Page 67

Panic shreds my chest with vicious claws as I run down the street and away from the canal. My feet pound the sidewalk in a punishing rhythm, the tight black leather of my boots constricting my feet and rubbing my ankles raw. They aren’t designed for this, but I can’t stop. Even when my lungs are screaming at me to, I can’t. I push, and push, and push.

As I come into downtown Salem, the panic swells further, exacerbated by the press of brightly colored bodies. Greens and oranges and purples, children laughing and screaming and darting out in front of me.

It was stupid of me to come this way with Halloween looming, but with no real destination in mind other than away, I keep going. Every brush of another person against me feels like agony, hot needles pressing into my skin. Every kiosk of artisan goods and handmade treats bellows about their wares, too many sounds, too many scents, too many people.

A man on stilts dressed as Jack Skellington leers at me as I pass, my attempt at avoiding contact making me collide with someone else. They gasp as they drop their food on the ground, but my legs are carrying me away before I can get an apology out.

It’s never-ending, a funhouse that’s no fun at all.

The crowd blessedly disperses as I come to the end of the street, so I start running again.

I push until my eyes start watering.

Until my nose starts bleeding.

Until my vision slips sideways and my body veers off the path.

Twigs snap under my boots as I stagger into a heavily wooded area, collapsing against a nearby tree. The bark scrapes at my skin, a welcome addition of pain to the fire burning in my chest and my throat.

I gasp for air, sweat slipping off my brow and dripping into my eyes. I can’t stop thinking about what Delphine said—that I was capable of doing that to Bellamy.

I know that I didn’t kill the deer; the state of decomp is a testament to that. I would never harm an animal willingly, and I treat my work with respect, always. Sure, I was a scrappy asshole at school, but I would never, ever harm Bellamy like that. I’d rather cut off my hands.

Shakily, I look down at them, blinking to clear my blurry vision. They’re spattered with dried mud, but it’s hard to tell about the blood because I automatically swiped at my nose when it started dripping.

Closing my eyes, I try to think, try and remember what I did. I don’t remember getting out of bed, or leaving the apartment. I don’t⁠—

It’s only a matter of time. We reap what we sow.

I wince as the voice roves through my mind again. My fingers dig into the flesh of my scalp as I growl “Fuck off” through clenched teeth.

We reap what we sow.

I smack my head backward into the rough bark of the tree, willing the voice to go away. Once, twice, three times.

We reap what we sow.

“FUCK!” I push myself to my feet again, my legs leaden. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?”

My shoulders rise and fall with the effort of my labored breathing as I spin in a slow circle. To my horror, there’s a small child standing with their dog on the end of a pink leash.

“Mommy, he’s scaring me,” the child cries, the dog whimpering and nudging her legs. Leaves crunch, and then the mother comes into view. Understandably, she looks at me like I’m crazy, tucking her child into her side and hurrying away.

I need to get the blood off.

I pivot on the balls of my feet and stagger deeper into the woods, until the dampening ground gives way to a bubbling stream. Dropping to my knees, I plunge my hands into the icy water, splashing it over my face and neck to get rid of the grime. Fear keeps my eyes glued shut. I don’t want to look at anything that might reflect a twisted version of myself.

That doesn’t stop something from reaching out of the water and touching my flesh.

I’m up on my feet in an instant, tearing my way through the woods until time slips away.

I come to, violent and gasping, sprawled on the ground in a pocket of moonlight.

The moon is bright and plump overhead, dripping silver onto the damp ground. Something tickles my thigh, and it takes me a second to realize it’s my phone buzzing angrily. I slip my numb fingers into my pocket and drag it out, the screen flaring to life with offensive brightness.

Lara: 15 missed calls

Séverin: 8 missed calls