Page 3 of Strangled
“Jesus, okay, okay. I’m done.” I throw my hands up in mock surrender, which only makes Cade glare harder. Their eyes would be filled with annoyance if they didn’t already look so full of fear.
“You’re really spooked, aren’t you?” My head falls back against the couch as I follow Cadence’s frantic pacing, their hands on their hips as they go on a spiel about the history of the house I just bought—shit I already know but really don’t give a fuck about. Sort of.
It’s a murder house.
And tonight’s Halloween, which apparently warrants extreme fear and apprehension. But to be honest, I couldn’t care less—much to Cade’s horror—which is why I’m throwing one hell of a party tonight. Costumes, booze, drugs, you fucking name it. Anything to shut out life for a while.
I’m tired of wallowing in my sorrows; I just want to forget it all. And nothing screams a good time like a “haunted house” party.
“Are you done yet?” I ask after hacking my lungs up after a ginormous hit. Coughing always makes it hit harder, and I feel like I’m swaying on the couch even though I know I’m motionless.
“You’re such a stoner, it’s annoying. Allchillanddon’t kill my vibe.Ugh.” Cadence flips me off as they march out of the room. But I notice the way their eyes flicker around as they walk, taking in every random creak and groan of the old house. The front door slams, and then I’m all alone with my thoughts.
Which is just fine because right now, I don’t feel a goddamn thing other than hungry. Speaking of… I amble my way into the too-large kitchen that really needs updating, but I don’t have time for that.
I needed to get the hell out of Cade’s place. They’re great, and I love them—they’re my best friend for a reason—but Jesus fucking Christ were they driving me nuts. Asking how I’m doing every ten minutes, hovering, being all protective. The sentiment is great, but more times than I can count, I just wanted to jump up and scream in their face to back the fuck off.
My dad died five months ago—left me a chunk of money from his life insurance and that’s that. I mourned, I processed, and now, I want to move on—but Cadence won’t give me the chance when they’re nagging me about my feelings every thirty seconds.
Getting stoned is the only thing that keeps life bearable. Cliché as fuck, but what can you do? I’m an orphan now; I get to be a cliché.
When I decided to get off my ass and find a place of my own, I remembered this house. I don’t exactly know why it was the first place I thought of, the idea having come from nowhere, but I knew it was still abandoned, and that alone piqued my interest.
I drove about ten minutes outside of town on the only gravel road leading here while getting stoned before I scoped the place out. It’s a bit worse for wear, but surprisingly upkept considering it’s been abandoned for a couple of years.
Something about this house just felt right. Neglected, deteriorating, and outcasted—just like me. The fit was perfect.
Of course, no one but me understands that. But it’s fine. I own the house now, and I don’t have to explain myself to anyone, despite Cade’s constant nagging.
Yanking open the door to the fridge, I pull out two hot pockets and throw them in the microwave—the only updated appliance in this place, aside from my TV.
While I wait for those to cook, I pour a bowl of Fruity Pebbles and close my eyes as the crunch of each bite reverberates through my skull and sends a warm tingle of satisfaction through me. The munchies are the best; you get to stuff your face guilt fuckin’ free.
A loud thump pulls me from my reverie, and my eyes drag open, my heavy gaze flickering across the room, over the old cupboards and paint-peeled, off-white walls. But of course, there’s nothing there; it’s just me in this house.
Quirking my brow, I try to home in on my hearing to see if it’s another bat, but past the slight ringing in my ears, only the sound of the microwave whirring is audible.
With a shrug, I shovel the rest of the cereal into my mouth just as the microwave beeps. I dive into the hot pockets, making what I’m sure is a stupid ass face Cade would give me shit for if they saw, as I chomp and breathe simultaneously through the steam rolling out of the ham and cheese-filled puff pastry.
Feeling sated, I drag my ass to the couch where I proceed to conk out for the next several hours.
* * *
Hot air puffs over my face. Sweat drips from the heat, tickling my skin as it runs down my temple.
It’s too hot.
Why is it so hot?
I can feel my skin prickle with awareness, but my eyes remain closed, my body still comatose.
I’m paralyzed in my sleep, but that doesn’t stop the unease from sinking into my gut. My heart hammers against my ribs, reacting to the stimuli of panic. Fight or flight—and I want to fucking run.
A touch to my cheek—cold and sticky.
I suck in a deep breath, but I can’t feel the air. It’s trapped in my throat, suffocating me.
The touch disappears as quickly as it appeared.
