4. FOUR

FOUR

T hey discharged me about an hour later, shortly after my mom arrived, and sent me home with a few extra EpiPens and instructions to call 911 if I have another attack.

"Don't forget you have a virtual appointment with Dr. Miller this afternoon at three," my mom tells me.

"After all of that?" I ask. "Can't I reschedule?"

"No, you can't reschedule, Teagan. It's an important part of your transition."

"Fine."

"Your dad and I have a dinner tonight—a work thing—so we won't be back until after midnight. And you should spend the rest of your time today applying for jobs."

"Yeah, okay."

"I have to go. But Teagan? Really…stay off social media. Stay away from anyone and anything involving that band."

"No problem."

"Text me if you need me and call the office line if there's an emergency. Remember, the doctor said no driving for another twenty-four hours. I can have some pizza delivered later if you want."

"I'll figure something out," I say, turning the corner into my room.

There's a yellow shirt draped across the back of my desk chair. On the front are the words 'Everything is bigger in Texas!' under a woman with comically large tits.

I quickly duck back out of the room.

"Mom?" I call.

"Yeah?"

"Can you come here for a second?"

"What is it, Teagan?" she asks.

"I just want to know if that shirt on the back of my chair is yours or not. I've never seen it before."

She peeks around the corner and into the room. "On the chair?" she asks. "Teagan, there's no shirt on your chair. I really need to get to work—if you find something of mine, just set it in my bedroom, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," I tell her. And when I enter the room for the second time, there's no shirt.

I'm malfunctioning. I wonder if I can mention this to Dr. Miller without getting locked up again. It's probably best not to risk it.

I sit at my desk, create a new email address, and spend the next few hours applying for at least fifty different serving and assistant jobs in South Orange County, each online application more tedious than the last.

Then, with shaky hands, I type River and Hazel Pinault-Hollis into the browser. As the results populate, I assure myself that this is different than entertaining bloodsluts and conspiracy theories—this is just me, checking on people I care about and making sure they're okay. After all, the last time I saw them, they weren't okay; none of us were. I take a deep breath, then sort by recent. Once I get past all the articles summarizing last night's interview, I get to news about their arrests and subsequent releases for cooperating with law enforcement. I read through the article, but it doesn't give much away. It does say that she and River both pled guilty to evading law enforcement, down from aiding and abetting, and are on house arrest.

I hit the back button and continue scrolling the search page, stopping on a YouTube video claiming they've caught River and Hazel on camera. In the still photo, the girls have brown hair; people in the comments argue over whether or not it's really them, but when I push play, the shorter girl looks up for just a second, and the camera captures her eyes, and I know— I know it's her.

I'm familiar with those sad, blue eyes. I've seen them look exactly like that once before—it was at a Dallas hotel in a bloody men's restroom. Do they always look that way now?

I hope not.

The man films them sitting on a porch swing outside of a small bungalow converted into a duplex, attempting to lure them into engaging with him, but it doesn't work. The two of them get up and head inside, slamming the door behind them.

The camera pans the street before it shuts off, and I quickly hit pause when it captures a mailbox across the street. Zooming in, I try to make out the address. It's blurry and incomplete, but the numbers 1141 and the letters "Zep" are visible. I grab my phone, type in "1141 Zep," and watch it auto-populate different versions of 1141 Zephyr across the country.

Zephyr Way, Zephyr Street, Zephyr Hill, Zephyr Drive.

But only one of those is in a place I know would have graveled front yards, and that's Glendale, Arizona. It checks out; the two of them grew up around Phoenix.

Five and a half hours. Is it possible that River and Hazel are just five and a half hours away in that little bungalow? After being sequestered from the world, it feels like nothing.

An alarm on my phone lets me know I have only ten minutes until my appointment. And I have a curfew. But tomorrow…

Tomorrow, I could leave early and still be back before curfew if I have the balls to risk having the wrong place or worse—having someone I love slam the door in my face.

But maybe they would want to see me. The way Hazel said my name last night on television…it sounded like she cared about me.

I pull my hair into a bun and put on a fresh t-shirt before logging into the app and waiting for Dr. Miller.

"It's been a while, Teagan," Dr. Miller says. "How have you been?"

Since I don't know where to start, I explain to her that I'm just kind of tired of talking about what happened, and I'm perpetually exhausted from thinking about it. She tells me she has my records from Rancho San Flores, so she's up to speed, and we can just talk about right now instead.

And right now, I'm tired, too. I'm not sure how to move through the world anymore. I don't tell her about any of my imaginary friends or the kiwi.

And in the end, she tells me to try to get some fresh air, spend time with my family, and do the things I used to love before all of this happened.

"The things I used to love?" I ask, my brow furrowing in confusion. "All of the things I used to love are things I was explicitly told not to do."

"Well, maybe instead of social media, you could go out and meet people in real life—for friendships, not anonymous sex."

"I don't think I've ever had anonymous sex. I always introduced myself."

"You could start reading again," she says, ignoring my comment. "Maybe stay away from horror, start with something less violent."

"Reading makes me think of Declan," I tell her. "That's what we used to do together, not kill people. We used to lie in bed and read. He liked it when I'd read to him out loud and play with his hair. I haven't read since."

"And you still miss him?"

I falter for a moment, a small crack in my facade I'm sure she notices. Dr. Watkins never asked me if I missed Declan. The focus was always on convincing me that the way I felt wasn't real and the things that happened were wrong. How can you miss someone you hate? Someone who broke something inside of you that you can't fix, ensuring you'll never have a place in the world again?

"Am I allowed to miss him?" I ask.

"Sure," she says. "Your feelings are your own. It's okay to miss what you thought was real as long as you know the difference now and remain rooted in reality."

I shake my head. "I miss Luca. He loved me. He was the first person who ever took care of me, and he always smiled. He wanted to get married, and he wasn't lying. And he couldn't sleep alone. Sometimes, I think about that—I wonder what Declan did with his body, and I hope he was cremated because if he wasn't, then that means he's in the ground somewhere…eternally sleeping alone. It makes me want to find the hole and crawl inside. I don't want him to be alone like me."

"I find it interesting you say he's the first person who ever took care of you. What about your family?" Dr. Miller asks.

I shrug. "How long have you known me? I said what I said."

"And you acknowledged that Luca is dead on your own. From what I understand, that's been hard for you; that's a big step."

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, he would never leave me. He's dead."

"Okay, well, our time is up. But I am looking forward to hearing about how your job search is going during our next session; hopefully, you'll have good news for me. And Teagan, I'm going to ask you to do something for me."

"What's that?"

"Find things you enjoy—constructive ways you can fill your time—then do those things, and report back."

Sad naps and pho?

I superficially agree before disconnecting the call.

Then, I go downstairs, make some popcorn, and start streaming The Omen movies just as the sky darkens and the ever-rare SoCal summer rainstorm rolls in. It's exactly the kind of day I used to enjoy…back when I enjoyed things.

It's been a while since I've been alone in an old house like this…in the dark, at night. That's all it is. That, and I'm losing my mind.

Every creak, every phantom footstep has my hair standing on end. For the tenth time, I pause the television and scan the first floor.

Get your shit together, Teagan. I'm pretty sure there's a word for what's happening to me, and it's not one I want to say aloud.

I go to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of wine, and…grab a butcher knife from the counter. Just in case.

When I sink back into the couch and press play, I see it: a glint of gold, a sliver of a mask, a mostly obscured figure standing in the dark hallway. A chill runs up my spine as I turn in that direction. But there's nothing.

Frustrated, I push play again. And again, I hear footsteps coming from that back hallway. I grab the remote and turn up the volume, refusing to look again. But then the scene on the screen shifts from day to night, and there it is—the mask reflecting off the lower left corner. It's almost like the hallucination sees me see it, too, because as I watch, he cocks his head to the side, slowly emerging from behind the doorframe.

I squeeze my eyes shut and will him away just like I did at Rancho San Flores. It always worked, but it doesn't this time.

Seething, I grab the knife and stomp toward the hallway. "You want something, mother fucker? Bring any kiwi this time?"

But when I turn the corner, no one is there. I tear apart that back hallway, flipping on all the lights, throwing back the shower curtain in the bathroom and even turning out the drawers in the guest room, as if there could be an actual human in there. The windows are all locked, which can only be done from the inside. No one slipped through them.

No one is here.

"Fuck!" I scream. I stab the guest room pillow over and over, sending feathers flying through the air. In my mind, I'm in a bathroom in Dallas, and it isn't feathers—it's blood splattering against my face, and I want more. More blood pooling on and around the body. More heat pooling between my legs.

I sink onto the floor beside the bed, drop my head in my hands, and scream again. "Fuck you! Fuck you, Declan De Rossi! Fuck you for breaking my fucking brain."

I stay like that for a while before I realize I'll need to clean this up and get rid of the evidence. I grab the vacuum and suck up all the feathers, and then dump its contents and the remains of the pillow into the garbage can at the end of the driveway.

And when I get back into the house, there it is again: half of a gold skull face watching me from that darkened hallway.

"Why don't you just come out here and watch the movie?" I ask the delusion. "I'm getting bored with this now."

When he doesn't budge and refuses to dissipate, I turn my attention back to the television, choosing to ignore it. But every time the screen darkens between scenes, I see that mask in the reflection.

This shit's getting old.

I check the time and then open a dating website on my phone, surprised I still remember my password. And twenty minutes later, I've got some guy on the way to my parents' house. It's against the rules, but I only have these hallucinations when I'm alone, and it's not like I have a friend I can call. Besides, I'm drunk and horny and technically, my therapist only advised me against anonymous sex.

My first name is on the profile. I don't see the issue.

I waste no time once Max, 25, a surfer-looking guy from Huntington Beach gets to the door. I mean, what am I going to do? Tell him about myself?

I don't fucking think so.

I pull him into the dark room by the waistband of his jeans and guide him over to the sofa. I climb on top of him, straddling his waist, and bring my mouth to his. He's overeager, messy. There's too much tongue and saliva, but his chest is hard and so is his cock, and it's been far too long since I've rode one, too long since I've felt someone else's hands on my body. I roll my hips over the hard ridge beneath me and shudder with pleasure.

Yeah, it's been too long.

Max grabs the hemline of my shirt, and, after he pulls it over my head, my eyes dart to the darkened television screen. No mask in its reflection, no silhouette of a man partially obscured in the hallway.

It worked.

I shrug off my bra and free his cock from his jeans. He's already leaking precum when I pump it in my hands. Tossing my hair over my shoulders, I prepare to take him in my mouth.

"Holy shit," he says, grabbing me by my shoulder to stop me.

"What?"

God, please don't tell me this one is going to come already. He better at least get me off.

"You're that freak, aren't you?"

My heart sinks. "What?"

"That fucking groupie freak," he says. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his cell phone, and I realize what he's doing—he's trying to take a picture of my chest so he can tell everyone he hooked up with that freak.

I grab the phone from his hand before he gets the chance and throw it hard against the wall. "Get out!" I scream, scrambling for my shirt. "Get the fuck out of my house!"

"What the fuck?" Crossing the room, he picks his phone up from the floor. "You broke my phone, you psycho bitch!"

"What'd you just call me?" I ask calmly. On the inside, I'm not calm at all. I grab the butcher knife from the side table and clutch it in my fist. He sees it but calls my bluff.

"I said…you're a fucking psychopath Frankenstein-looking bitch. And you're going to pay for my fucking phone."

I smile, turning the knife over in my hand. "I was hoping you'd say that."

I cross the room in three strides, kicking the door shut as soon as he pulls it open and grabbing him by his hair. I hold the knife just under his chin.

"I just wanted to get fucked, Max, but you know what? This is going to be so much more satisfying." I get off a little bit on the paradox of it, thinking of how many women worry about scenarios exactly like this anytime they go home with a man they don't know. But men like Max never walk into the home of a girl like me and worry it might be the last thing they do. I lean in, pressing my lips to his ear. "I like the sound it makes when the knife goes in," I whisper. "It's been too long."

Max elbows me in the stomach hard enough to get free of my grip, and the knife slices the base of his throat in the process. It's superficial, nothing deep or detrimental, but it bleeds, pooling at the collar of his t-shirt. He brings his hand to his throat, covering it.

Now between him and the door, when I lunge for him again, he runs through the back of the house, looking for another exit. I turn the corner, chasing him down that back hallway, but I'm stopped by strong hands tightening around my wrists and pinning me against the wall. He slams my right hand against the wall until I finally release the knife, and it falls to the ground.

"Stupid fucking girl," Bone Saw grumbles.

"Get off of me!" I shout.

He's not real, I remind myself. But my wrists hurt, and the knuckles on my right hand burn from where they scraped against the plaster, and now I'm not so sure. I squeeze my eyes shut, attempting to force the hallucination back into whatever dark corner of my mind he crawled out of.

Then, I hear the sliding back door open, and when I look again, I'm alone—just me and the bloody knife on the floor. I slide down the wall and onto the cold tile.

I pick up the knife, examining it in the moonlight. I stabbed my booty call—I would have killed him if I could have. I wanted to kill that fucking nurse who bled me, too.

Maybe he's right. I run my tongue over the blade, licking it clean, moaning when I taste the warm, coppery liquid on my tongue. I close my eyes and let it sit there. I don't swallow, I just kind of wait for it to dissipate. Maybe I am a freak.

Afterward, I clean the knife in the kitchen sink, first with soap and water and then with vodka before replacing it. Then, I look for more bloodstains on the tile, scrubbing them clean and disposing of the evidence.

And once I'm finished and it's nearly midnight, I head upstairs, strip down, turn off the lights, and crawl into bed. When I roll onto my side, he's there again, sitting in my chair in the back corner of the room with his arms crossed in front of him.

"You're a problem, little monster," he says. "You can't run around stabbing frat boys."

"Do you think he's going to tell anyone?" I whisper. "Like the police?"

"No," he says.

"It was nice for a minute, though—being touched, feeling wanted. I'm so lonely."

"Of course you are," he says. "Things like you don't belong in places like this. You'll always be lonely here."

It's nothing I don't know, but then again, how could it be?

"I'm not a thing."

"You're not quite a person, either, are you? What do you think is going to happen?" he continues. "You're going to get a job, fall in love with someone normal, live in a neighborhood like this, and no one will notice what you are? Please." He scoffs. "You're going to snap again and wake up in a puddle of blood. Maybe it'll even be your parents; my money's on the sister."

"I wish you were Luca," I tell the thing in the chair before turning to face the wall. "I hate you."

I bring the comforter to my mouth and bite down, stifling a sob.

"You're not going to cry again, are you?" he asks.

I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to answer.

"I'm not Luca. I'm not going to baby you."

"Please?" I sniffle. "Please, will you hold me?"

"I thought I wasn't real."

"It doesn't matter," I tell him. "It still feels good."

"No."

I bring a pillow to my chest, wrap my arms around it, and squeeze tightly. I bury my face into the side of the pillow and pretend I'm not alone until I fall asleep.