Page 73 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

My breath hitched. My grip on the gun faltered.

No. This isn’t real. He’s dead. He’s gone.

And yet—

He smiled. A twisted, knowing thing.

And then he pulled the trigger.

I didn’t have time to react.

The shot hit me straight in the chest, a burning-hot impact that sent me staggering backward. The force wasn’t supposed to hurt—the game was designed to mimic real battle without any actual pain—but this wasn’t like the other hits. This seared.

I gasped, clutching the left side of my chest, fingers brushing against something warm.

A neon ew. The game’s hit marker.

Proof that this wasn’t a dream.

The world tilted.

Then, from somewhere beyond the haze, a voice cut through.

“Clark?!”

Joy.

I sucked in a sharp breath, blinking rapidly as the vision of him flickered—once, twice—before vanishing like smoke.

I stood there, still clutching my chest, still breathing too hard, as Joy rounded the corner.

“There you are,” she said, completely oblivious to my state. “Did you get lost in here or something?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Because I didn’t know how to say, “I think I just saw my dead stepfather.”

Because I didn’t know if she’d believe me.

Because I wasn’t even sure if I believed myself.

Chapter 22: The Rooftop At Midnight

The night air was cold. Sharp. The kind of cold that settled into your bones, making every breath feel like ice cutting through your lungs. Despite having my jacket wrapped around me, the chill seeped through, numbing my fingers, but I didn’t move.

I sat on the edge of the motel rooftop, legs dangling over the ledge, staring out at the town below, sleeping. Streetlights flickered in a distance, casting long, distorted shadows against the pavements. For a moment, I watched as those shadows stretched and twisted, almost human-like, before fading back into the darkness. My stomach clenched at the sight. It reminded me too much of something I didn’t want to think about.

But my mind had other plans.

I hated nights like this.

Nights when the past came crawling back, sinking its claws into my thoughts and dragging me down, forcing me to relive things I’d spent years trying to forget.

Tonight, it wasn’t just the game.

It was him.

The neon-lit battlefield had blurred into something far worse. The game’s dark corridors had become my prison, and the glowing weapon had been more than just a prop—it had been real. His face. His eyes. That eerie, unnatural glow. The way helifted the weapon and fired without hesitation. I could still feel it, the phantom pain in my chest where the shot had landed.

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