Page 20 of Wicked Little Nightmare

Rage burned through me, and I had half the mind to go finish Bill and Carmen right now, but exhaustion was settingin and my muscles were growing tired. I needed rest before we tackled those beasts. I’d been so caught up in my thoughts, I hadn’t realized we’d gotten home, parked and were on our floor. Following behind Cam, I trudged into the house, tossing the bag of evidence on the counter. We’d burn it at the barrel later tonight, I’m sure.

“Lakey?” Cam said, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You good? You look… I dunno, lost in thought.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking about the next order of business.” Which wasn’t a lie. But I didn’t want him to know about my memories. They were mine and mine alone. For now, anyway. The ones I remembered. He didn’t need to carry my burdens as well as his own. Cam carried me through things that would have broken lesser people, and I didn’t want him to carry everything on his own. He also needed a place to unload and thankfully, that place was me.

That’s why we worked. We knew the pain and suffering we’d endured because both of us suffered in similar strains. No point in trauma dumping on each other when we could do something about it instead.

And Cam had given me a way to get it all out.

“Hey, babe?”

“Mmmm,” he replied, ducking his head around the bathroom door to look at me.

“I think I’m gonna start writing in my journal.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“I dunno. Kinda wanna do something new.” I shrugged.

“Well, okay, but remember that whatever you put in there can be used against us if anyone catches on.”

“I know. I’ll be careful. Don’t you worry about it.” I winked, trailing my finger down his abs as I walked towards our room, before sauntering off to find my one of my dozens of unused journals and a pen.

And so, here I am, sitting at our kitchen table, writing my first entry in this godforsaken thing because for some reason I thought that it might be ‘therapeutic’.I wrote until my fingers were sore, telling a tale about a giant, who towered over a little woodland fairy. Eventually, she grew big and strong and took her revenge on the evil giant.

With a giggle at the fleeting thought that I should write children’s books, I signed at the end of the short story:

Without Regret,

Lakey

Nine: Cam

Finding Skeeter was more difficult than I anticipated. Bugger was slippery as fuck, but it was nothing that a few bills to the right people couldn’t solve. And soon I was standing inside the lobby of a greasy motel, just waiting. Word had it that he had breached probation. Gone near some old ladies or something.

I didn’t even know that could be a condition of release, but here we were. He’d fled his group home and was hiding out with four other sick fucks. Probably all circle jerk to pictures of Aunt Edna baking cookies or some shit.

Fucking reprobates.

In he walked with his beady little eyes darting all over the place before finally landing on me, lounging on the cum-stained couch in front of the elevators. He tried to bolt, but I was faster. It was hard to run when you’re a fat fuck, I guess.

“Oh… oh shit. Cam… please… I can explain…”

I threw my arm around him with a friendly smile, though something told me he didn’t find it all that comforting when his pallor turned white. “Ohhhhh, shhhh, Skeets. Shhhh.”

“Please, Cam. I promise…” He was shaking like a leaf as I led him down the hall and out the fire exit.

“Now, now. Don’t cause a scene. We’re just gonna have a chat. Where’s your car?”

He shook his head vigorously.

“I’m not going to ask again,” I smiled down at him, tightening my hold on the back of his shirt.

“I had to sell it! That’s what I’m saying, I have a legitimate reason why—”

“Fine.” I hissed, pushing him towards an old Camry. “Pop it and jump start. This will have to do.” Scanning the car for alarms, I was pleased to note that it didn’t even have license plates. Probably abandoned.

He did as he was told and within minutes, the door was open, the engine struggled to life and he was standing, waiting for his next order. Fucking perfect.

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