Page 9 of Strangled
“Jesus, he’s obnoxious,” I say as a way of explanation for my jump scare. Iris rolls her eyes and switches to the next song, something by Ice Nine Kills.
“Doesn’t help you’re stoned out of your mind.”
“I’m not fucking high enough,” I laugh as I reach for my bong.
The hammering on the door amplifies, and Cade shoulders past us. “I guess I’ll fucking get the door,” they grumble, disappearing around the corner. I’m still chuckling absentmindedly as a large group of people filter into the room, quickly filling the wide, open space with their chatter.
I take a rip, holding the smoke in my lungs until they burn. “Lyken, why am I not surprised you bought this creepy ass place?” Sebastian and I do a semi-awkward bro hug, his large arm around my shoulder almost engulfing my frame—and I’m not a small dude. He kind of reminds me of that one buff, jock character from a vampire movie I saw years ago, especially with his baseball shirt and the bat he’s carrying… are those fuckingeggsin his hand?
“Eh, you know me,” I spread my arms out. “Nothin’ fazes me.”
“Sure, sure, man.” He pulls me tighter against him before letting go. The door slams open, sending a deep thud vibrating throughout. My head snaps to the noise, my heart lurching. I suck in a deep breath and press my hand against my throat. My heart’s just gonna fucking stop beating if this keeps happening.
Before anyone can notice my unwarranted reaction, I down a cup filled with God knows what, fighting a grimace as the overly sweet, burning alcohol slides down my throat.
“Jesus, what the fuck was that?” I scowl, staring into the cup.
“UV Blue,” Cade snickers beside me. I flip them off, rolling my eyes. Footsteps thunder above us. Cade and I both strain our necks as we look up. They side-eye me.
“I locked the door,” I reassure them. They nod before someone I don’t recognize comes up beside them with a smile. They start a conversation I’m not privy to, so I turn away to make a drink—which is really just a cup full to the brim with…
I pick up the bottle and squint my eyes as I try to read it in the dim light. Cheap ass whisky. It’ll do.
Leaning on the table, I sip my drink as the house slowly fills with more and more people. The usual chill in the room disappears as the temperature spikes due to body heat. Sweat trickles down my spine, the warmth from the alcohol sitting in my gut only adding to my fervid skin.
“All right, bitches!” Iris’s voice booms out through the speakers. “Let’s get fucked in the murder house!” A bellow of whooping and hollering shakes the walls and the floors as everyone jumps and screams to the music blaring.
I fight a grimace, unease coiling in my gut. My eyes slowly take in the congested room, to the dense fog from the machine circulating through the air and the hands raised high, drinks clasped lazily as the music deafens my ears.
The low, orange glow from the lights sends a dim, distorted shadow across people’s faces. Eyes are already at half-mast—inebriation setting in.
I can’t hear anything other than the dull roar of the party—and that has me swallowing the lump in my throat.
Over the last couple of days, I’ve grown used to the eerie silence, to the unusual sounds this house emits, and now that those are masked by the presence of other people, I wish I never threw this fucking party.
FOUR
My chest rises and falls rapidly, my hot breath blowing back in my face, causing a bead of perspiration to trickle down my temple. My nails are sunk deep in the porous wood, the splinters embedding in my nail bed bringing me nothing but more agitation as I watch people fill my house.
I’ve been watching my stranger for days, unable to withstand the compulsion to follow his every movement, to watch him as he moved into my house and took up pieces of my space. Sometimes when my eyes close, I picture him with me in my attic, dangling so beautifully next to me while my friends and I play with him.
The vision of our ending is enough incentive to stay hidden while I allow myself to watch him without interference, to imagine many scenarios between the two of us, how differently each one could play out.
I never had this freedom before—the desire towant, to plan.
With… them, it was never anything more than desperation—the will to survive.
I pull away from my hole, my eyes unconsciously flicking down to my mutilated arm, one of the only parts of my defacement I can see without a mirror. The damage has healed marginally over the years, but the disfiguration is permanent. Gnarly, heavily textured scars twist from the back of my hand and up my arm, where they disappear underneath my shirt.
My fingers brush my cheek on instinct. The moment they come into contact with the equally disfiguring scars there, I pull back as if I was stung.
Breath funnels in and out of my nose in time with every rise and fall of my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily as I force myself to replay their eternal damnation.
Blinding hot pain.
All I can feel, breathe, live, is pain.
But those words aren’t even close to being accurate enough to describe the agony of having your very own mother toss boiling water on you while you sleep.
