Page 44 of Horror and Chill

I keep my gaze locked on the screen like I’m staring straight into their eyes.

“You think hiding behind a username makes you untouchable? Cute.”

ThroatCandy:Ban them.

VelvetNoose:Truth hurts, doesn’t it?

DaddyVoid:Ughhh you’re disgusting.

CryptCummin:I’d kill for 5 mins alone with this guy.

I smile, slow, letting it spread without any warmth. “Keep talking, Velvet. Every word’s just making me want to get creative.”

The chat howls; half laughing, half egging me on. But I’ve wasted enough energy on this cunt. I click the block button next to their name and then ban them permanently.

PurpleTights:You could someone?

I wink, slow. “I guess that’s for me to know and you to never find out.”

The chat keeps moving for a few seconds after I cut the stream, messages flooding in like they don’t realize I’m gone yet. I fire off an email to Lorna letting her know about VelvetNoose so she can find their IP and ban them from Behind the Lens altogether. I’m not sure how that all works. But all of us cammers know if we have an issue like that to let her know, and she makes sure they never have access to the site again.

I shut the laptop and head down to the kitchen, ready to make myself something to eat.

Downstairs, the quiet feels heavier than it should. I flip the kitchen light on and stand there for a beat, letting the hum of the refrigerator settle around me.

The marinara jar clinks against the counter when I set it down. I pour it into a dented pot, watching the sauce slop against the metal sides, the red too bright under the light. I toss the garlic bread into the oven, twist the dial, and lean my hands on the counter while the heat kicks on.

The Dr. Pepper fizzes loudly when I crack it open. I sit at the table while the pasta softens in boiling water, watching the steam. I take a slow sip from the can, letting the cold bite of carbonation sting the back of my throat.

Every couple of minutes, I get up to check the pot, sliding the spoon through the boiling water to keep the noodles from clumping together. Steam curls into my face, carrying the faint smell of salt from the pasta water. I press one against the inside of my wrist the way Debra used to, an old habit I can’t shake even though she never cooked for comfort, only duty.

I drain them, listening to the hiss of the water hitting the sink. The sauce slides in, coating every strand. I stir it until it turns the right shade of deep red, pop the garlic bread out of the oven, and make a bowl of heaping goodness.

I twirl the noodles around my fork and take my time chewing. The tang of the sauce lingers on my tongue, sharp and sweet, garlic and salt cutting through the heat.

Could I kill someone?

The thought isn’t shocking. It’s just there, quiet and certain, like a truth I’ve been circling for years.

I think I could.

Not in self-defense. Not in some heat-of-the-moment accident. I mean,choose it.Plan it. Watch the life leave their eyes and know I took it.

I’m not sure how I’d feel afterward. Maybe the guilt would curl into my stomach and gnaw me apart. Maybe I’d sleep better than I ever have. But in the moment? I think I could do it.

And I know exactly who I’d start with.

My parents. For every bruise they called a lesson.

The pastor. For every sermon that sounded like a threat.

The youth group leader. For hands that stayed too long in the name of “prayer.”

I take another bite, chewing slowly, the heat from the garlic bread burning the roof of my mouth.

The truth sits heavy in my chest, but it’s not guilt. Not fear.

Yes. I could.