Page 1 of Final Girls and F*ck Boys

1

Cicadas screamed from the trees, their shrill chorus a maddening, relentless drone that consumed every other sound in the neighborhood. The constant noise was as suffocating as the heat. Thick with humidity, the air clung to my skin. Even the faint breeze that occasionally stirred the leaves offered no relief, only serving to remind me of the stifling summer.

The neighborhood was a patchwork of gilded mansions, each one a spectacular cage. The yards were littered with pink speckles of mimosa trees, the blossoms gaudy splashes of neon against the green. They stood out like misplaced commas in a poorly written sentence, their sweet fragrance an almost nauseating contrast to the oppressive humidity. It was the kind of sweetness that lingered too long, turning rancid.

Summer in the rural South was a prison of time, dragging on with a lethargy that made each day feel like an endless drip. There was nothing to do but exist in the heat, sweating and bored, with nothing but my thoughts for company. My adopted parents had jetted off to some faraway tropical paradise almost the moment we returned from Paris, leaving me alone in this sweltering, sunbaked hell. The sharp contrast between thecultured elegance of Paris and the crude, slow-moving reality of this place only deepened my resentment.

I had taken my bike out, more to escape the four walls that closed in on me more each day than for any real purpose. As I reached the highest hill, I slammed on the brakes, my tires squealing in protest. From the top, I could see the road stretched out below me, a narrow strip of asphalt that twisted and turned like a snake. It ended in a blind curve, where the ground dropped away to reveal the city sprawling far below. The brick barrier at the end of the road was a joke, offering no real protection from the deadly drop on the other side.

I imagined what it would feel like to let go, to just keep going until I crashed into that wall and sailed over it, my body soaring through the air before plummeting to the Earth below. Would I hit the branches of the trees on the way down, snapping my bones like twigs as they broke my fall, or would I be lucky enough to avoid them, my body a missile aimed at the pavement? I could almost see the horrified face of some random passerby, their life interrupted by the sudden and violent arrival of my broken corpse.

Would anyone even care?

I wondered how long it would take for someone to notice I was gone. My parents would probably get a call while sipping cocktails on a beach somewhere, their holiday ruined by the news.

Would they feel a pang of guilt?

A moment of regret that they hadn’t been there, that they hadn’t noticed my growing darkness?

Sometimes, the thought of faking my own death just to see the reaction was tempting. I could be a ghost in my own life, haunting the peripherals, watching the people who claimed to care about me grapple with the truth. Would they say I wassweet, kind, caring? Would they invent a version of me that never existed just to ease their own consciences?

I doubted it.

If they knew the real me, they’d probably feel relief more than anything else.

But mostly, I wanted to see how my death would affect Chamberlain, my brother. Would he feel anything at all, or would I be just another name, another memory, that faded with time? The thought gnawed at me, a bitter ache that refused to be ignored.

Sighing, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, letting the blindingly bright sun burn the backs of my eyelids.

I released the handlebars, feeling the bike wobble beneath me as I teetered on the edge of control. With a slow, deliberate motion, I scooted the bike forward with the tips of my Converse, feeling the front wheel dip as I reached the crest of the hill. I took a deep breath, savoring the moment before the fall, and then lifted my feet, letting the bike plunge down the slope.

The world blurred around me as I picked up speed, the wind thrashing through my hair, turning my silver braids into whips that lashed at my face. My heart raced; not just from the speed, but from the thrill of it, the delicious, icy fear that crept up my spine. My brain screamed at me to open my eyes, to grab the handlebars, to stop before it was too late, but I ignored it, chasing that feeling, that rush of adrenaline that made me feel alive in a way nothing else could.

It was that moment, the one where your body realizes it's in danger, that I craved, the flood of chemicals that set your nerves on fire, that made your heart pound and your muscles tense, ready to fight or flee. It was in those moments I felt most like myself, like I had found the edge of something raw and real in this otherwise numbed-out world.

But it wasn’t there yet. I hadn’t found it. I needed more. Faster. Closer to that edge.

And then, just as I was about to give in, to save myself, I felt it: that cold, electric rush filling my veins like liquid lightning, making my skin prickle with goosebumps. I gasped as it took hold, the thrill and terror melding into a single, powerful force that drove me onward.

I opened my eyes just in time to see the curb looming ahead, but it was too late.

My front tire hit hard, the impact jarring through my body as the tire popped and I was launched over the handlebars. Time seemed to slow as I flew through the air, the ground rushing up to meet me. I braced for impact, but nothing could prepare me for the force of it as my back slammed into the brick retaining wall. The air was knocked out of me, leaving me gasping, my vision swimming as I crumpled to the ground.

I lay there, sprawled on the sun-warmed grass, the adrenaline still pulsing through me even as the pain began to set in. It was a dull ache at first, a reminder I was still alive, that my body was still in one piece. But as the minutes passed, the pain grew sharper, more insistent, spreading through my limbs like wildfire.

A shadow passed over me, and I looked up to see a butterfly hovering just above my face. It was a flash of yellow and black against the blue sky, delicate and beautiful in a way that seemed almost obscene. It fluttered down, landing on my outstretched palm, its tiny feet tickling my skin. I watched as it unfurled its proboscis, tasting the salt of my sweat, oblivious to the danger that had just unfolded.

I held it there, offering it a safe haven, a moment of peace in the chaos of my thoughts. For endless minutes, I lay still, letting the sun warm my face, the butterfly resting in my hand as if it belonged there.

And then, without warning, I crushed it.

The sensation was swift, a sudden burst of tension and release as its fragile body crumpled between my fingers. If it screamed, I couldn’t hear it, just like I knew no one would hear me if I did the same.

I opened my hand, letting the remnants of the butterfly drift away on the breeze, specks of dust caught in the sunlight. My breath came in shallow gasps, the adrenaline fading, leaving behind only the dull throb of pain and a hollow emptiness that gnawed at my insides.

For a moment, I thought about just lying there, letting the sun bake me into dust, letting the grass grow up around me until I was nothing but a forgotten memory in the middle of nowhere.

But that would be too easy.

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