Page 3 of Madness Blooms

Two

HER

Ignoring the pain in my ankle, I sprint up the driveway and fly onto the porch. My hands tremble as I rummage through my bag to find my house key. I insert it into the lock and turn it—only to discover that the door is already unlocked. I let out a frustrated, inhuman screech as I barrel into the foyer and slam the door shut.

“Chill out, geez,” Austin calls from the living room as I fumble with the lock.

“Are you crazy?” I shout, failing utterly to keep the panic from my voice. “Leaving the door unlocked when there’s a fucking serial killer running around? What the hell is wrong with you?!”

I can practically hear him rolling his eyes as he scoffs and says, “Stop being so paranoid.”

I slide down the door, my breath coming in stuttered waves. “If you weren’t so busy playing those stupid video games, maybe you’d see the news every once in a while.” I don’t dislike video games, but Austin could be more aware of his surroundings. “Have you done your homework, by the way?” I inquire, trying to inject a sense of normalcy into the conversation.

“Uh-huh,” he replies, barely acknowledging me.

I glance at the clock and realize it’s already 11:30. How long had that asshole left me there? Chills run down my spine as fear grips me once again. I touch my neck; the wound is mostly superficial but no less terrifying. Gathering my strength, I make my way down the hall, past the living room, hoping that Austin won’t notice the state I’m in or ask where I’ve been.

Because I don’t have the mental capacity to answer that right now.

As I climb the stairs, my ankle pulsates. But I manage to make it to the second-floor bathroom and close the door before heaving sobs erupt from my chest. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, my face a mess of streaked mascara and smudged eyeliner. Leaning on the sink for support, I suppress the urge to vomit as I kick off my shoes and turn on the shower to drown out my sobs.

Not that Austin can tear himself away from his games long enough to even care.

I strip, chucking my clothes aside to examine later, and then gingerly step into the shower. Hot water cascades down my body, tears tracing paths down my face, as I try to process what happened tonight. I pick at my palms and examine myself. Although nothing appears to be broken, I notice some redness and swelling on my side that will probably bruise. I’m fortunate my injuries are relatively minor and mostly superficial.

Delicately, I scrub myself, washing away the dirt and grime that accumulated during the violent altercation. The frightening memory replays over and over in my mind, causing me to shudder. I know I won’t be able to sleep soundly tonight.

Perhaps never again.

He’s here.

I clutch my blanket to my nose with white knuckles, feeling like a petrified child. The alarm clock on the stand beside me displays an incorrect time, as if the electricity had gone out at some point. The sound of old wooden stairs creaking makes me bite my lip to keep myself from screaming.

He’s come to kill me.

Holding my breath, my heart pounds as I hear footsteps creeping down the hall. A door groans open, and I realize it’s to Austin’s room. But my relief quickly extinguishes when the door shuts, suggesting that the intruder didn’t find what—or who—they were looking for. I yank the covers over my head and steady my breathing, a task made even more difficult once my bedroom door slides open.

I don’t dare to vocalize a peep as the door is closed once again. Then I swear I hear faint footsteps fading away in the shadows. Am I losing it? I’m losing it.I double-checked the front door and closed all the windows earlier. It’s most likely just Mom checking up on me. There’s no way that psychopath would break into my home.

Earlier, he let me go. He wouldn’t go back on that …

Right?

I try to assure myself that whoever is in my room is my flesh and blood—even though a traitorous voice reminds me she has not taken the time to visit me after work since I was seven.

I can’t stop trembling. I turn, pretending to adjust my position in my sleep, using the blanket as a makeshift pillow. The silence returns, and I feel myself drift off as phantom lips plant an affectionate kiss on my forehead.

Make it quick.

My eyes flutter open, and I rub the sleep from my eyes. The previously flashing red numbers on my alarm clock are now set correctly, showing it’s 10:34. I take a moment to gather my thoughts and reflect on the events of last night. It must have been a dream, I reason, refusing to entertain any other possibility. Because the alternative is too horrifying to even consider.

If I want to move forward, I have to pack it all down into a tiny box in the back of my head. I refuse to be labeled the freak—theweirdo, all because I have flashbacks and lose myself to panic attacks in public.

I glance at the posters of Hole, Nirvana, and a few other bands that are taped to the wall across the room. Kyla hooked me up with them through her job at Arbor Spins, along with Hole’s newest album and a matching shirt. Memories of the mall, the walk home, and everything else rushes back, sending my mind spiraling. Self-consciously, I touch the spot on my throat where that psycho sliced me.

Pushing back the tears, I carefully get out of bed, making sure not to put too much weight on my ankle. The brace I wore last night appears to have provided some relief, but I should still be careful for at least a few more days. If anyone asks, I can always blame it on being accident-prone.

But I will never,evertell the truth.

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