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twenty-one

Final Girl

Tate

F uck.

I shouldn't have told him. It was a momentary lapse in judgment; I blame the straight whiskey I'd been drinking, but it's been hard to keep it a secret. We don't do that, and I guess that's why he's mad, and it's been hard to do not just because we don't keep secrets from each other but also because I've been pretty damn proud of myself for this one.

I'll just…I'll tell Silas I forgot something, and then run inside and call the police from the motel phone. I'll give them an anonymous tip about "Lilah" and the guy who went missing. Just to make sure she doesn't get away in time. And then, we'll go.

I didn't have a plan when we first saw the video, but we had a long drive ahead, which gave me plenty of time to think of what I wanted to do with Noah. And killing her seemed too easy after allowing her to torture me for another fucking year.

Besides, she told me there were worse things than death. And every killer needs a final girl. Noah is my final girl. I think maybe I didn't understand the importance of that the first time around, but I do now .

That doesn't mean she gets to go live a normal life and fuck other people, though.

I pull the bandage from my stab wound, which has been itching like a mother fucker, step into the shower, and run my hands through my hair under the lukewarm water and shitty fucking water pressure. I don't know why I'd expect any better from a motel that doesn't even have a fucking name.

I laugh a little. God, she hated that so much.

Fuck. I need to wash her off and get out of here. I think too much when I'm in the shower. It's too fucking quiet. And right now I'm thinking about how nice it was to hold Noah against my chest in her bathtub last night.

But what I told Silas is true—I don't miss her, and I don't need her. I just miss the simplicity of that summer and how things used to be. Noah was still a fucking brat, always has been. But sometimes, she'd let her guard down, and I'd catch her looking at me like I hung the fucking moon, and it made me feel like I did.

I miss having a twin. I miss when my family was whole. But they aren't now, and I haven't been in a while—not since I became a killer.

I don't regret it. It's just, like I said, everything sure was a lot fucking easier. Noah embodies that time for me. Besides, I wasn't lying when I said that I couldn't take it back if I wanted to—not that I want to—but it's all done.

But I wish she hadn't told me she loved me. She sucked the air right out of the room with that one and all the fun out of my fantasy, too…the one where the three of us are still normal teenagers, and I hung the moon for the girl next door .

It caught me so off guard, I almost threw her off the fucking bed. It shook me to my core, and that's probably why I went off like I did.

Her fault. Not mine.

Still, something's bothering me. There's something gnawing at the back of my mind—something about what Silas told me about her reaction that just doesn't sit right.

I turn off the water, dry off, step back into the main room, and start getting dressed.

"So, what exactly did she say when you told her?"

"Oh, my god, I'm not fucking doing this. I told you…she didn't really say anything. She was really quiet and really still. I'm not going to go into more detail just so you can get off on it."

"That's not why I'm asking," I say. "I just think it's weird. Don't you think it's kind of weird?"

"I think it's fucked up that you did this behind my back. I think it's fucked up that you let us both think you loved her and that we were all going to be together. I promised her—"

"You didn't ask me before you made that promise."

"I promised her she wouldn't have to be alone. She said she couldn't take it anymore. So no, I don't think it's weird that after everything we—and especially fucking you put her through, let's be honest—she shut the fuck down. She's done, Tate. And I'm done talking about it."

"Well, did she text at all?"

"No," he says. "Why? Are you having regrets?"

"Pfft." I pull my shirt over my head. "Of course not. It's just— "

"If you tell me it's fucking weird again, Tate, I swear, I'm going to fucking lose it." He gets up, grabs his bag from the floor, and heads for the door. "I'll be in the car."

"Silas?" I call, softening my tone. "I am so sorry that this hurt you."

"Tate, I don't believe you."

"I am. I love you…so much. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Well, that last part I believe…"

"And it's not like I don't care about Noah at all. If I didn't care, then…" Silas raises an eyebrow and shrugs, waiting for me to finish the sentence, but I don't think he'd like it if I did. If I didn't care at all, I'd just slit her throat and be done with it. If I didn't care at all, I'd just go live my life; I wouldn't have gone to all of this trouble. I mean, surely, they both realize that. I care. If I didn't care, I would've just let her starve all week.

"Well, I can assure you, she's going to spend the rest of whatever life she has left thinking you do and always have hated her fucking guts. Don't you ever spend a fucking second doubting it. I saw it. That's my promise to you."

He opens the door, and I stare down at the old motel landline telephone. I'm not having second thoughts or regrets or whatever Silas said. After all, who would I be if I let this go? I'm not sure I have an answer for that.

It's just that maybe she's not even there, and maybe there's no point in calling them. If they're smart, they'll catch up to her whether I call or not.

But then she'll be lost again. That will be worse .

"Do you think she left town already?" I ask before he can leave the room.

"I don't know," Silas says. "She looked so tired…maybe not. She told me she didn't even want to try anymore. Maybe she's just going to wait there for them to catch her."

Scratch, scratch, scratch at the back of my brain.

"Tate, if you want to talk to her—"

I cut him off before he can finish the sentence. "I don't want to."

His expression falls. "Fine. But just so you know—that dirty, twisted feeling in your gut you're always talking about? That's guilt, Tate. It's not something Noah did to you, it's what you did to her. That's what's haunting you. It's what's killing you."

Silas finally leaves the room, closing the door behind him, and I stare down at the old telephone again. It's yellow, but I don't think it's supposed to be yellow. I think it was white or maybe cream colored at one point, but it's old and dirty, and it's been here for decades, and for at least a couple of those decades, I'm sure this motel allowed smoking inside. The plastic covering the buttons is chipped, and in some places, condensation has formed beneath it. You can't even see the nine or the three anymore.

My lip turns upward. It's off-putting. It's putting me off. On instinct, I try to suck lip rings that aren't there anymore into my mouth.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

I swallow a lump in my throat. It's not regret; the plan is perfect. I'll know exactly where she is forever. It's not guilt, either. I know what guilt is. So why can't I press the numbers ?

Maybe it's just that the last time I called the police, it was…

I put the car in park and check my face in the rearview mirror. Another fucking fight. Another fucking black eye before the last one even got the chance to heal. Before my mom died, I would have put on makeup and tried to hide it so I wouldn't have to explain to my parents why my face was black and blue again.

There's no one left to care anymore. And my dad will know why, anyway. It was for Mia. It's the second time this week that it's been for Mia.

I'm not the biggest guy, but I am the meanest, and that's not necessarily a good combination.

Sighing, I get out of the car and head upstairs. Every day of this hell, I'm forced to walk past Noah's old apartment. It was empty for a while, but a middle-aged man lives there alone now. He let the number nine fall off the front door and just wrote it on the front with a sharpie—that's how lazy this guy is. He also leaves his full garbage bags outside of his unit until he feels like taking on the monumental task of walking downstairs and throwing them into the dumpster. One sits there now, and it's ripe as fuck. I'd kick it over if I thought there was any chance in hell the fuckbag would actually pick it up, but it would just become my problem.

I hold my breath as I turn my key in the lock. I open the door, but before I can step inside and close it, the cat runs out.

"Shit!"

I reach for him, but I'm not fast enough to grab him, and before I'm even past that rancid garbage bag, Mittens is down the staircase and darting straight into the woods.

"Fuck," I mutter. What am I supposed to do now? I can't find a cat in the fucking woods, and he's never done this before .

Even the cat doesn't want to be here anymore.

But cats come back, right?

I shake my head, muttering a stream of profanities, and step inside my apartment. My dad sleeps in the recliner with the blinds closed and the lights turned off. Beer bottles line the kitchen counter because, apparently, those can't be thrown out, either, and the sink is overflowing with dishes again.

"Dad," I say, shaking him awake. "You need to get up. I need help with the kitchen."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"With the dishes, Dad," I tell him. "There are flies in there. Has Mia eaten today? You said you were going to call the doctor; I'm guessing you didn't do that."

"Tate, I'm doing the best I can. If you've got a problem with the home I pay for, you can clean it."

"Well, you have to do better! Mia is really sick, Dad. She needs help. I can't do everything."

I already tried to file a police report against the people doing this to her, but she refused to be interviewed, so they said they couldn't help me. I tried to get the videos removed, but the sites said since she wasn't a minor, they weren't going to do anything. I tried calling a psychiatrist, but our shitty insurance doesn't cover it, and when I finally found one who would see her without insurance that didn't have a six month wait, they told me she had to call herself or it had to be a parent or guardian, and they needed a credit card to charge.

I gave him the phone number three fucking days ago. I know his wife died, but she was my mom, too.

He closes his eyes again. Just to piss me off .

I go to the fridge and take out a beer because why the fuck not? Look at him—he doesn't need another one, and what is he going to do about it? I twist off the top and toss it in the garbage can, noticing Mitten's empty food and water bowl when I do.

"Dad, when was the last time you fed the cat?" I ask.

He doesn't answer.

"Dad?"

"She should have been more careful," Dad says. "Maybe this is a good lesson for her."

"I know you're not blaming my fucking sister for what those assholes did to her, right? Because if you have enough energy to have this fucking fight again, you can call the doctor, feed the fucking cat, and do the goddamn dishes."

He closes his eyes, pretending to sleep again.

I walk down the hall, push the curtain aside, and step into Mia's even darker room. She hung a comforter over the blinds to prevent light from getting in, and she's barely moved in a week.

"Mia?" I lie beside her on the bed. "Get up. Let's go get something to eat, okay?"

"I'm not hungry," she says. "Just leave me alone, Tate."

"Well, at least get up and come into the living room with me. Everyone was asking about you at graduation rehearsal," I lie. "People miss you. I miss you…a lot."

"I don't have any fucking friends, Tate, and you know that. No one has called or texted, except to make fun of me. I only had one real friend, and she left because of you."

"That's not true."

"It is true," she says. "Why'd you do that to me, Tate? You took my only friend away from me. "

"I didn't take your friend away from you, Mia. You sent her away. You got rid of her; you can't blame me for that."

She rolls over, turning her back to me.

"Mia, if you miss Noah, you should text her. I bet she would come if you asked. I'll even leave if you want me to."

"I can't. I was too mean to her."

"It wasn't that bad."

"No, it was," she says. "You don't know about the things I sent to her. It was really bad. It's the same stuff they're sending to me. And she's friends with them now."

"With them? Who do you…" Does she mean her ex and his girlfriend? Surely not.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore. It hurts too much."

"I'm going to make you something to eat, okay?"

"I don't want you to."

"Well, I'm going to do it, anyway. And you're going to come out and sit with me while I eat because I'm the needy twin, remember? And I need you. Do you need me to do anything else for you right now? Do you want some water?"

"No."

"Okay. I love you."

Before I can step back through the curtain, she stops me. "Actually, I do need one thing," she says. "Can you go get Mittens for me and put him in my bed?"

"Um…actually…"

She turns and looks up at me with the saddest fucking hazel eyes I've ever seen in my life. "What?" she asks.

"I can," I tell her. "I can get Mittens, but it might take me a minute because…he got out. "

I bite my lip rings and wait for her to scream and throw shit at me, and tell me I'm the shittiest fucking twin in the history of the world. Maybe even get up and throw hands. That would be normal.

This isn't normal.

"So…my cat is gone, too?" she asks, her tone dull and emotionless.

"No, he just got out. He'll come back. Cats come back, and I'm going to go get him, anyway."

"Okay," she says before turning her back to me.

"Well…yell at me or something. Do you want to punch me? I'll let you get my good eye."

"Just…go away, Tate."

"Mia…"

"Go away, Tate. Please. I can't take it anymore."

"Okay, I will go away, but only because I need to go get your cat back, which I will do…right now."

After three hours of walking around the building and the surrounding woods shaking a fucking bag of cat food and calling his name, it gets dark, and I resign my fate, heading home without Mia's cat.

I am. I am the shittiest twin in the history of the world. What the fuck am I going to do?

If I can't get her into a doctor, maybe I can take her to the ER. They'd have to see her, right? They'd probably be able to give her something. Maybe they'd even keep her there for a couple of days and set her up with one of the psychiatrists who said they couldn't get her in for months and months after they explain to them just how sick she is.

But she could refuse care.

Fuck it. I just won't let her .

I put a bowl of food and water outside the door for Mittens, and prepare to drag my sister, kicking and screaming if I have to, to the hospital.

"Mia?" I call, pushing her curtain aside. I step into her bedroom and pull her covers back, but she isn't in her bed.

She's up. That's good. I didn't see her in the living room, though, and I'm sure she didn't leave. She must be in the bathroom.

"Hey, Mia?" I knock on the door, but she doesn't answer. I hear water running and try the knob, but it's locked. "Mia, we need to go to the doctor, okay?" Still, I don't get a response. I sigh, shifting my weight on my feet, my socks soaked from the wet carpet.

Wait.

Why is the carpet wet?

"Mia?!" I shout before ramming into the door. "Fuck!"

I rush to the kitchen, and with shaky hands, dig through the dish in the kitchen my mom always tossed loose change into. When I find a penny, I grab it and use it to turn the bathroom lock from the outside.

When I get the door open, my twin sister—my big sister by four minutes—lies in the tub under water stained red with blood.

I sink to my knees on the wet tile beside the tub and scream. "Dad! Dad, help!"

"It's weird," I whisper, still staring at the broken buttons on the old, yellowing phone. I run my finger over the number nine button, broken just like the one from Noah's old apartment unit. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears when I lift it from its cradle. It's so damn loud, I barely hear the dial tone.

I set it back down, leaving it off the hook, and then grab my bag and head for the door .

Silas paces behind the car, head down with a cigarette in his hand. He takes a drag before he notices me, and I hop into the driver's seat.

He says something about how he's driving, not me, but I can't quite make it out over the sound of my own heartbeat, my own blood pumping in my ears.

I start the car, and he pulls at the locked passenger side door. I don't wait for him to move before speeding out of the parking lot and down the block toward Noah's apartment.

He's going to be pissed. But he'll be even more pissed if…

It hasn't been that long, though, has it? I pull into the alley on the other side of Noah's place, park the car, and then run through the wooded area and up the staircase.

The door is locked. As I flip through the keys for the copy that unlocks it, I see myself standing on wet carpet again.

I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking the image from my head, and then I turn the key, push the door open, and step inside. The lights are off, and the television is on. And she's there, in bed, her red hair sticking out from under the covers. She must be sleeping because she doesn't react to me coming in.

I sit at the edge of her bed, drop my head into my hands, and try to steady my breath. At first, it's relief. Then, it's anger because she fucking got me all worked up again for no reason.

But she's my final girl. I wouldn't expect anything less from her. It's kind of nice, really. I can say goodbye to her in a nice way, and even if she doesn't know it happened, I will. And then our last moment together won't be me telling her I don't love her and making her cry .

I'd better do it fast, though…before Silas runs in here freaking the fuck out and wakes her up, and then I have to explain myself.

I reach over and run my fingers through her hair.

"It's not that I don't love you," I tell her. "Not really, anyway. It's just that I can't, okay? Because sometimes, I love you so much that it crushes me, and sometimes, it hurts to look at you, and it fucking breaks me. Sometimes, I think of you, and I can't even look at myself in the mirror; it's too much for one person. So…Silas says that you're going to think that I hate you every day for the rest of your life. And I guess I'm okay with that. It'll probably be easier to move on from someone who hates you. It'll be easier to sit in prison thinking that someone who hates you put you there than it would be to sit there confused, wondering why someone who loves you would do this. But I'll never hate you. You'll always be a part of me, and there will never be anyone else—I can promise you that. And that will have to be enough."

I lean over to kiss her cheek, but before I do, I notice an email address in Silas's handwriting written on her forearm.

I sigh. Fucking Silas.

I guess we're even—I went behind his back, he went behind mine. Still, this isn't going to fly. It's a string of numbers and letters, so it's unlikely she memorized it. I just need to find a way to smudge it a little before I go.

Conveniently, there's a permanent black marker on the nightstand beside a bottle of vodka .

I lean over her to grab it slowly, careful not to wake her. And then I see something else written on her other arm in big, bold caps.

MY NAME IS NOAH BARLOWE.

Why would she…

"Noah? Noah, wake up!"

I place a hand on her shoulder and shake her a little, but it doesn't wake her, so I roll her from her side onto her back. Vomit runs down her chin and neck; it's on the pillow where she was lying.

The pills. Silas said she takes a lot of pills.

No.

She's pale—really pale—and she starts to choke a little. But if she's choking, she's still breathing, right?

I roll her onto her stomach over my knees and jam my fingers into the back of her throat. I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing, but I can't call the police, and I can't let her die. She gags on my fingers, but I don't stop—not until she vomits all over my hand, down my leg, and onto the floor.

"Noah?" I pound on her back until she stops choking. "Noah, wake up!"

But she doesn't move. She doesn't make a sound. My eyes fill with tears.

"Okay…it's okay, Noah," I say aloud, even though I know she can't really hear me. "You're going to be fine."

I pick her up, carry her to the bathroom, and turn on the shower. Then I climb into the tub and under the cold water, fully clothed with Noah in my arms. "It's okay." I choke on the words, tears leaking from my eyes as I smooth wet hair away from her face. "I've got you. You're going to be okay."

I use my finger to find her pulse on her neck and count her heartbeat aloud. I don't know much about that, either, but I know it's slow and it's still there. I kiss the top of her head, close my eyes, and keep counting through the sobs. "Nine…ten…eleven…twelve…"

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Silas stands over me when I open my eyes. "What the fuck did you do to her!?"

"I didn't do anything!" I cry.

But that's not necessarily true, is it? I did this…again.

"Tell me what the fuck happened! Now!"

"I don't know. I think she took some pills. I didn't mean to."

He kneels beside the tub and places one hand over her heart and the other just under her nose. "She's not dead…yet. Get away from her."

"I don't want to."

"Now!" he shouts, turning off the water. "Get away from her!"

"But I—"

"She's fucking freezing. That's not going to help."

He turns to grab a towel, and Noah shifts in my arms. A small sound comes from her lips.

"Noah!" I say, tapping her cheek lightly. "Hey! Wake up, Noah."

Her eyes flutter open and closed for a few seconds until finally, she looks at me. "Tate?"

I smile through the tears. "Hi, baby."

"I'm…alive?" she asks, her lower lip qu ivering.

I nod. "Yeah, sweetheart, you're alive."

"And I'm with you?" She closes her eyes and starts to cry. "No," she says between breaths. "No, no, no, not again. God, I can't do anything right. No. This is hell. "

"It's okay," Silas says. He wraps her up in a towel before easily lifting her out of the tub. "Come here, princess."

I follow him out of the bathroom and into the main room. She's out of it again when he lays her across the bed.

"There's vomit on the bed," I say.

And on the floor. And there was vomit on both of us, too, but I guess it's washed off.

"Fuck off, Tate," Silas says as he begins removing her wet clothes.

Stifling a sob, I walk around him to the other side of the bed, remove the vomit-soaked pillowcase, and flip the pillow over. There's some on the sheet, too, but not a lot. "I'll get some more towels."

"No," Silas says, his tone calm and even. "Tate, I am so fucking serious right now. You need to get the fuck out of here, or I'm going to lose it."

I swallow a lump in my throat. "I didn't want—"

"Doesn't matter," Silas says. "I don't give two shits about what you want right now. I don't care about anything except for Noah waking up, and she doesn't fucking want you here; you heard her. She saw you and thought she was in hell. So, get the fuck out."

I consider arguing. Arguing is my default setting after all, and I don't want to go. I need to be with her; I need to make sure she's okay .

And I saved her, didn't I?

But Silas is right. I hurt her, and she doesn't want me.

Our entire relationship could probably be boiled down to that statement. I hurt her and hurt her and hurt her, and now, she doesn't want me.

So, even though every cell in my body wants to stay inside the room—wants to be the one who gets to hold her under the covers instead of Silas—I know that isn't fair. My heart drops into my stomach when I turn the doorknob and leave the apartment. I walk down the staircase in cold, wet clothes, the very last of the late October wind painful against my skin, and remember I did that to Noah, too.

When I get into the car, I lose my shit. I scream, punch the dash, and hit my head against the steering wheel until I'm out of breath.

It's my fault. All of it was my fault.