Page 7

Casper told me they’ve written me off as a suspect in the murders. Not enough evidence, they said. As if I already didn’t know about it. As if that makes it better. It hurts that Casper ever thought I was capable of something so horrific.

As if the trauma of my parents’ death hadn’t already fucked me up enough.

The more days that pass, the more I try to ignore Casper, feeling hurt by his distrust, yet at the same time, not. But what’s worse is that each day, a new gift arrives at my doorstep.

Be it another envelope engraved with a number, or a personal item I long thought lost, showing up out of nowhere. Reminders of a past I left behind. It seems it cannot stay buried for long.

Each day, my heart sinks a little lower.

Breaks a little more.

The fear and sheer paranoia intensify with each gift I open, counting down to my birthday in three days, on February 20th. Yet another cruel and taunting reminder of what I’ve lost.

I haven’t celebrated my birthday since the last time I saw my parents alive. What’s the point when no one really cares? Not even Casper cares enough to make something of the day, always busy with work or other plans.

These gifts are the most I’ve received since my parents’ deaths, and with them comes a strange sense of being special.

Even if it’s twisted. They remind me I’m always watched, guarded, stalked.

No longer can I attempt to leave the safety of my apartment, terrified of what will happen if I do, or if I let my guard down.

Will they come for me? Why haven’t they already?

Now, I know who they are. The third gift, the black envelope Casper found, revealed my most haunting nightmare come to life. Transforming into a horrifying reality right before my eyes. They want their revenge for what I did.

I know they’re biding their time. For what, I’m not really sure.

But I do know that I’m not fucking ready to meet the past I’ve fled the past three years.

—————

“THIS IS VEXGLADE RADIO, and we have breaking news coming from the Bay. Police have confirmed that a body was found earlier today. An investigation is now underway, though no further details have been released at this time. What we do know is that the victim’s right hand has been sawed off…”

I tune off the radio, the static fading into the room’s silence. My mind lingers on the words, the grim details splitting my skin like a splinter from a wooden bench.

The crimson liquid on my hands isn’t real, yet as I stare at them, the memory clings to my retinas without a second of hesitation.

After all, I’m a sinner. A fallen angel dragged straight from hell, and this world I’m living in is my purgatory.

A violent shiver wreaks havoc through me as I jolt awake in my bed, an unforgiving headache pounding against my temple that makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

Staring at the crackling fire in the stone hearth, I try to stitch together the memories of the past few hours, but all I find is a void.

Sitting up, I groan, the ache in my skull thudding in my temples and making it hard to focus. Something feels wrong—off, but there’s nothing tangible to grasp onto. My eyes drift back to the fire, its heat oppressive and stifling. Did I even light it?

Sweat glistens on my skin as I throw off the blanket, the intensity of the flames far too much for what should be a dying ember by now. But it’s not; it’s a full-on raging fire, meant to devour the logs and papers within like a starving beast.

My heart leaps in my throat as I glance down at the sheets, dread coiling tight in my chest as I see stains of blood. Suddenly, it’s as if I’m back there— blood everywhere, blinding and suffocating.

With trembling hands, I feel the phantom sensation of blood pooling in my palms. Corpses everywhere. My scream echoing through the walls. Blood pooling in a pond before me.

It can’t be real.

My breaths are shallow and uneven as I stare at the crimson stains, hoping they’ll just disappear. The longer I look at them, the more real they become, and the whisper in the back of my mind becomes louder with each passing second.

I did this.

The heat from the fire presses against my skin as I draw in ragged breaths, trying to stem the trembling in my hands. The red digits on my bedside table show it’s seven a.m. and time to get ready for the day ahead.

I swing my legs over the bed, in desperate need to change the sheets, and get out of the bedroom as soon as I can. The moment my feet hit the cool floor, a sharp pain stabs through my heel. I hiss, freezing in place.

A shard of glass has embedded itself in my heel, dropping in rivulets on the white wooden floor.

Then, I see it. Faint smears of red leading from the bed to the hearth.

My stomach twists as I scramble to it, flames roaring like a wild beast out to hunt its victims. As if trying to give off a warning. Swallowing my unease, I follow the trail to the other side of my room.

White floors adorn the room along with grey walls, a stone hearth before my queen-sized bed with its plush pillows, and a wardrobe pushed up against the far wall. Everything looks the same, yet everything is somehow different. Be it a feeling or a lingering knowing.

The heat from the fire hits me like a blast as I crouch down, staring into the flames that only make the sweat cling to my body. It’s way too hot here. Almost suffocating, making it impossible to breathe steadily.

Something is buried underneath the embers, but I cannot quite see what it is. A frown mars my eyebrows, but it doesn’t matter how much I lean into the glass gate; my view is restricted at best.

A shrill ringing resonates through the room until I realize it’s my alarm, indicating I have to get going. It startles me enough that a gasp escapes me as I quickly whip around to face the clock.

There’s something wedged between the books on my nightstand, almost invisible and blending in like a chameleon.

The hair on the back of my neck rises as I spot what appears to be a card, my trembling hands growing worse while panic coils around my throat like a snake squeezing the oxygen from my lungs.

The number ‘ 3 ’ is written on the front of the card, and lead drops in my gut. Every instinct inside me screams to drop the card. Not read it. Yet I’m already turning the card, eyes scanning the ink.

A little gift.

For you.

Five words. That’s all it takes for the world to feel like it’s once again ending. I’m forced to grip the thick paper with both hands to stop it from curling back together or crumpling in my hands.

My vision blurs at the edges as the words burn into my mind, dragging forth shadows. The handwriting feels so familiar, but it’s been too long.

There’s no name. No signature.

I’m certain I know who left it for me because it’s the same handwriting as the last letter I received. They were never supposed to get out again, sent miles away from here.

Something with the sprawled words urges me to turn to the stone hearth again. The fire resembles an inferno, flames twisting and swirling like the devil’s breath. Devouring with an insatiable hunger that cannot easily be tamed.

Once more, I crouch before the fire, staring into what’s hiding underneath the embers and the logs.

Fear ignites in me. Dark and primal, like a presence on my irises, a stain in the corner of my eyes, seeping blackness everywhere.

I’m left staring at something lumpy and hard, unmoving.

Carefully opening the hearth door, I grab the prod standing to the side to get a better view of what’s inside. A wave of nausea rolls over me until I scramble backwards, the flames roaring, an odd odor instantly spreading through my room.

Lightheadedness makes me feel fuzzy as I stare at what’s lying there, and the voice on the radio comes back to my mind.

Because there, burning up into embers, is a sawed-off right hand. The wrist has been severed, jagged flesh exposing the tissues of the muscles. Bile rises in my throat, twisted and raw. The faint smell of charred meat filters through my room. I fight the urge not to vomit right then and there.

Unease lingers inside me as a loud bang comes from my hallway.

I hurry my way there with legs feeling as if they might collapse at any second, and my mind a little lost without being able to comprehend anything.

The front door stands wide open, when it was closed, even locked, when I slept.

A single black rose—the one I left on my parents’ grave—is on the doorstep, blood draping it in rivulets.