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Sam and Lisa and me.
Now two of them are dead.
I’m the last one left alive.
I continue to cry. Sorrow wraps around me like a fist, squeezing out the tears.
“She didn’t even ask about you,” Coop says, as if that justified her death. “Samantha Boyd, your fellow Final Girl, was so interested in getting into my pants that she never bothered to ask how you were doing.”
“And how was I doing, Coop?” I say, my words as bitter as my tears. “Was I doing okay?”
He puts the gun away, sliding it gently back into its holster. Then he comes closer, sidestepping Tina’s body, kneeling to where I’ve collapsed on the floor until his blue eyes are looking directly into mine.
“You were doing great.”
“And now?”
I tremble, afraid he’ll touch me. Not wanting to know what kind of touch that will be.
“You can still be great,” Coop says. “You can forget everything. About tonight. About ten years ago. You forgot it once. You can forget it again.”
On the floor, something pokes into my leg. Something sharp.
“What if I can’t?” I ask.
“You will. I’ll help you do it.”
I risk a glance away from Coop to look down, seeing that it’s a knife jabbing me. The same knife that dropped from Rocky Ruiz’s pocket. Tina had kept it for safekeeping. Now she pushes it toward me, somehow still alive, staring up at me with one bloody eye.
The tattoo peeks out from the sleeve of her jacket. Although it’s upside down, the word remains clear.
SURVIVOR
“We can go somewhere,” Coop tells me. “Just the two of us. We’ll start new lives. Together.”
He sounds so earnest. Like he almost believes it’s possible. But it’s not. We both know that.
Yet I continue the charade. I nod. Slowly at first but picking up speed as Coop leans in and touches my cheek.
“Yes,” I say. “I’d like that.”
I keep nodding until Coop kisses me. First on the forehead, then on both cheeks. When his lips touch mine, I will myself not to retch or yelp or squirm. I kiss him back while dropping my right hand to the floor.
“Quincy,” Coop whispers. “My sweet, beautiful Quincy.”
Then his hands are around my neck, squeezing gently, trying not to hurt me too much. He’s crying too. His tears mix with mine as his grip tightens around my throat.
My thumb brushes the knife blade, sliding across its shivery edge.
Coop keeps squeezing my neck. His thumbs slide against my trachea, pushing. Then he kisses me again. Breathing air into my lungs even as he’s squeezing it out. He keeps crying. Moaning words into my mouth.
“Quincy. Sweet, sweet Quincy.”
My fingers find the knife’s handle. They curl around it.
There’s no more breath in me. It’s all gone, even though Coop continues to kiss me, puffing apologies past my lips.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.