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“Get away from my daughter, Mom screams, launching herself at him. She catches him off guard and knocks Alastair to the floor, out of my line of sight. I can barely hear them scuffling around the sounds of my screams.
I look around, panic gripping me as I try to take stock of my surroundings. Belatedly I realize my legs and arms are bound to some sort of table, and there are two belts banded around me. One at my waist and another higher across my chest.
And all across my skin, everywhere I can see, vertical lines cut through my flesh. Everything is red, and I can’t tell if there’s ten or a hundred cuts but the burning makes more sense the longer I stare. I think I’m going into shock because the pain is there, but I’m not feeling as much of it as I think I should be. There are so many cuts, so much blood… this can’t be real.
Alastair pops up beside the table, and I’m still screaming. His lips are pressed firmly together, but the blade in his hand from moments ago is missing. “I should never have agreed to this. I’ll get you-”
I’m shaking my head, unsure if I want his help or not. I don’t know why these two seem to be on opposing sides, but I need something to make sense or I’m going to begin screaming again. “Where’s my m-mom?”
His eyes find mine, the dual colors unmistakable and it assures me that this is truly Alastair. His fallen angel aesthetic drew me in, and it’s what hypnotized Vinny too.
What fools we’ve been.
I’m screaming again, the cuts across my body coming to life. I don’t know if the pain ever faded or if I’m just delirious and distracted, but it returns tenfold and I throw my head back and scream.
Vaguely, I’m aware of what this means. I’ve seen the news reports, the bodies, the warnings from local police and FBI agents…
It’s the Citrus Grove Slayer. And I’m the next victim.
But there’s two people fighting and I don’t know who to blame.
“Joelle,” he breathes, and I try to focus on him. Seeing Alastair and Mom together is really weird. They know each other through me, but I don’t think I’ve seen them together.
I need to focus, but it’s like my mind can’t hold onto my thoughts. Everything just keeps drifting away in my head.
That can’t be a good thing.
Before Alastair can say more and help me, Mom stands up with a violent cry. I tear my gaze from him, peering over at mom with her body soaked in blood and her blonde hair caked in the same red mess. There’s rage in her eyes, and she stalks closer to us from across the short space.
“Stay back,” Alastair growls, fiddling with the straps of the bed. They rub over the cuts down my body, and I sob at the feel. It’s like rubbing salt in an open wound, the raw leather making the pain that much worse.
“You stay away from her,” Mom growls, getting closer to the table. Alastair abandons whatever he is doing, turning to face her, and suddenly I can’t see my mom at all.
I cry out, panic rocking through me again. I think I might pass out again. I struggle against the bindings, the pain present whether I’m moving or still, and the strap across my chest falls away.
I can lift my hands, but they’re still bound, which just makes sharp pains shoot up my arms. White spots pop through my vision, and I think I lose consciousness, or at least fade into a daze.
When I can focus again, there’s some sort of heavy smell in the space that I can’t name. The white noise around me fades, and I can make out Mom and Alastair once more as the disorientation fades.
“...make me do this,” Mom cries, and I turn my head slowly. I’m too tired to do much else, and the pain from before flares to life without me having to move. I stare across the space, the heavy smell of gas choking me.
Gas? There shouldn’t be gas, right?
“M-mom?”
She’s still facing me but I feel like my head is starting to float away. I think Mom smiles as I cough, that gasoline smell turning to something else. Maybe it’s smoke, and the room looks darker, but that might just be my eyes drooping.
The pain and exhaustion are pulling me under again. If I pass out once more, I’m pretty sure I’ll wake up dead.
“Don’t worry, doll,” Mom says, and it's soothing to hear my childhood nickname. “It’ll all be over soon.”
It’s hot in here, too hot, and I cough as something fills the air.
Smoke I think.
“You’re not getting out, Porscha,” Alastair threatens, and I’m certain I hear hate in his voice.
Mom tsks, turning away from me again. “Only one of us leaves here, boy.”