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“Escape?” I echo.
I wasn’t in danger.
Was I?
My mouth dries, making it difficult for me to swallow as I remember the events.
When I lifted his mask and his blade pressed against my throat, was he planning to kill me there? If I hadn’t hooked up with him, would he have sliced me open or sank his knife into my body until I stopped breathing? My mind runs through the gory scenarios, and my blood freezes in my veins, leaving me frozen solid in front of my friend.
Her lips move, but the words don’t reach my ears. I blink and shake my head, commanding my senses to react. Whatever she’s saying seems important.
“The killer, Sadie. How did you escape him?”
Saliva gets stuck in my throat.
I press a hand on my abdomen, and while the shirt prevents me from touching skin, I think about his semen smeared over it. It’s not an answer I can give her.
“I don’t know,” I respond, keeping the truth inside. “I thought he was a scare actor, so I ran.”
“You ran?”
I nod absently.
“I ran. He never caught me,” I lie.
* * *
The cops interrogate me three times before taking Jen and me to the hospital, even when we’re both unharmed. Part of the protocol, they say. Something they got to do to make sure I wasn’t harmed.
Though I don’t want it, I endure the lengthy procedure as I reflect on what happened. I went into Slashed and hooked up with a scare actor, except he wasn’t who I thought he was.
He’s a killer.
I was in danger, and my messed-up brain never acknowledged what was going on. I’ve invented a new level of clueless and stupidity. Yet… that somehow saved me? He had a knife against my neck the entire time. He could’ve killed me, but he didn’t. Not even when we were done.
The slasher seems to have spared my life because I fucked him. Is that what happened?
I think that’s what shocks me the most. I don’t believe it to be possible.
He had plenty of opportunities to stab me or slit my throat, but he didn’t. I’m not trying to romanticize that he allowed me to live. I’m not special. I was bold, sure, but was that enough to make it worth his while? I mean, obviously, there’s the part where I let him fuck my brains out, too.
But it makes no sense for him to spare my life, especially when I have sufficient evidence on my body to help identify him. I still have his dried semen on my skin. It’d only take a conversation with a nurse at the hospital and a sample collection for them to gather his DNA. However, to do so, I’d have to blurt out the truth I’ve been denying the entire night.
I’m not sure why, perhaps it’s shame or a messed-up urge to protect him because he let me live, but I don’t tell the cops about our encounter. How would I even come clean about what happened?
Hi, remember when I denied having close contact with the killer? I lied because the reality is I know what he feels like, seeing as I had his cock inside me.
It wouldn’t go well.
I could aid with the investigation if I spoke up. Silver Mask killed four people tonight; I should help to get him behind bars. It’d be the morally correct thing to do. But the words never abandon my lips, not even when the doctors check me and confirm there’s nothing wrong with me. I haven’t been harmed, and my only aches come from when Steve slammed into me and from the rough sex I had.
I never mention the latter.
Especially not when we’re allowed to see Nance for a few minutes, as they’ll be keeping her at the hospital through the night for observation. Two surveillance officers stand at the hall in case Silver Mask plans to come back and finish the job.
My beautiful sunshine friend has a row of stitches along her jaw, crossing her chin where the skin split open. Her eyes blink a few times when she spots us around her bed and a soft smile curves across her lips.
I caress the blood-stained golden curls resting on her shoulders. Jen walks to the other side and gently holds her hand.
