Page 58 of Fragmented Illusions
Our first taste of freedom.
The sound of the drawer snapping shut pulls me from my memories and Spencer stands. His back muscles flex as he stretches, making me think I was standing there admiring his body way longer than I should have been.
That’s too long without realizing my mask wasn’t in place.
But that’s another problem I keep encountering. I get tired of wearing the fucking thing.
It’s like Spencer said—almost as if he can read my mind. Fallon is changing everything.
“Ready?” he asks as he spins to face me, and I nod.
“You can shower when we get back. I’m sure pretty girl is asleep by now so we can get in and out easily enough.”
“Even if she wasn’t, we still could,” he laughs as he pulls his hoodie back on and I tear my eyes away from him and force myself to focus on the task at hand. The shit I know I’m good at.
Spencer
“When do you think she’ll see it?” I ask Sol for the fifth time on our way to the cabin. It’s three o’clock in the morning. My feet drag a little as we trudge through the trees, but of course Sol is moving effortlessly. His back is ramrod straight—almost appearing stiff—and his arms are by his sides, not even swinging as we move.
He’s so… blank all of the time. Even his body language is stoic.
Except when it’s not. And it’s been happening more and more lately.
Tonight was fucking amazing. Fallon and us, together in the bathroom, and then later how Sol couldn’t keep his hands off of me. He’s never been like that.
I never want it to stop.
We need Fallon.
She completes this utterly fucked up situation we have. And when she said she imagined Lilah as a corpse… My dick twitches at the memory and I groan, the sound coming out muffled through my mask.
“Knock it off, Spencer,” Solomon growls at me as we breach the clearing of the thin trees surrounding the cabin. The fucking thing is a mess. Rotting wood, so decayed I think we are going to fall through the moment we step on it, but so far it has held up, which is better for us. I don’t know what we would do if we didn’t have this cabin.
Shortly after Sol started college, he found this place, and it felt like fate when he showed it to me. Our own personal little murder spot—it’s kinda romantic, not that I would ever say that to Mr. Allergic to Emotions.
And I feel like fate is playing us again now that Fallon has stumbled upon the cabin. In the four years Sol has been here, not one person has found this place. Granted it’s deep in the trees, but still. No one.
Then comes Fallon fucking Kessler on Halloween night, creeping in, and witnessing something I never thought would happen. Merely only because Sol is so thorough in every detail of every kill that the thought never crossed my mind.
But it did happen. We were caught and we thought it was all over.
Until it wasn’t.
Turns out, Fallon is much more than a pretty face covered in freckles. She’s sick. In more ways than one. Sick in a way we need, that wewant.
She could be just like us—if only she would finally fucking give in to the darkness that surrounds her like a fucking aura. I can sense it and I know Solomon sure as hell can too. Fallon knows it’s there too. And I’m sure she fights it every day. For reasons I don’t know because she’s perfect for us the way she is.
And I know we would all work together in perfect sync with every kill. Our bodies moving, limbs crossing and touching, like ocean waves lapping at the shoreline. I know it would be her and I carving their flesh, my hand wrapped around hers holding my knife steady. She wouldn’t have the precision I do at first. That takes years of practice but I’m more than happy to teach her.
I would put pressure on her hand as we both sink the blade into the soft, tender flesh of their stomach. Blood would pool and ripple down, the color such a deep red, it appears almost black.
The cabin would be so quiet in the dead of night. Only the faint rustling of the leaves combined with the sound of us, breathing—living—while we steal the breath from someone else.
I can almost feel the breath she sucks into her lungs as realization hits her—what she’s doing. Then the high sets in. The euphoria that swims through your brain, better than any drug you could ever take. Simply knowing you’re taking someone’s life is enough to set anyone aflame.
I trip as the tip of my boot catches on the step leading to the back door covered in thick brush from the trees starting to grow underneath the cabin, and Solomon’s hand darts out and his fingers wrap around my forearm, steadying me.
“You’ve never been good at controlling those wayward thoughts of yours,” he states simply. No question, merely a fact, but I answer him anyway, desperate to force more reactions from him.
