Page 30 of Deranged Imposter

“Let me put this in my backpack, then we’ll talk,” I say as I lift my notebook with a crooked smile.

It’s a difficult topic, but it’s best to nip it in the bud.

I can just tell he is going to question why friends can’t kiss. And how it’s a way to show affection, meaning it’s appropriate between us.

He’s twenty-five years old and an exceptional second-year law student. I guess one can’t be too flawless and save some perfection for others. Where he lacks emotional astuteness, he excels in academics and physical prowess.

“I need to talk to you first,” he interjects, but he doesn’t stop me from rushing toward the cabin.

I flash him a thumbs-up over my shoulder, unable to look him in the eyes as my mind races to replay the kiss like it’s a nostalgic film.

Before passing an opened bedroom door, I hear wailing and loud thumps. I half jog and half glance nosily when I get closer. It’s a brief sight; Aquilina bawling into her hands, her wedges splatting mud on the ground as she kicks her feet, and Nate giving his shoulder for her to cry on.

I feel bad for her. It’s not wrong to develop crushes. Perhaps hers is more intense than envisioned fantasies, but it doesn’t stop the spiral of elation in my stomach from flushing my veins.

It turns into fickle adrenaline.

I relish her misery, replaying her crestfallen face when she saw us kiss. That’s another rejection and a blow to her pride.

I don’t understand why I despise her more than other women who’ve confessed and been rejected by him. Maybe time pushed us closer, our red strings slipped from fate’s fingers to knot our hearts, or maybe denial finally opened its windows.

Tension and unspoken issues have been here since years ago, drifting through time as I dance around him. With denial fog cleared from my mind, I see his past actions laughing in my face.

I slap my cheeks, pinching them to assert clarity into the messy thoughts. Quickly running into my room, I shove my notebook into my backpack and slide it back to the wall.

I respect their privacy this time and rush down the hall, bursting out the backdoor and hopping down the wooden steps with record speed.

Mikah stands by the trees, consciously establishing emotional and physical distance. His strikingly tense figure sets me on edge.

I swallow, clearing my dry throat softly before walking to him. My classmates’ attention on my back gradually eases, seemingly understanding the agitation exuding from his intimidating form.

“Mikah,” I whisper and peer up at him. “What’s the matter?”

In the deep, haunting timbre of his voice, there are canines and blades scoring patches of my exposed skin.

“They found Zico.”

Shapes of phantom handprints crush my windpipe—and it’s pretty, the stardust misting across my eyes.

My stomach plummets. Screams of blood-curdling dissonance lodge in my veins as my heart shudders once, skips three thumps, and rips six beats against my heaving ribs.

I can’t acknowledge Mikah, not when the cord of hurt simply snaps into hollowness.

Chapter Eight

Mikah

I’m not a bad apple.

My family tree is filled with notable, stupendous individuals with traits of altruism. Prideful accomplishments are being passed down as inspirational motivation to be better, smarter, and kinder than the last. Some deceased relatives aren’t expressive people, but their compassion manifests in actions instead of words.

My father is one of them, stern and unapproachable, but he does groundbreaking research to save millions of lives. My mother runs several charities and orphanages.

She was better at parenting than my father, but her attention was unevenly split.

Zico, I think with shivering hands, is—

What is he?

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