Page 26 of Warmer, Colder

Avoiding that section of the curb, I cut across the driveway. He’s just a few houses down, I’m still hopeful I can catch up to him. That little bit of optimism is cast into the wind when I’m once again tumbling through time and space, ending up right back where I started.

I let out a shriek of fury at the realization. Being bound to this property for an eternity is a special kind of sentence.What had I ever done to deserve this shit?

So what if I did some light stalking? Maybe I fucked a dozen or so more people than was socially acceptable? Maybe I’d been envious and obsessive, and sometimes even ruthless in my pursuit of love, but I’d never really done anythingthatbad. I mean, sure, I might have toyed with the idea of murdering Nate. That might not have been my best moment, but I certainly don’t regret it. And most importantly, I wasn’t successful.

The punishment doesn’t fit the crime. That’s one of those universal truths about life though, isn’t it? Things rarely work out fairly.

It’s definitely not fucking fair that I’m going to be forced to watch the woman I loved move on with her life while I’m stuck here rotting.

Fuck her.

I tried to help her, I knowingly put myself at risk, and all she could do for me was plant some rose bushes. Rose bushes that, of course, serve her.

I should dig those motherfuckers up. I should expose her for what she really is. I should show everyone what she’s done.

I should.

My fingers claw beneath stones, sink into dirt, tear it up, make a mess just for the chaos of it. Gathering up as much dirt as I can possibly carry, I get back to my feet. Through the red haze of anger that surrounds me, tinges of guilt sting me as I realize dirt is dropping all over the clean floors, but I continue to Becca’s room anyway. Kicking her door open, I stomp over to her bed and drop the heap right in the middle.

In my eagerness to punish her, I hadn’t considered that she might be here to witness my destruction, but the room is empty. The whole house is empty. Instead of being disappointed, it inspires me further. I don’t stop until her perfectly made bed—with its comforter pulled tight and the decorative pillows piled just so—is covered in dirt. As I wait for her to return, the mess I made seeps into the fabric, moisture spreading into a large damp spot that’s a beautiful sight that turns her comforter an ugly brown.

As I sit here, I take in just how much Becca’s room has changed since the last sleepover I had here. Gone is the pink and white decor of her pre-teen years; it’s been upgraded to the more elevated green and white palette with touches of purple. Soft, earthy, and feminine. Plants and vines hang from the ceiling, butterfly knick-knacks hide amongst shelves, and fairy lights drape from her curtains and headboard, creating a whimsicalescape. It feels like the Becca I knew, but seeing her through this new lens, it’s a little too wholesome for a woman who’s willing to cover up a murder.

The room is cast in the orange glow of sunset when she finally returns, the horror on her face illuminated in red and orange shadows. Her distressed gasp is the cherry on top of my antagonistic sundae. I take a long sip of the furrow of her brows, the fear in her eyes, and the shaking of her willowy limbs.

“What. The. Fuck.” She drops her bag and runs to the backyard. I follow her at a leisurely stroll, knowing she’ll be out there for a bit if she hopes to get it all nice and tidy before her family returns. Hoisting myself up on the kitchen island, I have a great view of the backyard and the rest of the kitchen and dining room where most of the dirt dropped.

“God dammit. What the hell happened?” I can hear Becca grumbling to herself as she works diligently to restore her little cover-up job. Sighs and grunts of frustration punctuate sniffles and whimpers of fear to make a lovely melody that I thoroughly enjoy while she frets over the mess I’ve made.

“If Mom and Dad ask what happened, I’ll just tell them a possum got into it or something. It’s fine,” Becca mumbles to herself. “Everything’s fine,” she says with more finality like she’s trying to convince herself.

Too bad for her, if it’s up to me, she won’t get away with what she’s done. But I’m going to play with her a bit first. I might be the one in hell, but I’m happy to bring purgatory to her.

Chapter 11

Becca

33 Days till Death

The raucous buzzing ushers the next wave of bone-gnawing anxiety. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to drown it out. Nothing good ever comes from checking my phone these days, especially in the middle of the night. It’s a vessel for the emotional warfare they’ve waged. Whether it’s them or the call from the cops that I go to bed and wake up expecting, it’s only going to make my life worse. It’ll only make my anxiety spiral.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.It taunts me.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.It screams at me to pick up.

Buzz. Buzz. Bu—My hand crushes the device in an iron grip silencing the grating noise, which is only traded out for an obnoxious pulsing against my palm.Unknown caller.I stare at the screen with no number. Only the unknown reaching out to me. I want to pull the blankets over my head and ignore it, but the itching that ensues—both on my skin and in my mind—drives me to slam a finger against the tempting green button.

Bringing the phone to my ear, dread pools in my stomach, the waters rising while I wait for the threats to start. Instead, I’m met with a weighted silence. All I can hear is utter stillness, the absence of sound echoing back at me. I sit up, straining to hear the flutter of a breath.

“Who is this?” The shakiness of my words reveals how unsettled I am.

Finally, a faint static fizzles across the line. If I wasn’t so still, so on alert, I would have easily missed it.

“Hello?” My own breathing is ragged as worry builds within me. Several beats pass and they still don’t react. I pull the phone away from my face, confirming they’re still on the line. “Nate, if this is you, this isn’t funny. I’m tired. This shit can wait until tomorrow.” My lip tucks behind my teeth as I wait for the threat that usually comes. But still, there’s nothing. Nate is many things but never quiet.

“Fuck you,” I shout into the microphone. Finally, I get a reaction. They hang up. While the wait is over, the knot in my stomach only tightens. As if mocking me the ominous drag of nails comes from the other side of the door.There’s no escape.

Peace and safety are foreign concepts to me. My life has become a house of horrors that I can’t escape morning, noon, or night. The monsters hide around every corner. They’re in the walls, under my bed, in my phone, but mostly in my head, I fear—everywhere and nowhere all at once.

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