Page 5 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

I type half the message, then think better of it. I don’t want to tell my best friend over a text that I don’t want her over here so that she can sit and tell me it’s going to be okay. That things will get better.

Not when she was so hell-bent on me staying away from Thatcher in the first place. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have done the same thing in her position, but she only had surface-level information when it came to my situation.

Which, admittedly, is my fault, but he made me promise. What happened between us was to stay quiet. I would take protective Briar over Thatcher seeing me as disloyal.

I let myself stare into the void for another moment longer before wincing as I looked over at my nightstand, which does, in fact, have way too many plastic containers littering it.

I can’t even feel embarrassed as I look at the state of my room. The hanging and potted plants scattered around in desperate need of water, dust coating the shelves that hold different taxidermy items, trash on the floor, clothes thrown about.

The only thing I’ve had the energy to do is feed Alvi. His two-story terrarium is the cleanest thing in my home. I’m better at taking care of my white king snake than myself.

Forcing myself to sit up, I kick a pair of dirty jeans across the room as I walk quietly to my closet, admiring what used to be my safe haven of a room, now turned into a tornado of depression.

It’s the last space in the cabin I had remodeled. I’d curated every inch, taking my time to thrift every golden picture frame that showcases different bug species. I bought several different animal skulls, which are neatly placed on my floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I selected furniture, plants, and even my black velvet headboard with the hopes of creating a space that felt like mine. My own little forgotten corner of the world.

An entire year I’d spent designing and restoring my home, only to let it dwindle into a nest of self-loathing. I can’t even bring myself to be sad about it.

Not when everything feels so bleak.

I don’t want to see anyone or do anything. Why would I when I’m constantly alternating between quiet depression and unbridled anger? My pain is a warpath, hostile interactions and a constant need to make everyone around me feel this loss.

Opening the door to my closet, I quickly tug the black sweater from the hanger, pressing the soft material to my nose and inhaling the faint remains of his cologne.

Tears sting my eyes, and I rub my fist in front of my chest to relieve the burning sensation that has started. I want so desperately to believe he’s alive, that he’s okay and somehow will find his way back.

Yet, it’s been a month since May’s murder, and we can’t find a trail to follow. I have no answers, just a pathetic hope that he’s out there somewhere, still breathing.

I’m not sure how long I stand in here—far too long to be considered healthy for my current mental state. But once I find the motivation to go downstairs and rummage through my cabinets for a tea bag, I’m soon disappointed when I find the tin empty.

I would laugh, but the humor in the situation dies when I realize I’ll have to go into town to buy more. For a moment, I think of asking Briar if she could bring me some, and she would, but then she’d ask to stay.

Weasel her way inside with her soft smile, Sage in tow, with a stash of Rook’s weed that she steals, and we’d spend the night on a pile of blankets in front of my TV. All of us pretending to be normal college students while the world outside my door falls to shit.

It would be fun, and I almost work up enough energy to commit, but it disappears quickly. Mentally, I won’t be able to handle the pity in their eyes or be very good company because it feels impossible to hide my worry.

I’m constantly thinking about how long it will be before I see him again. Another month? Years? Never? That seems like a reality too hard to bear, and I want to put off the acceptance of his death, but every day, it gets harder to have hope.

Grabbing my frumpy plaid coat, I slip my feet into a pair of yellow rain boots that are sitting by the door. I catch a quick glimpse of myself in the mirror by the front door, wincing at the dark circles beneath my eyes.

I’m sure somewhere in the world, the gothic lace gown I wore to the funeral paired with this jacket and these boots is high fashion. Here, it’s unlikely someone would pay attention to me long enough to notice.

I’m not sure why I put it on this morning, maybe to remember. To grieve or feel the pain of loss. I’ve always been a sucker for sinking into my self-pity.

The high lace collar that wraps around my neck scratches against my skin as the heat from my car blasts against my face. Quietly, I drive through the flurry of snow, watching the sun drift away, allowing darkness to soak the pines.

I’m pleased to see the parking lot barren, save for a few cars. I just wish the fluorescent bulbs inside the store weren’t so fucking bright. Feeling like a vampire as the light burns my skin and eyes, I try to shield myself from the harsh glow.

Normally, I’d spend hours inside the store, wandering down aisles and discovering new foods to fixate on or sweets I had yet to try. Now, all I want is to get back home, curl into my blankets, and sleep for the next half century. Maybe when I woke up, this would all be over. The Halo would be destroyed, the copycat killer behind bars, and my friends would be happy. At the very least, we all would find some peace.

I’m chewing my bottom lip, trying to decide which flavor of tea I want for the next week.Lady Grey, Chai, Lemon Delight, Ginger Black, English Breakfast, Pomegran—

Heavy boots thud against the tiled floor, wet stomps from the snow outside. I can’t explain how I know, but I feel the moment the person turns into the aisle. The hairs along my neck stand up in warning, my heart beating just a bit faster.

The sound of a cart moving echoes in my ears, and I silently turn my head. What I find is a surprise.

Clothed in a starched button-down and slacks, whistling with every step forward, is a man who has haunted my sleep.

Player One.

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