Page 27 of Slashed

ChapterSeven

The Final Girl

October 31st

My nightmare starts out as a sex dream.

After five consecutive days of having the same repetitive dream, I’ve become acquainted with the events.

It begins the same way. I’m pinned with my chest against a wall, naked and helpless. At his mercy as he caresses my curves with the edge of a cold blade. The cool sensation on my warm skin makes me shudder in anticipation. I enjoy it, panting for more. In a rapid motion, the mystery man spins me around. Though I can’t look at his face, it’s always blurred to keep his anonymity, I know it’s Silver Mask. In the dream, I mold my body against his. Then he holds his knife high in the air before slicing it between my ribs, cutting me open.

The last thing I see is his silver mask getting splattered by my blood.

I wake up shrieking in horror, fumbling around my bed as I command my heart to slow down. Glancing around with a hand over my chest, I make sure I’m alone in the room.

I always am. Nothing in my bedroom appears to be different, yet I scan every detail. Everything is right where it belongs. I’m the only one out of place, freaked out and paranoid, waiting for the day he will come for me and turn my nightmare into a reality.

The cops are looking for him, but they can’t do a lot without a physical description of the killer. No one saw his face, not even me. For all we know, he might be wandering around with his chin up high, laughing at the system.

There’s not much I can do to help with the investigation, either. All the details embedded in my brain will not confirm his identity. I don’t remember anything of relevance. What would I say?Sorry, I don’t know what he looks like, but I vividly recall the sounds he made when he came on me.

There’s not a person in the world who would believe me after that statement. Hell,Ican’t take myself seriously. What are the odds of going to a haunted house attraction and unknowingly fucking an actual killer? The chances are so slim that I refuse to even confess my sin to anyone.

After the hospital, I haven’t tried to talk to Jen about it. Nance is entirely out of the question since she bursts into tears every time she remembers what happened, and I fear the fragile state of her mind. And I refuse to speak with the authorities about it.

Once the truth comes out, I’ll forever carry the shame of my mistake like a scarlet letter over my chest.

Though, deep down, I’m aware I only feel ashamed because of how badly I crave for it to happen again.

It makes no sense.

He’s dangerous and promised to find me, which means I sealed my death sentence days ago. So why do I still ache when I think about his face buried between my thighs? Why do I get wet when I remember how he controlled my orgasms?

Closing my eyes, I sigh in defeat.

I can’t keep living like this. This constant back and forth is killing me, shedding every ounce of sanity I have left. This is my slow descent into madness. With each day that passes, I’m one step closer to losing my mind. I’ll break down soon enough, and he’ll take the opportunity to finish me off then.

Running my fingers through my sweaty hair, I pull on the strands to release some of the frustration accumulated in my body. I climb out of bed and head to the bathroom, but not before I grab the knife under my pillow.

While I’m impatiently waiting for my death, I refuse to go down easily. Unlike the jocks, I won’t be caught off guard by Silver Mask. So, even when I don’t stand a chance of winning, I carry a knife with me everywhere I go.

Honestly, I need a miracle. But I doubt I’m in God’s good graces after the way I behaved in Slashed. Abuela’s prayers can’t save my rotten and corrupted soul. All I have left is delusion because hope isn’t enough to help me survive.

Peeling off my clothes, I turn on the shower and hop inside. I place the knife next to my shampoo bottle and let the water roam over my body, washing away the guilt and misery.

There are so many things I could’ve done differently that night. I should’ve requested a group change the second I saw the jocks and knew they were going to be trouble. I should’ve tapped out of the game when Nancy got stuck with the killer.

Hell, I shouldn’t have made my friends go with me.

But no amount of over-analyzing will ease the guilt poisoning my system. I blame myself for what happened either way because I didn’t connect the dots sooner. It doesn’t matter that I wasn’t aware of the murders because I had the knife against my throat. Part of me noticed the sharpness, while the other part was too blinded by lust to notice.

I’m afraid my subconscious knew it was real all along. I just refused to believe it.

I felt the metal scratch my skin and thought about the possibility of him slashing my neck if he wanted, yet I didn’t recoil in fear. Instead, I melted and begged for more.

The root of the problem isn’t even him, it’sme.

I pursued him.

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