Page 113 of Ghosted

It hits the floor and cracks, butter smearing across the wood, and I barely make it to the trash can before I’m throwing up so hard my throat burns. My knees hit the floor, one hand gripping the edge while the other clutches the blanket to my chest because some stupid part of me still cares about being covered in front of the monster in my kitchen.

Johnny sighs behind me. “That feels a little fucking dramatic.”

I turn on him, shaking so hard the room blurs. “Get out.”

He glances at the broken plate, then back at me. “Now we’re both wasting breakfast.”

“You killed them.”

“They were crabs, Alice.”

“They were pets, you sick fuck.”

That shuts him up for half a second, but it’s clear from his expression he doesn’t feel bad. His head tilts, and I see the exact moment he realizes this hurt me differently.

The moment he realizes he didn’t scare me, or hurt me in the same way he did in the dark room. No this, this is different.

And because he’s Johnny, that makes him interested.

Something ugly rips out of me.

I grab a mug and throw it. It shatters against the cabinet beside his head, pieces scattering across the counter and floor.

Johnny looks at the mess, then back at me with a slow, mean smile. “Careful. You’re going to run out of dishes before you run out of feelings.”

I slap him.

Hard.

The sound cracks through the apartment, and for once, his smile disappears.

For the first time since he knocked on my door, there’s no heat under the fear. No pull or sick little spark telling me to step closer. Whatever ugly wire he found in me last night, he just cut it.

All that’s left is disgust, grief and some much needed fucking clarity.

“Get the fuck out,” I say.

Johnny studies me like he doesn’t understand what changed.

He knows he hurt me. He wanted that, because he likes hurt. Johnny is the type of guy that likes turning people inside out just to see which parts make noise, but he doesn’t understand this kind. He doesn’t understand that some things don’t make the game more exciting when he ruins them.

Some things end it.

He pulls his shirt on slowly, still trying to look amused. “You can be mad. I don’t mind.”

“I’m not mad.”

His eyes brighten. “No?”

“I’m done.”

For a second, the smile doesn’t come back. Then it returns thinner and meaner, no longer playful, just cold amusement wearing his face.

He walks to the door, taking his time because even leaving has to be a performance. Before he steps out, his gaze flicks to the empty tank, then back to me.

“You still chose to let me in.”

Then he leaves.