Page 14 of The Cute Psycho

"Vanya," I whisper as I see her in the next wagon, leaning into the door. She's smiling mischievously, her head tilted to the side as she's studying me.

I jump up, getting to my feet and following her.

The door pings as the train reaches the station and Vanya quickly runs out. I follow, hot on her trail.

She dashes out of the subway and toward the park across the street. It's already night out, and I find that I'm having an increasingly hard time focusing on her form.

Her giggles fill my ears as she runs across the green expanse of the park.

"Vanya!" I call out her name. She turns slightly, raising an eyebrow at me before changing direction.

It's only when I start panting, already out of breath, that she stops, tentatively stepping in front of me.

She looks ethereal in her long cream dress, her face pale in the moonlight, the scar on her face even more prominent.

"Vanya," I breathe out, the need to touch her—making sure she's real and alive—eating at me.

I take a step further. When I see she's not running anymore, I take another step.

"Brother," she replies, her voice a soft melody to my ears.

But as I lift my hand, reaching out to touch her, my fingers pass through her form. Like a hologram, her smile never falters as my hands claw at her non-existent shape.

I keep touching her, hoping at some point my hands would meet solid flesh.

"Why... how?" I'm stunned as realization starts to flood my brain.

She's not... real. Shetrulyisn't real.

I stare at her in wonder, her sweet face forever frozen in a welcoming smile.

"No," I shake my head, taking a step back. "This can't be..."

My mind is going crazy, thousands of scenarios forming in my head, and none of them pleasant.

My sister, my twin... my everything.

She's dead.

She'd been dead for seven years.

While my brain starts rationalizing this information, my heart—that pitiful organ in my body, useless except for pumping blood—can't bear to let her go.

So entranced am I by the illusion in front of me that I don't even hear the steps behind. I only feel the blow to my head as I'm pushed to the ground by the intensity of the attack.

Voices... I hear voices. But somehow I can't translate them into meaningful phrases. I know people are talking around me, but to me it's only incoherent sounds.

Lifting my gaze up, I see around ten people, some my age, some older, all crowding up on me.

A few of them remove switchblades from their pockets, brandishing the weapons in front of me, all the while saying something. Their lips are moving, sounds are coming out of their mouths, but for the life of me, I can't understand a thing.

Dazed, I bring my hand to the back of my head, not surprised when it comes back coated in a sticky substance. As I bring the bloodied hand into my field of vision, I can't help but become entranced by the blood flowing freely down my palm.

For a moment, the people surrounding me are forgotten. It's just me and the red substance. My senses seem to react to it in such a familiar way, my pupils dilating, my nostrils flaring as they inhale the metallic scent.

I bring one finger to my lips, smearing the blood and tasting its essence. On a sigh, my eyes close, my temples throbbing.

Suddenly, I open my eyes and there she is.

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