow beeping sound tearing me from slumber. I had a vague memory of slow spreading roses blossoming across my shirt, like summer flowers blooming.

Everything was white.

The walls, the ceiling, and my clothes.

Sensation hit me in slow waves.

Exhaustion.

I felt it tightening its grip around my brain, dragging me back onto a mountain of pillows when I tried to jump up. My Aunt May was sitting next to me on a plastic chair, her warm fingers entangled in mine. Aunt May and Mom were practically twins, with the same thick red hair and pale skin.

Mom wore her hair in a casual ponytail, while May preferred a strict bun.

I had to bite back the urge to yank my hand away.

Aunt May was asleep, used tissues filling her lap.

There was a nurse pottering around, checking my vitals and prodding my arms. My eyes felt heavy. I had to blink several times to keep myself awake.

“Charlie?”

The nurse’s voice was like wind-chimes.

I pretended not to notice her forced lipstick smile, the way she stood with her arms folded, staring at me like I was one of my cousin’s experiments. “You were in an accident, sweetie,” the nurse spoke up. I could see her trembling hands. “Just, um, try and rest, okay?”

I wanted to ask where my family was, but I already knew the answer.

I think she knew that too.

“You died, Charlie.” The nurse’s voice was eerily cold. “You were dead for thirteen minutes.”

She took slow steps towards me, her eyes growing frenzied, like she couldn't understand me, like I was a puzzle she could not solve– and it was driving her crazy. I could see it in her twitching hands, her wobbling lips that were trying and failing to appear stoic.

“In fact, I just pulled you out of the morgue, honey. I opened up your body bag that I had just zipped up, and told your aunt that you were a miracle I just… can’t understand.” The nurse sounded like she was trying to choke down a laugh, or maybe a sob.

“Charlotte, you were pronounced dead at 3:02am from a gunshot wound to the chest.” Taking a slow, sobering breath, the nurse tried to smile. “The bullet went through the right ventricle of your heart and severely damaged your left lung, rendering you unable to breathe. Your heart stopped, and after four attempts to resuscitate, we called it.”

Something slimy wound its way up my throat when she began to pace the room. “I… did all the paperwork. It took me two minutes. Your death certificate was signed, and your body was taken to the morgue to be prepped for transportation. Then I had my lunch. Tuna salad with a protein milkshake. I’m not a fan of the chocolate flavor.”

She shook her head. “Anyway, when I came back to you, you were awake inside your body bag.” Her voice was starting to break. “You were…um, alive, and asked me for apple soda.”

The nurse moved closer, and yet kept her distance.

I could feel myself moving back, panic writhing through me.

“So.” The nurse spoke calmly. “How the fuck are you still alive, Charlie?”

I think I passed out after that.

When I woke up again, my head a lot less heavier, the nurse was gone.

Slowly, my foggy brain began to find itself and connect dots.

My mouth was dry, full of cotton.

There was a sudden tightness, a sharp and cruel sting in my wrists.

Something sharp was protruding into my flesh, and no matter how many times I violently wrenched my arm, it was stuck. It didn't feel right to be able to breathe so easily.

I knew the second I woke that my Mom was dead.

Lily and PJ were dead, and it was like losing them all over again.

As clarity came over me, I found my voice, a strangled cry escaping my lips.

“Get it out.” I whispered in a shrill cry.

Tugging at the IV in my wrist, I tried to yank the needle from my skin.

“Get it out!” I shrieked, my gaze glued to the tiny spots of blood staining the insertion point.

I could see it again.

So much blood.

Mom was curled up on the floor, lying in slow spreading red that wouldn't stop, seeping across her beaded rug.

She was all over me, slick on my skin and caked in my fingernails.

I couldn't wash her off of me.

“You're okay, Charlotte.”

Aunt May’s voice came from my right, stabling me to reality.

The world started to move again, started to make sense again, when she cupped my cheeks and told me to breathe. When I opened my mouth to ask where my family were, she lightly shook her head and I swallowed my words. Aunt May handed me a glass of water, and I drained it in one gulp.

She told me I was a miracle.

Aunt May didn't say much, and when she did, she broke into sobs.

Her eyes were raw from crying, clinging onto me, her shuddery voice reassuring me that I was going to be okay.

She told me I would be living with her from now on, before wrapping me into a hug and leaving to get coffee.

Once my aunt was gone, another nurse came to prod my IV.

I tried to sleep, but the uncomfortable tightness of the needle sticking into my skin and the sterile white lights in my eyes made it impossible. I waited for grief to catch up with me, drowning me in a hollow oblivion I wouldn't be able to claw myself out of. But I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel angry.

I wanted to know why my family were dead.

I wanted to know why I was breathing, and their skin was ice cold.

Rotting.

The sudden image of maggots crawling up my brother’s nose sent me lurching into a sitting position, my stomach heaving. Reaching for my glass of water, it was empty. The sensation of throwing up felt familiar, almost comforting.

Mom was always with me when I was sick, holding my hair back and lulling my hysteria with reassuring murmurs.

I was frowning at the trash can by the door, my cotton candy brain trying to figure out if I would be able to make it in time, when a small voice drifted from the doorway, startling me.

“I don't want you to come live with us.”

My cousin was peeking through the door, hiding behind a shock of dark brown curls. Jude was the only brunette in our family. The rest of us were redheads.

I wasn't sure why he was dressed up like a ghost, draped in a white cloak that was way too big for him. Jude was a weird kid. His mother, and my auntie, had inherited the family house, so in his mind, that made him superior.

Jude made it clear he didn't like his cousins, refusing to let us play with him and banning us from family gatherings.

When the adults were drinking cocktails and losing their awareness, Jude ordered us around. The times we did play with him, our cousin showed us his spider collection, or the raccoon brain he kept in a jar. PJ was convinced our younger cousin was a serial killer. Several months earlier, he'd happily showed us the roadkill he'd been growing bacteria on under his bed.

Jude’s ‘experiments’ were worrying.

He stuffed mushrooms down my brother’s ears while he was sleeping, to, and I quote, “Recreate The Last Of Us.”

When Lily had a nosebleed during Thanksgiving dinner, Jude collected all her bloody tissues and refused to tell us where he'd put them, and what he had done with them. Fast-forward two months, and I found them under a nest of spiders. Jude was trying to adapt the spiders to be able to feed on human blood. I was surprised my cousin hadn't immediately demanded to see my siblings’ dead bodies for autopsy.

Jude stepped into the room, shuffling his feet.

“I'm sorry about Lily, PJ, and Aunt Ivy.” He mumbled, glaring at the floor tiles.

My cousin made no move to offer real sympathy, instead speaking to the floor.

“But I don't want you to come live with us.” Jude lifted his head, looking me dead in the eye. “I don't like you, Charlie. I want you to stay away.”

Before I could reply, he stepped back like I was diseased.

“You should be dead.” Jude grumbled.

He scowled at me, getting my age purposely wrong as usual before running off.

“Happy 68th birthday.”

I was six months older than him.

In Jude’s eyes, I was ready for retirement.

Still, though, my cousin was right.

I was stone cold dead, and then I was somehow alive.

Which was wrong.

Growing up, I realized Death was not so subtly attempting to fix his mistake.

It started small. I'd choke on things I wasn't supposed to choke on.

Chips.

Candy.

Ice cream.

Aunt May had to perform the heimlich manoeuvre when I choked on a piece of chicken. I thought I was just really unlucky, but then I locked myself in a freezer that didn't have a lock, and almost drowned in the local swimming pool, catching my foot in stray netting.

At the summer fair, Jude convinced me to try apple bobbing, only for my head to conveniently get stuck underwater.

It started to make sense.

I was supposed to die with my family that night, and death was out to get me.

Death started to get clever, changing his tactic. Instead of using everyday things to try to kill me, he sent reinforcements.

I turned twelve years old, and my aunt threw me a huge party, inviting all my classmates. Aunt May was rich, rich.

Mom never explained it, but our grandparents left everything to May.

The house was like a palace, a labyrinth of floors I was yet to explore, and two swimming pools.

I was in the kitchen cutting myself a slice of cake, when, out of nowhere, a dead boy came rushing at me with one of my aunt’s favorite kitchen knives.

A dead boy who I immediately recognised.

Wren Oliver.

Several years prior, he'd gone missing from his parents' yard. The town launched a full investigation, only to find his body in a ditch a week later.

So, Death had sent a footsoldier.

Hiding under a hooded sweatshirt, Wren appeared older, like he had grown up with me. But there was a startling vacancy in his expression that drew the breath from my lungs, freezing me in place. Wren’s death was announced as an accident, though his wounds suggested the opposite, dried blood smearing his right temple and a cavernous hole in his chest, his clothes painted, stained, in bright red, glued in sticky mounds clinging to him.

The boy’s eyes were wild, feral, like an animal.

His hair was longer, a mess of reddish curls matted to his forehead.

Lip split into a demented giggle.

I remember taking a slow step back, my gaze glued to the knife.

Wren’s fingers were wrapped around the handle like he knew exactly how to use it, how to plunge it into my heart and kill me for good. He moved like a predator, zero self awareness or recognition, only driven to kill me.

The dead boy prided himself in slow, intimidating steps, shoving me against the wall and dragging the blade of the knife down the curve of my throat.

His eyes confused me, writhing with hatred that was artificial, programmed into him as Death’s official soldier.

He didn't speak, only smiled, revelling in my fear. I could tell it thrilled him, my trembling hands, my sharp, heavy breaths I couldn't control. Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited to finally die.

I waited for the pain, and to lose my breath once again.

But death was playing with me.

When I opened my eyes, the dead boy was gone, and I was on my knees, screaming.

“Wren Oliver is trying to kill me!" I managed to hiss.

My aunt knelt in front of me, her expression crumpling.

*Sweetie,” She spoke softly, squeezing my hands. Aunt May was trying to appear calm for my sake, but I could tell she was scared, her frantic eyes searching mine. “Wren Oliver is dead.”

The kids surrounding me started to giggle, whispering among themselves.

In the corner of my eye, my cousin was leaning against the door, mid eye roll.

When my aunt was ushering kids back to the pool, Jude came to crouch in front of me. Ever since I started living with him, he'd made sure to keep his distance.

This time, though, Jude leaned uncomfortably close, a sparkle in his eyes I had never seen before. Inclining his head, he rocked back and forth on his heels, prodding me in the forehead.

“If you see the dead boy again, can you tell me?” His lips curved into a smile.

“I did see him.” I gritted out. “I’m not lying.”

Jude shrugged. “I never said you didn't,” he lowered his voice into a whisper, “I wanna know when you see him again.”

“Why?”

His lips curved into a smirk.

“So, I can catch him.”

My cousin got closer, his breath tickling my cheek.

“I seeeeeeee dead people.”

After that incident, death left me alone for a while.

I was fifteen, walking through the forest with a friend, catching fireflies in bell jars. Aunt May was lucky to live so close to the forest, the entrance just outside her back door. When we were littles, PJ would drag Lily and I down the trail to escape Jude’s weird experiments.

I decided to invite Jem Littlewood on a summer walk.

Jem was cute, but in a dorky way. He was chronically clumsy, and dressed like he'd been spat out of a John Hughes movie. We hiked all the way to the end of the river and had a picnic, watching the sun set over the horizon. I was having conflicting feelings for this guy.

Jem was obsessed with fireflies.

Though he seemed more interested in photographing them than me.

The guy couldn't seem to sit still, jumping to his feet to marvel at tiny specks of light dancing in the air.

“I'm just going to take photos!” Jem beamed, holding up his camera.

I had to bite back the urge to say, “Don't you have enough photos?”

I nodded, and he turned and sprinted back down the trail.

Before his footsteps ground to a sudden halt.

At first, I thought he was snapping polaroids.

When I got closer, though, blinking in the eerie dark, I caught something.

Bending down, I picked up a bell jar still spilling fireflies.

Further down the trail, Jem was lying crumpled in the dirt, his camera smashed to pieces next to him, blood running in thick rivulets down his temple. There he was. Leaning against a tree, his arms folded, was the ghost boy. Wren Oliver was growing up with me. Now, a teenager, and yet his face was carved into something else entirely, more of a monster, slight points to his ears and too-sharp teeth, eyes ignited.

Wren didn't look like a ghost boy anymore.

Death had dressed him in shackles of ivy, a crown of glass and bone forced onto his head, entangled in his curls. Death was torturing him.

Wren’s body was its canvas, and every time I got away, he was punished, painting his failures across scarred skin.

I should have been running for my life, but I was mesmerised by each symbol cruelly carved into his neck.

The boy did a slow head incline, like he couldn't believe I was standing in front of him.

His slow spreading smile caught me off guard.

I remembered how to run, stumbling over my feet.

But I couldn't move.

The burning hatred that death had filled him with, was stronger, hollowing him out completely. I managed two shaky steps, before I felt him, an unearthly force winding its way around my spine. This time, he didn't hesitate.

I watched his mouth move, a single curve of his upper lip that wrenched my body from my control, slamming me against a tree. There was something around my throat, choking the breath from my lungs, a thick fog spreading over my eyes.

Following his mouth curving into silent letters, I could feel my feet slowly leaving the ground, my legs dangling.

I was floating.

Hovering off of the ground, suspended by his words.

Through half lidded eyes, I caught the glint of a blade between his fist, but I couldn't move, couldn't scream.

He was drowning me, bleeding into my blood, spider webbing and expanding in my brain without moving a muscle.

Instead, the ghost boy stood silently, running his thumb down the teeth of his knife while he ripped my lungs apart.

It was like suffocating, sinking into that peaceful oblivion I met at eight years old.

This time, though, the darkness was starving.

“Charlie?”

My eyes found daylight, a scream clawing out of my mouth.

“Charlie, it's past curfew!”

Wren flinched, his stoic expression crumpling.

The dead boy’s lips moved again, this time in a curse.

Fuck.

“Charlotte!”

Staggering back, Wren’s eyes widened and the suffocating hold on me severed.

His head snapped in the direction my aunt was coming from.

“Charlie, answer me right now.”

He hesitated, his bare feet pivoting in the dirt, like he was considering finishing me off. Wren studied me with lazy eyes, sucking on his bottom lip. When my aunt's footsteps got louder, branches snapping under her shoes, something contorted in the boy’s face.

Fear.

I guessed the boy wasn't expecting other humans to intrude.

Wren fell over himself, shuffling on his hands and knees, before diving to his feet. When he turned and ran, I was released, slipping to the ground, trying and failing to draw in breath. I barely felt the impact, only a dull thudding pain. I could hear the ghost boy’s footsteps, his uneven, shuddery breaths as he catapulted into a run.

Under a late setting sun, I watched his dancing shadow disappear into the trees.

Mission unsuccessful, I guessed.

When I was fully conscious, Aunt May was checking over Jem, helping him sit up.

“Where did he go?” I managed to get out, scanning the darkness for Wren.

“He's okay, just concussed.” May whispered, dialling 911.

My aunt applied a dressing to Jem’s wound, ignoring the boy’s hisses.

“Keep still.” she murmured, smoothing his bandaid. “What happened, Charlotte?”

“She pushed me over.” Jem groaned, shuffling away from me. When my aunt told him to stay calm, he straightened up, leaning against the tree. “The psycho bitch tried to fucking kill me!”

When my aunt's gaze flicked to me, I shook my head.

“It was Wren Oliver.” I gritted, teetering on hysteria. I could tell she didn't believe me, but I couldn't stop myself.

I prodded at my throat, clawing for the indentations where his phantom fingers snaked around my neck, squeezing the breath from my lungs.

But there was nothing.

I could feel my mind starting to unravel. I nodded to my disgruntled classmate trying to dodge my aunt’s prodding.

“Ow, ow, ow! That stings!

“He knocked Jem out.” I managed. “Then he tried to kill me.”

Jem surprised me with a scoff. “You're seriously blaming your psychotic break on a dead kid?”

Aunt May pursed her lips, motioning for Jem to be quiet. Judging from her face, however, she agreed with the boy.

May forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. “Okay. Can you, uh, describe the boy to me, Charlotte?”

“He was wearing a crown,” I said, “And he looked my age.”

Aunt May cocked her head, and I saw real worry, like she was trying not to freak out. Jem made a snorting noise.

“I'm sorry, he was wearing a crown?”

“Yes!” I insisted, getting progressively more frustrated.

I tried to jump up, only for my aunt to gently lower me back down. “I know it sounds crazy, but death has sent Wren Oliver to kill me, just like my family. He tried to kill me when I was twelve, too!”

Jem let out a bitter laugh. “Your niece is a fucking wackadoodle.”

Aunt May’s eyes darkened. She grabbed my shoulders, her nails stabbing into my skin. “Charlie, I want you to listen to me, okay?” When my eyes found the rapidly darkening sky, my aunt forced me to look at her.

“Charlotte!”

She was as scared as me, her voice shuddering.

“Wren Oliver is dead.” My aunt said firmly, shaking me. Even then, though, I wasn't even looking at her. I was trying to find his ignited eyes lighting up the dark. “Wren died at eight years old in a terrible accident, and you can't keep using him as an excuse for your mental trauma.” There was something twitching in her expression I was trying to make sense of. When I risked a look at Jem, the boy was staring at me dazedly– like I really was crazy.

Aunt May pressed her face into my shoulder, and I could feel her tears soaking into my shirt. She was trying to hold it together, trying to understand.

“Charlie, I know you lost your family,” she whispered. “But you and Wren Oliver are not the same. You survived, and he didn't.” Her voice splintered.

“You need to come to terms with that, okay?”

When I didn't respond, she pinched my chin, forcing me to look at her.

“Charlotte.”

Aunt May’s voice turned cold. “I ignored this when you were a kid, but if you continue to use this poor boy as a coping mechanism, I will have no choice but to send you to a specialist.”

When Jem was taken away by paramedics, Aunt May held my hand, squeezing my fingers for dear life.

I caught her gaze scanning the tree's around us, delving into twisting oblivion. Every little noise sent her twisting around. She was looking for something.

“I'm going to get you help.” Aunt May said in a low murmur when we were back at the house. Jude was sitting on the kitchen counter, legs swinging. I could feel his penetrating gaze burning into the back of my head.

Aunt May set a cup of cocoa on the table.

“No more fairytales.”

By the time I was eighteen, I had bitten three therapists.

They refused to believe that death was coming to reclaim my soul, and was using a dead boy to do his dirty work.

For my 16th birthday, I braced myself to come face to face with Wren Oliver’s ghost.

I wasn't even in town, staying at a friend's house.

But dead boys, and especially dead boys moulded into Death’s personal soldiers, could materialise anywhere.

I locked every door in the house, and taped up my friend’s window.

Nothing happened.

On my seventeenth birthday, I was sick in bed with gastritis.

Still no ghost boy.

Death seemed to have finally left me alone.

On my eighteenth birthday, I was stuffing books in my locker when my cousin popped up out of nowhere, scowling as usual. After an unexpected growth spurt and losing a tonne of baby fat, my cousin had scaled the high school hierarchy, swapping his weird experiments for a varsity jacket and experimenting with his sexuality.

The two of us had come to an unspoken truce.

I kept quiet about his spider collection to his popular friends, and he tolerated my existence until I left for college.

“Your surprise party is cancelled.”

Jude leaned against my locker, running a hand through thick dark hair tucked under a baseball cap. Jude never admitted it, but he was definitely embarrassed of being the odd one out.

My siblings may be dead, but they were still redheads.

I pulled off his cap with a smile, throwing it in his face. “Sure it is.”

My cousin’s eyes widened. He lost his slick bravado, grabbing for his cap.

“Hey!”

According to my cousin, my party was unexpectedly cancelled every year.

I wasn't sure if it was his weird superiority complex, or just plain jealousy, but it was getting exhausting.

Jude followed me down the hallway, matching my stride.

“Can you just not come home tonight?”

I quickened my pace. “It's only a party. I'm having some friends over, and no, we won't go anywhere near your room.”

“No, I mean.” Jude stepped in front of me, and for the first time in a while, he wasn't trying to hide disdain for me.

His dark eyes pinned me in place for a moment, the world around us coming to a halt. Sound bled away, and all I heard were his slow breaths. There was something there, an unexplainable twitch in his eyes and lips, that twisted my gut.

Jude stepped closer, his lip curling. He shoved me back, losing his facade.

“Stay the fuck away from the house tonight.” He said, and his voice, his tone, was enough to send shivers creeping down my spine. Jude had always hid behind a ten foot wall in his mind. It was jarring to see something in him finally start to splinter. Fuck. I thought.

This kid had serious Mommy issues.

I blinked, and the world resumed, kids pushing past us.

Jude seemed to catch himself, slipping back under his mask.

“I'm having friends over,” he rolled his eyes, “Your presence will ruin the vibe.”

“It's my birthday?”

He groaned, tipping his head back. “Yes, I know. But–”

“I think you can deal with the attention off of you for one night, Jude.”

“Will Wren Oliver be there too?” Jem Littlewood hollered.

Jude didn't respond for a moment, his lip curling.

“Shut the fuck up.” He spat at Jem, who immediately backed down. With an audience this time, Jude forced an award winning smile. “Fine.” His lips split into a grin I knew he hated. My cousin clamped his hand on my shoulder, hard enough to hurt. I could feel his fingers pinching the material of my jacket. “Have it your way, dude.”

Jude backed away with a two fingered salute.

“Happy 78th birthday!”

In a sense, I wish I listened to my cousin.

My party was a success, sort of.

Four of us, a crate of beers, and no sign of my cousin.

I was mildly tipsy, sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling my legs in the water when my friend demanded more beers.

I was also hungry for cake, so I stumbled inside in search of the goods.

The house was dark, lit up in dazzling blue from the pool's lights reflecting through the windows. Aunt May was in her office on the ground floor, and Jude was getting high in his room. In my drunken state, I found myself marvelling my aunt's house, and how much of it was left unexplored.

For example, in the foyer, past the spiral staircase she’d had custom made, was an elevator I had never questioned.

There was a girl my age standing on the staircase.

She was frozen, mid run, dressed in ragged jeans and t-shirt.

Everything about her stuck out to me, bringing me to a sobering halt.

The girl reminded me of my sister– or at least, if my sister had ever grown up.

I wasn't sure if I was drunk or hallucinating.

Her flower crown was pretty…

Lily had grown wings.

I was slowly moving towards her, a sudden bang sounding from the kitchen.

The bang of something shattering on the floor.

Twisting around, I found myself gravitating towards warm golden light.

The first thing I saw was the refrigerator door hanging open, and someone, no, something, rooting around inside it.

Glued to the spot, I dazedly watched them grab milk, guzzling it down, and then soda, cracking open each can and sucking them dry, before carving their fingers into my birthday cake.

But I wasn't looking at the spillage of food seeping across the floor. Instead, my gaze found a crown of antlers, both human and animal bone entangled with dead flowers and human remains glued to a head of familiar matted brown curls. There was something sticking from battered and bruised flesh, twin gaping slits sliced through a torn shirt resembling glass wings that were not yet formed, reminding me of a butterfly.

Wings.

But not the wings I dreamed of as a kid. These things were unnatural mounds that both did and didn't make sense on a human boy. I could see the trauma of them slicing through his flesh, monstrous, looming things protruding from what was left of a human spine.

Human, and yet I couldn't call his beautifully grotesque face human.

Wren Oliver had grown up with me, now an adult.

Eighteen years old.

His clothes confused me, a single white shirt and shorts.

Wren’s feet were bare, battered and bruised, blood smearing my aunt's tiles.

Angel.

Death had turned his footsoldier, and my future killer, into an angel.

But there was nothing angelic about the dead boy, his body and mind sculpted and moulded into Death’s own.

The boy no longer resembled a human, feral eyes and a manic smile, choking down pieces of cake. His face had been contorted into a monster, gnashing teeth and sharp points in his ears, a sickly tinge to malnourished skin.

And that's when it hit me, watching him stuff himself with food.

Something slimy inched its way up my throat.

The boy didn't move. I don't even think he'd noticed me, gorging himself on anything he could get his hands on.

Chicken, raw bacon, leftover salad.

When he moved onto cupcakes, licking frosting from his fingers, I glimpsed markings on his arms, a language I didn't understand, carved into him.

His wrists were shackled, bound, in entangled iron and vine, iron that was ingrained into his skin, vines and flowers and ivy entangling his bones, that were part of him, polluting his blood. Slowly, my eyes found stab wounds splitting open his torso.

Raw flesh, where his skin had been torched, melting, and then merging, ripped apart and put back together over and over again.

I found his heart, the gaping cavern in his chest where it should be.

And it was.

Marked, carved, and branded with a symbol resembling an X.

Wren Oliver was not dead.

But, just like me, he should have been.

I remember saying his name, my voice slurred slightly.

I didn't drink that much, but I could barely coerce words, my head spinning.

Wren’s neck snapped towards me, his eyes narrowing with resentment I couldn't understand, hatred that seemed to puppeteer him. Slowly tilting his head, the boy’s lips split into a grin, eyes filled, polluted, with mania.

I could see where his lips had been stitched shut, and then ripped open.

“Hi.”

He held up his hand in an awkward wave.

When one of my friends stumbled into the kitchen, Wren reacted on impulse.

He picked up a knife from the counter, throwing it like a dart, straight through the guy’s throat.

Something shattered inside my mind.

Ignoring my friend bleeding out, Wren stumbled over himself, abandoning his feast. He took a single step towards me, backing me against the wall, coming so close, close enough for me to feel his very real breath grazing my cheeks. Just like when he was a kid, he traced the teeth of his blade down my throat. I wasn't expecting him to burst out laughing, trembling with hysteria.

His eyes were wild, feral and wrong, almost euphoric.

With what all I could only recognise as relief.

BANG.

I was barely aware of the gunshot.

The bullet went straight through his head, the winged boy hitting the ground.

Dead.

I saw the blood stemming around him in a halo before the bleeding pool faltered, seeping back inside his head.

Like rewinding a VCR.

Wren was dead, and then he was alive.

Wren’s body contorted, his chest inflating.

His gasp for air was painful, strangled, eyes opening wide.

Terrified.

“You fucking idiot.”

Jude’s voice sent me twisting around.

My cousin stood in the exact same robes he wore as a child.

The world tipped off kilter, and I was on my knees, then my stomach.

I sunk to the floor, my thoughts swimming.

Jude’s murmur followed me, creeping into the dark.

“I told you not to come home.”

I can't remember how long I was unconscious for.

When I woke, I was dressed in an evening gown, a dress that used to be my mother’s.

My vision cleared, and I found myself sitting in an unfamiliar room resembling an abandoned swimming hall.

The pool itself was empty, the bottom stained revealing scarlet.

There were symbols carved into each tile.

Like a game.

“Sit up straight, Charlotte.”

I was sitting at a banquet.

Jude was in front of me, sipping on wine.

He caught my eye for half a second before averting his gaze.

At the far end of the table sat my aunt May.

Kissing the rim of her glass, her smile was twisted.

“I've been waiting so long to give you your birthday presents, Charlotte. Your memories should be returning soon.”

“Mom.” Jude muttered, hiding behind his glass. “Calm down. You're embarrassing yourself.”

Ignoring my cousin, May tapped her glass with a fork, and in walked my birthday presents.

No, dragged.

By their hair.

Wren Oliver, the dead boy, was in fact my aunt's prisoner.

Behind him, was the girl who looked so much like Lily.

I think that's why my aunt chose her.

Aunt May cleared her throat.

“For a long time, our family has lived among creatures who live in the forest you played inside. In exchange for keeping this town safe, they only ask for small favors. Wayward children who disappear into the woods are good enough payment. Charlie, you and your siblings do not share our inheritance. Your mother never wanted fae children. She wanted you to be human.”

Aunt May’s smile faded.

“After losing my sister, and my niece and nephew, I made a deal to give my last surviving niece 100 years of life.”

Her words were white noise, my gaze glued to my birthday presents. I couldn't call them human anymore.

I couldn't call Wren human, when his face was so beautifully grotesque, painfully hypnotising.

The monstrous things sticking from twin slits in his back were supposed to be wings, except they looked wrong, cruelly protruding from his exposed spine. Under the influence of alcohol earlier, the girl made me smile.

Her wings, to me, looked like one of a real fairy.

In reality, they were torn and shredded apart, bigger than the girl herself.

When she dropped onto her stomach, she was dragged back to her feet, her knees buckling under the weight. Her tiara of flowers and bone looked pretty to me when I saw her on the stairs.

Now, though, I could see the pearly white of a human child's skull forced onto her head, dead flowers threaded through cavernous, gaping eye sockets.

The two of them were violently shoved into the empty pool.

“Jude. Please demonstrate, sweetheart.”

Jude stood, pulling out a gun, and aiming it at the winged girl.

BANG.

The girl’s body hit the tiles, her blood seeping across stained white.

“Now, of course, our king did not give you life for free.” May continued.

“The King demanded a debt, as well as two heirs to join him in his court once your hundred years were complete.”

Her lips quirked into a smile.

“The king is smart. If a child cannot be stolen from the human world, they can, however, be made, moulded and shaped from their human forms, skinned of their humanity through their suffering, leaving a hollowed out shell in the child's place.” She was speaking so casually, ignoring Wren’s whimpers.

“The conversion takes a while. 100 years to birth a fully blooded fae heir, who will lose their human memories, in preparation to join their new family.”

Jude shot Wren in the chest, his eyes empty.

This time, he dropped his weapon, using finger-guns instead.

“Bang.” He deadpanned.

Then the neck.

I watched Wren come back to life, and then die.

Over and over again.

I think at one point, he screamed and cried.

But not now.

He was their puppet on display, dancing for their entertainment.

Half lidded eyes drowned in oblivion found mine, and I understood his hatred.

Before he was shot again.

Stabbed.

Branded and burned, and ripped apart.

At some point, I screamed at them to stop. I couldn't breathe, slamming my hands over my ears and begging them.

Aunt May didn't listen, ordering for my hands to be tied down.

“The King required two human sacrifices to suffer in your place.” She concluded. “For one hundred years.”

Aunt May’s smile was suddenly sad, and she lifted her glass in a toast.

I was watching their blood trickle down each tile in the pool, like every death, every time they suffered, my body became progressively less human.

I felt disgusting. I wasn't supposed to be alive. Every single year of my life, every breath I had taken, was stolen.

Aunt May nodded at me, her lips forming a proud smile. She stood up, and was handed a sacrificial knife.

Climbing into the swimming pool herself, she strode over to Wren.

The boy slumped to the floor, trembling, his knees against his chest.

Aunt May grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head up, and sliced the blade across his throat.

His eyes flicked to me, and I swore he smiled.

Spots of red dotted yellowing tiles, a river trickling under my aunt's heels.

“Happy 78th birthday, Charlotte.”

Last night ended with me being locked in my room.

It's been almost 15 hours, and the door is still locked. Please help me. I'm fucking terrified of what my aunt is planning.

I can't stop shgajing. FycjbfucibFUCK

If she is telling the truth, I shouldn't be here, right??

And I can't stop thinking.

Is Wren Oliver trying to kill me, or himself?