Everyone files out of the classroom in knots of three and four, talking heatedly about their projects, arguing over what should happen and who should write what. I get up and snatch my shit off the desk, nearly boiling over when I catch sight of the stupid fucking friendship bracelet tied tightly around my wrist again.
“Email me what you got down,” Chase says softly. “I’ll work on it tonight.”
I grunt in response. There are too many weird thoughts bouncing around inside my head for me to construct an intelligible response. I want to be a dick and fire back some sort of shitty retort, but all my brain comes up with is the command:
“You’re not working on shit tonight. You’re coming to the house.”
She just blinks.
“Did you hear me?”
She nods.
“Eight-thirty. Come in and straight up the stairs. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Say yes if you understand.”
Whatever anxiety gripped her when Jarvis told her to stay back releases her. I watch her shoulders relax as she looks up at me, eyes clear as refined honey, and then says, “Yes.”
25
PAX
* * *
I sit in my dark room to finish off the chapter. I have a perfectly good desk, but it seems only right to shut myself away when I want to create. Both my photography and my words are personal, private things. It’s safer to open myself and bleed out my art in a small space like this, controlled, secreted away from the world, where no one can witness the fucked-up mess that seeps out of me.
I don’t think about the fact that Chase will be reading my words soon. I only think about the sentence that I’m working on, and then the one that follows, and the one that comes after that. Soon, the first chapter’s finished. Two and a half thousand words. The main protagonist is Leo. Twenty-three years old. Murderer. His victims range from innocent, sweet blondes with pretty smiles to grumpy old men. His motives aren’t clear until the end of the chapter, when he shares a secret with the reader: his victims are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Leo sits at a specific bench on a specific street, every Tuesday, and he waits, staring at his watch. The moment the watch’s hands reach 12.27 pm, Leo looks up. Occasionally, he has to wait. The street he sits on is residential, and sometimes no one comes along for hours. It’s a Tuesday, after all, in the middle of the day. People are at work, or running errands, or having lunch with their friends. But Leo is patient. Leo waits. And eventually, someone comes along. They always come. The first person he sees once the hands on his watch strike 12.27 is doomed to die.
The chapter ends with Leo panting over the body of the runner he’s just killed, the stranger’s blood sticky and drying on his skin, and I wonder if I’ve described the gore in enough detail to fuck with Chase’s head. She’s not squeamish, I don’t think. She didn’t seem to be grossed out by her own injuries at the hospital.
I want to horrify her. I wanna creep her out. I want to make her think twice about doing this stupid writing challenge with me. But reading over what I've written, the content doesn't seem that bad anymore. Leo’s depraved urge to kill is messed up and dark, sure. The front row seat I've given the reader seems like it would make most people uncomfortable, but Chase tried to kill herself, for fuck's sake. How dark is her mind, to contemplate doing that?
Sighing, I open up a new document and start over. This time, I don't even think about the words that I'm putting down on the paper. I just write. Horror scales my spine as I realize which story I'm unleashing onto the world. It’s the dream I used to have as a kid. A night terror. The words flow out of me, fingers flying across the keyboard, as I describe the maze I used to find myself trapped in. I note the cold, and the rolling nausea in the pit of my stomach, and the pounding of my heart in my ears as I run. I paint a vivid, hopeless picture of my never-ending panic to escape the damp, dark, and shadowy construct. The looming creatures that lurk around every corner. The fear and the explosion of adrenalin when one of them captures me and rips a little piece of my soul away with their jagged claws before I pull myself free from their grasp.
I don't explain that this was once a horror show that plagued me every night. I write it down like it's the beginning of a story. The main character knows the maze intimately and knows precisely which turns he needs to take in order to get out. When he rounds a corner and is faced with one of his demons, he evades it and continues on unscathed. At the end of the chapter, he sees the mouth of the maze directly ahead of him, fast approaching as he runs, and then he does something that the childhood version of me never did: he actually gets out.
This first chapter isn't as long as the introduction to the serial killer story. It's just shy of two thousand words, but I like the language. I like that, even though the unnamed boy gets out, the piece is suspenseful and full of dread. And so fucking what if it doesn't scare Chase? I've given her very little clue as to where she's supposed to take the story from here. I haven't given her any indication about what kind of story this should be, now that the guy without a name is safe from danger. Honestly, I'm intrigued to see what direction she'll take it in next.
I fire it over to her email before I can second guess myself and send the serial killer chapter instead. I've never told anyone about the dream. Like Theseus, that maze used to be my own personal hell. I was stalked down its dank, winding pathways every night, chased and captured by hellish monsters, each of which were more terrifying than the last. They would always catch me. They would steal a piece of me and swallow it down, eating away at me night after night.
They did it until there was nothing of me left.
Then, and only then, did the night terrors stop.
26
PRES
* * *
“He didn’t do it to upset you. He was just looking after your best interests. It’s best that we’re aware of this kind of thing, Presley. We can’t give you the help you need if we have no idea that you’re struggling.”
I’d looked Jarvis dead in the eye and grimaced. “I’m not struggling. I’m fine. The whole thing was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt myself like that. I don’t even cut myself normally. I just…I had one bad night, and I wanted a release. That bad day ended weeks ago and I’m totally fine now. You don’t…you don’t need to baby me. I’m totally fine, I promise.”
My promise wasn’t worth shit with Jarvis, though. I could tell. She was dubious at best, and thought I was an outright liar at worst. Her expression had said it all.
“Even so. I’ll pop by later, around eight, before you should be getting ready for bed. It’ll be quick. I’ll just see how you’re doing and if you need anything, and that’ll be that. I’ll know I’ve done my duty. I can confirm with your dad that you’re okay, and everyone will be happy.”
“No, they won’t. I won’t be happy. I’ll be seriously pissed that my privacy is being invaded, yet again.”
She’d given me a sorry look, like she sympathized but there wasn’t really much she could do, under the circumstances. “I’m sure it’ll only be for a week or so. Once your dad’s gotten used to you being back here, this kind of thing won’t be necessary. Just give him time to get used to it and everything will be fine, Presley. In the meantime, I’ll see you at eight, okay?”