Page 20 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

Just outside the door, existing, living,fuckinghumming.

Solitary confinement has left me with irrational behaviors. Like creating a growing list of things I’ve learned about my new roommate.

Lyra is a night owl.

I hear her waltzing across the creaky floorboards until the late hours of the night, humming and playing soft, melancholy music in her room. The walls are too thin; they let every sound pass through. When I lean against the headboard of the bed and close my eyes, I’m practically in her room.

So I’ve picked up on her habit of fixation. When she finds a song she likes, it’s the only one she listens to for hours. Over and over again until she’s tired of it. It’s an endless process that my headphones struggle to block out.

Birds chirp outside my window, and a heavy breath heaves past my lips as I run a hand through my hair. Morning has arrived, which means the night crawler of the house is sound asleep.

My shoulders are tight when I slip out of bed, legs heavy as I grab a pair of black sweatpants from the dresser and a white shirt. I’m tense beyond measure, from the fact my face is plastered on wanted posters to the disruption of my routine.

I have lived my life according to a strict schedule since I was young. Not being able to continue that has set me far too close to the edge. I feel more like a caged animal every day. No place to go, no choice but to pace within the bars of my cell.

I’m careful not to make noise, knowing the early hours of the morning are the only time I venture out into the cabin. I have until noon until the creature wakes from her slumber.

Snow coats the ground when I open the door, and the freezing cold weather makes my body shiver. Running has been the only part of my normal schedule I’ve been able to maintain.

Lyra’s cabin is outside Ponderosa Springs’ limits, hidden away in a small coastal mountain range and tucked within the forest. It’s secluded, void of neighboring homes and traffic. I don’t need to concern myself with anyone seeing me and calling the police.

The frozen ground crunches beneath my steady footfalls, my breath coming out in visible puffs. I reach behind my head, tugging my shirt off and tucking it in the waistband of my sweats. The chilly air bites into my fingers, a familiar ache settling into my body.

“You are my masterpiece, Alexander. Look at what I’ve created in you. Structured. Controlled. Perfection.”

I stand in the snow in nothing but a pair of boxers, and my tiny bones rattle. The sound of my teeth clacking together rings in my ears.

“Pain is a feeling. What do you do with feelings, Alexander?”

“Kill them.”

I run a little faster, physically yanking myself from the memory inside my mind, and I shove it back into the dark where it belongs, this pit in my brain that holds everything I don’t care to remember.

I run until I’m no longer cold, until the craving for structure settles and the oblivion inside me absorbs all the thoughts I don’t need.

The warmth of the cabin blasts across my face, the smell of lavender candles that crackle on the windowsills. I place my wet shoes by the door and continue mynewmorning routine.

Snooping around her things.

It’s an even trade, I think. She’s been sneaking around me for years; it’s only fair I return the favor now.

Leaving the doorway and sinking further into the cabin, I see her taxidermy hobby has taken up most of the living room. It’s a mess, and my mind almost splits in half at the disorder, tools scattered across the floor in front of the empty fireplace. A medium-size glass frame sits on the table, and it’s filled with purple thread to mimic a spiderweb, I assume.

I walk into the disaster zone, picking up the journal lying on top of a pile of homework. Her handwriting is exactly as I imagined it’d be—chaotic. As if her pen can’t possibly keep up with all the thoughts in her mind. There are scribbled words across the entire page, forgoing the straight lines, a mix between cursive and print.

Poecilotheria metallica, Nephila inaurata, Chrysilla lauta.

A list of spiders she’s currently interested in takes up the pages. I shake my head, biting back a smile as I stare at her horrible drawings of them and what she envisions for this final piece. Setting the journal back, I make my way through the house.

The odd contrast of healthy plants and animal skull decor is fitting, representing her balance of life and death. I run my fingers along the golden-framed landscape pictures, curious about how long it took her to put all of this together.

There is a stack of books on one of the end tables on my way to the kitchen, and I stop to look through them. The pages are bent, worn, and give the impression that they’ve been read through.

Lady Athlyne,The Island of Doctor Moreau,At the Mountains of Madness.

It’s clear Lyra has a fetish for horror novels. I can at the very least commend her for enjoying classics.

In the middle of the stack is a leather-bound book, black and gold-leaf designs swirling along the front. Curiosity gets the best of me, considering it doesn’t have a title, so I flip it open.

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