AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"Running is what it expects. It's what it wants," Ansel's voice was steady in the midst of chaos. "Stand your ground, Averill."
"You're not the one it's drooling over like a Thanksgiving turkey." I growled back, as the monster's shadow stretched out toward me, a tangible wave of dread that threatened to swallow me whole.
"Look at me," Ansel commanded, and there was something in his tone that made me want to obey. "You are stronger than this. Than all of it. Your past doesn't define you – your actions do."
"Great pep talk, coach." Even through the sarcasm Ansel's belief in me ignited something—a flicker of disobedience inside the murky landscape of fear. "Okay, so let's say I don't run. What then? Offer it a cup of tea and have a nice chat about our feelings?"
"Confront it. You've handled worse, Averill. Remember all the monsters you put behind bars."
"Those were humans. Squishy and fucking mortal. This thing is... more."
"More doesn't mean invincible. You've got this."
"Fine," I huffed and squared off against the creature. "But if I end up as monster chow, I'm haunting your ass for eternity."
I clenched my fists, my tattoos stark against the ash of my knuckles—reminders of battles survived, etched into my skin. Each mark a testament to a time I'd refused to give up, to give in.
The monster charged, and the world narrowed down to the thunderous beat of my heart, the howl of the wind, and the certainty that I could either face my demons or let them devour me. I wasn't about to pick the latter. Not today.
"Ansel, if I get out of this, you owe me a bottle of your most expensive bourbon," If I was going to wrestle with my inner demons, I might as well get a decent drink out of it.
"Deal," he shouted back and his eyes glinted with that same infuriating confidence that made me want to prove him right and wrong at the same time.
I squared my shoulders and planted my feet firmly on the metaphysical ground beneath me, even as it quaked. The tattoos on my arms felt alive, each line a story, a scar, a victory that whispered of resilience. Fear was a luxury I couldn't afford—not when the past clawed its way out of the grave to drag me back down with it.
Then I spotted them, haunting reminders of my past. Ghosts draped in the gowns of my deepest regrets. My mom stood with them, her image flickering like an old film projection, her sad eyes staring into mine with a familiar disappointment. The air around me was suddenly thick with tension as each figure materialized, a physical embodiment of the pain I had spent years trying to hide. Beside my mother, other forms took shape, each one representing a wound I had attempted to bandage with layers of sarcasm. Like figures in a tragic play, they stood in front of me, demanding to be seen and acknowledged.
"Party's getting crowded," I tried to keep my voice steady. "Guess I should've RSVP'd."
Their whispers were a symphony of regret, each word another weight added to the already crushing burden on my shoulders. I felt their accusations, their unresolved emotions clawed at the edges of my consciousness like nails on a chalkboard.
"Shut up," I hissed under my breath, but they wouldn't.
The ghosts swirled around us, a carousel of despair. Their translucent hands reached out to drag me into the abyss.
"Stop it," Ansel’s tone broke through my self-deprecation. "You're stronger than this."
"Am I?" The question hung between us, both a challenge, a plea. I felt the swell of emotions that threatened to breach the dam of my defenses, ready to drown me in my own self-loathing. "Sometimes I think the universe has a sick fucking sense of humor, giving me the power to rewind time when all I've managed to do is fast-forward to one disaster after another."
"Power isn't just about changing what's been done," Ansel pulled me closer. His eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that burned. "It's about shaping what will be."
"Guess I better start shaping, then."
The monster charged, a nightmarish freight train, and I launched myself forward to meet it. We collided with a force that should have shattered bones, but this was a battle of wills, not strength.
The monster bucked and tried to throw me off, but where I'm from we cling to our convictions as stubbornly as we do our subway poles during rush hour. I dodged a swipe that would have ended this twisted therapy session rather permanently and landed a solid punch. The impact vibrated up my arm, a satisfying throb that echoed the beat of my heart.
I never liked therapy anyway.
I grunted, breathless, and felt the tide turn. Every hit, every dodge was a statement, a declaration. I wasn’t just fighting this monstrosity—I was pummeling every shard of self-doubt, every ghost that dared to haunt me. I wove between attacks, my movements becoming more fluid, more confident.
The beast roared, a sound that shook the desolate landscape, but I was done being intimidated. I’d lived through enough real nightmares; what was one more? If I had any chance to make it out of my head alive, I had to evolve. I had to unleash the powers I'd spent most of my life wishing didn't exist.
If Yorke had somehow figured out how to manipulate his tattoos, maybe I could too. There had to be a reason the universe chose to brand me with a tattoo of each weapon that ended my life and forced me to slip through time. The universe was an ironic motherfucker.
I yanked up my shirt, my eyes landed on the black smudges of ink that made out the gun that the sick fuck had killed me with in his basement a few weeks ago- you know, before I went back in time and sent his ass to prison for the rest of his life.
My fingers scrambled over the ink markings and searched for the tool I so desperately needed. The monster's claws raked across my back, tearing through flesh as I twisted away.
