Page 3 of Deviant

Scratch… scratch… scratch.

Itch… itch… itch.

No matter how hard I try to purge her from my very being, I’ve unwittingly allowed this devil of a girl to poison my bloodstream and corrupt my very sanity just with her mere existence.

Madness at its very core.

It’s ironic, really.

The very affliction Rowen suffers from is the same one I’ve been consumed by.

A sickness that links and binds us together, even if she doesn’t know it yet.

It’s not lost on me how a girl I have never spared much thought while growing up has become the focal point of all my attention, occupying my mind every second of every day.

It’s been this way for the past six months now—following Rowen to this abandoned bridge, stalking her while she’s alone, thinking she only has her ghosts to keep her company.

Little does she know that she should fear the living that lurk in the shadows far more than the dead who haunt her.

Her routine is always the same.

Every night… It’spainfullythe same.

She steps over the bridge’s ledge and stares at the dark void for an agonizing amount of time before she chickens out and goes home—still breathing, unfortunately.

I must admit that her impending death didn’t always fill me with giddy exhilaration.

In fact, the first time I caught her up here on this bridge six months ago, contemplating suicide, it shook me to my very core.

Blackwater Falls may be synonymous with death and despair, but I’ve never witnessed someone willingly give up when there was no need for it. Sure, there are plenty of suicides that occur in this fucked-up town, but they usually take place closer to the Harvest Festival. WithThe Scourgebeing more than half a year away, I couldn’t comprehend why anyone would consider jumping off to their death when actual living wasn’t under such a tight deadline yet.

So why, oh, why, was Rowen, of all people, contemplating throwing herself off Grove Bridge now?

From what I knew of her, she had as good a life as anyone could have in this despicable place.

She’s the sheriff’s daughter, which brought her an inkling of respect in a town that lost respect for itself eons ago. She was all that boring stuff people love to eat up, too. Polite and well-educated, never one for talking out of turn. Quiet and submissive, just like Blackwater Falls loves to breed them.

Though a meek girl like that was never my type, even I had to admit she wasn’t hard on the eyes.

With her long chestnut hair, huge hazel eyes, and cupid bow lips, the girl was fuckable, to say the least.

So why would someone like Rowen, who supposedly had it all, just want to give up?

Seeing no reason for her to end her life this way, my knee-jerk reaction was to race over to her before she accidentally plummeted to her death on a melancholic whim.

But then, with a guttural, apologetic wail, I heard her cry out a name that froze me to the spot, preventing me from getting any closer to her or revealing my presence entirely.

“Nora.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Forgive me.”

With my sister’s name dripping down her tongue, every fiber in my being screamed out that the last person in need of my saving was Rowen-fucking-Hawthorne.

If she was here debating if she should throw herself to the mercy of whatever deity she believes, then who was to say this wasn’t precisely the ending she deserved?

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