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“Maybe, you know I wouldn’t be able to kill you.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could. If you genuinely wanted to, you could end this right now with just a simple slice,” he says, grabbing my fist wrapped around the hilt of the knife, and without giving it any importance, he places it against his throat. I choke back a distressed moan, completely horrified at the idea of harming him. What if he uses my hand to kill himself? “But I’m taking a page out of your book and trusting that you won’t kill me.”
“I didn’t know I was trusting you with my life at the house,” I remind him with a nervous edge.
“I think part of you always knew the knife was real.”
My chin trembles.
Because I did. Despite of everything I’ve tried to convince myself of, I knew the blade was real, and I loved it.
Unable to hide the truth any longer, I drop the knife, letting it fall to the floor with a clang. Like a dam cracking under the pressure, I break into wild tears, shamefully crying in front of him. The sobs rip my chest apart one by one, gutting me from the inside out.
His arms engulf me in a pacifying hug, serving as a refuge from reality. He moves me to his lap, and I straddle him, finding a more comfortable position as my pain spills from me.
“What am I doing?” I sob against his chest. “I’m losing my mind.”
It should be fucked up how safe I feel between his arms, like nothing in the world could harm me as long as I remain protected by him.
“I’ve got you. It’s okay, let it out, darling.”
And I do.
I cry out harder, evicting the pain and exhaustion inhabiting me. Every tear I spill is another part of me I mourn. As much as I want it, I can’t go back to being the same girl who was excited to attend a haunted house attraction. I’ll never be the same person who hadn’t faced death and danger.
And I grieve for the woman she could’ve become.
As I lose the old Sadie, I welcome the version of me who finds solace in the arms of a killer. I think I always hid her in the gruesome parts of my brain, waiting for the perfect opportunity to eclipse my heart with its darkness. I’m freeing the obscure wolf living inside of me. I find it poetic that I experience the rebirth of my soul, entirely naked in his embrace.
“My brave final girl.”
Keeping my eyes closed, I brace my forehead against his, feeling the feathery touch of his warm breath over my lips. For the first time since he appeared, I realize I miss the rubber texture of his mask because he’s not wearing it.
“You’re not wearing your mask,” I whisper, more to myself than for him.
“It serves a purpose. I didn’t come here for that reason.”
“Killing?”
Gently, his nose nuzzles mine as he moves his head downward into a nod.
“Yes, the mask is only for killing, which is why I’ll never wear it around you.”
My breath hitches.
“Do you promise?”
“I promise, darling,” he mumbles, leaning in to kiss my tears away, drying the skin with his lips.
It’s a gentle act, full of devotion.
An unwavering sense of relief sets in the pit of my stomach, dissipating the tension accumulated in my muscles. All reason abandons me, and I’m left in a shell of iridescent bliss.
This stranger, a cold-blooded killer, is my ataraxia.
Delicately, I lift a hand to touch his face, memorizing every crease and texture. The skin of his forehead is soft and free of blemishes. Thick brows arch over his eyes, followed by long lashes. I’ve always found it amusing, if not a little irritating, that men always seem to have longer lashes than women.
I smile and continue my journey, discovering what his appearance is like without seeing his features. Intimacy is born in bizarre places. Sometimes we rely too much on what we can see, rather than getting to know another person by our other senses. Touching, smelling, tasting, listening.
