Page 8

C hapter 8

Naya

A deep breath, yet it feels as if I cannot breathe. In, and then out. In and—

I’m gasping for breath that refuses to fill my lungs, and I feel the trembling taking over, my legs nearly folding underneath my weight.

We got back late to the motel yesterday, and my paranoia seeped into every crevice of my soul. I know I saw something—is that why it feels as if I’ll collapse from lack of oxygen?

Grey didn’t believe me when I said it was Emilio Ricci I saw, and it’s fucking with my head. Am I just that paranoid to have imagined such things? Am I spiraling again?

Pain—I need pain to feel something. Like an itch I cannot get rid of, no matter how hard I try to.

With a shaky, unsteady breath, I glance back at Grey resting on the sheets. He crashed the minute we got back from the store, with our groceries still stocked inside a plastic bag on the floor. Moonlight filters through drawn curtains, casting an ominous hue over the room as I hurry inside the bathroom.

I make sure not to wake him when I lock the door behind me before undressing.

Hurt—I need to fucking hurt before I lose my mind entirely.

My eyes fall on the scissors by the sink, and I pick them up with hands that refuse to cease their trembling, only to drop them with a loud clatter.

”Shit,” I hiss.

No sound comes from the outside, so I know I didn’t wake Grey. I step into the shower, and the water washes over me, a soothing caress that fails to ease my inner turmoil.

Alone in my own misery, thoughts invade my mind; of all the people we’ve lost. That I’ve lost. Too much death looms over my life like a perpetual shadow. It feels as if I was born in a vast cemetery, surrounded by endless graves that trap me with no escape. No matter how hard I try, something always destroys my fleeting moments of happiness and peace.

It’s been like this ever since I found my dad’s mutilated body in our living room when I was seven. Since then, everything has spiraled into a dark abyss. I want to scream out all of my emotions; the frustration brimming over the edge. Shout out to the world about how much I hate my mother for everything she did to me, for ending my life without actually killing me. She ruined me, and I’m not sure I will ever be repaired.

Broken things can’t be fixed.

Biting my lip, I try to stifle the scream rising from deep within my chest. My mind drifts to the souls I’ve left in my wake, to the friends I’ve made and subsequently lost, and to the gnawing fear that I will probably lose Grey too.

Tears fall, first one and then two, before streaming down my cheeks in rivulets. I need to feel something other than this overwhelming ache wrecking inside my soul.

Pain—I need the fucking pain, and I hate myself for sitting down in a tailor position on the cold floor, using the scissors to scrape the skin from my heel in meticulous movements. I’m driven by a need to rid my body of its imperfections.

It’s the only way.

It feels like an inescapable torment, spreading through my chest like thorny vines, pricking my skin with the same cruelty as the thorns that ensnared Sleeping Beauty. If this anguish were a living thing, it would bloom and writhe inside my ribcage, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake.

The scream building in my throat is welcome and deserved. The satisfaction of seeing those few droplets of blood seeping through my skin is enough to lighten my heavy heart before dissolving into something unspeakable.

It’s macabre in all its furious glory, making me savor the sharp taste of suffering—perhaps even death. Losing oneself is a beautiful tragedy, one that shreds your insides into irreparable pieces. Losing hope, emotions, and the life you once knew is a pain greater than anything else.

I have caused so much destruction, even killed people, and it’s tearing me into bits and pieces of shrouded dust.

The scissors cut deeper than intended, and a weak scream flees my throat, tears streaming down my cheeks.

A sudden knock on the bathroom door jerks me from my reverie, but I’m stuck on the floor—unable to move, think, or breathe without feeling like I’m losing my grip on reality and sanity.

It’s as if my brain is barely aware of what’s going on around me, and I’m slowly disconnecting as the pounding on the door gets worse.

“Naya!” a frantic voice calls from outside, but I don’t move, watching the blood flow from the wound on my heel.

“Naya!” the voice shouts, barely audible through the pounding in my ear. “Please, little doll. Please open this door.”

Grey’s desperate voice and frantic knocking grow louder. I slump against the wall, screaming.

I fucking deserve this pain.

“Open the door this fucking instant.”

I don’t. Grey’s voice carries an angry worry as he tries the handle, fruitlessly attempting to get inside.

It doesn’t take long before the wood splinters as he kicks it open, the handle clattering to the floor. Grey bursts into the room, fists clenched, sweat dripping from his temple with anxiety and desperation filling his beautiful sapphire eyes.

Seeing my state of mind, his eyes crease. “My beautiful woman, what have you done?”

I can’t utter a word, trying to ground myself as he embraces me. His arms are warm against my shivering body under the spraying water as he turns it off, lifting me up.

Placing me on the toilet lid, his eyes glint with agony as he drapes a towel around me and inspects my heel. He tends to the wound, grabbing a first aid kit from the sink.

“You don’t get to hurt yourself. You will never have to face your inner demons alone, ever again. The next time, you wake me up. Understood?”

Tears cling to my eyes like rivulets as I nod, feeling his words bringing me back to reality.

“I already told you that I’ll be the anchor you need, the one you can count on. Please never do that again. I hate to see you hurt. It fucking pains me.” His voice breaks.

He rests his forehead against mine, taking deep breaths as if to assure himself that I’m okay. The guilt hits me like a tsunami.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, meaning every word of it.

“You scared the shit out of me, especially since I saw that note, and—”

Tears blur my vision as I search his eyes, my heart pounding. “What kind of note?”

He shakes his head, expression darkening. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it right now; let me worry about you.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Don’t ever fucking lie again.” He pins me with a hard glare, and I roll my eyes.

I do not understand it, but my mind always calms down in his presence, no matter the circumstances.

“What kind of note?” I prompt, taking a step closer to him with the towel wrapped tightly around me.

He drags his hand over his face, contemplating whether to tell me or not. After a moment of hesitation, he opens the bathroom door wider before grabbing a note from the nightstand. My fingers tremble as I take the paper from him. It’s eerily familiar to the one we saw just last night, with the same uneven handwriting across the page, smeared with red. A ghost-like shiver crawls over my spine.

‘Naya,’ the note reads, the name repeated over and over, the next messier than the others.

“H-how?” I stare at him with eyes full of vulnerability and distress. “Daxton booked the room under other names, right?”

Grey looks at me and nods, his body tense and shoulders drawn tight with apprehension.

“Where did you find it?”

He stays silent, making his way over to the backpack sitting on the edge of the bed, hurriedly stuffing it with the things we own. Handing me a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of sweatpants, I go inside the bathroom to get dressed.

It feels as if I’ve left my body, no longer controlling it or able to perceive what’s happening. Questions spin around in my head like a devastating whirlwind; what the fuck is going on?

”Grey, please talk to me,” I whisper.

”Not right now.” His voice is clipped, mixed with panic.

The eerie feeling clings to me like a damp fog, paranoia seeping into every crevice of my soul. Memories of strange occurrences flash through my mind—the times I sensed someone watching us, the unsettling note saying, ‘This isn’t the end.’ It cannot be a prank, can it?

”We need to leave,” is all he says, his usual easy demeanor replaced by a hardened look, jaw clenched tight. His troubled expression is more pronounced than usual as he packs our bags, throwing clothes and groceries in a mess.

”Where are we going?”

He doesn’t hear me, already hurrying out of the motel room while leaving the key behind. I quickly follow him, a heavy, relentless thrum filling my chest, as though it could break free with every step.

We leave without a word to anyone, passing the reception without bothering to check out properly, having already paid. Now it’s time to get out while making a haste exit without risking anyone seeing us.

I pull the cap Daxton left for me down over my face, trying to shield myself from being seen. Grey follows suit, his hoodie drawn tight.

His eyes flick around the motel’s perimeters as we step into the cold morning, a chill in the air that raises goosebumps on my arms. Line creases his forehead, tension evident in the strain of his neck muscle. This is something more than merely a prank. He’s worrying about something grander, pulse visibly pounding in his neck.

Tall silhouettes of trees stand against the sky, twigs snapping under our feet as we walk. The forest on either side of the road emits a damp, earthy scent, its presence offering an ominous aura. Despite the soft morning light filtering over the horizon, a chill lingers in the summer air, offering an unsettling contrast to the vibrant greenery.

Who could have left that note? How would someone know my real name when we registered under aliases?

Neither of us speak as we hurry away from the motel.

Grey’s silence speaks volumes, echoing the same unease he wore when he first mentioned going to Millville in Daxton’s car. I know something is wrong.

There’s an unspoken truth lingering between us, as if not even the wind can carry it to a faraway land, and part of me hesitates to even uncover what it is.

”Where are we going?” I ask, hesitantly.

”To the place where my worst nightmares were born.”