u/Trash_Tia

Preeclampsia was a pregnant woman’s worst nightmare.

The confirmation that, despite everything, your body still might not be strong enough, healthy enough to deliver your baby. In other words, my twins were sucking the life out of me.

My boyfriend already disagreed about who mattered more. We were moving into a new town. And so far, he'd ignored me the entire journey. Earlier, he'd grabbed my face, his eyes wild, his lips curled with panic. “LISTEN to me,” he practically snarled. “I love our babies, and I want to keep them.”

He let out a shuddery breath, and something inside me split apart.

No.

I tried to step away, tried to pull myself out of a conversation I was suddenly terrified of, he pulled me closer instead.

“But I love you more,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “And if I had to choose? Look at me.” I forced myself to meet his gaze. His eyes were red, tears already streaking down his cheeks. “I’d choose you in a fucking heartbeat, Melon.”

His words stabbed into my spine.

“How could you… say that?” The words were pouring out of me, and I felt my knees weaken, my head spinning.

Part of me knew what he meant, understood him, and part of me, this evil, inhuman, selfish part of me, was relieved, while the rest of me silently seethed for my babies’ lives. I shoved him, my gut twisting, bile swimming in my mouth.

“You've had a whole life with me,” was all I could splutter out.

I was lying.

He knew that.

I knew that.

But I was and would always be a Mommy first.

“They haven't!”

He laughed. “You're twenty five. I don't know you! I barely know you! And you're just going to throw your fucking life away?”

He blinked. Realized what he'd said.

Backtracked.

“Melon, that's not what I…”

The conversation was over.

Kaz would rather I live than our twins, the twins I was desperately trying to keep alive.

Kaz’s low murmur snapped me out of it while we were unloading the van. “This sounds like an asshole thing to say, but… uhh…where are the men?”

His arms were wrapped around a box, his gaze fixed across the road where at least a dozen women were already swarming over the road to greet us. Kaz shot me a sceptical look. He was… right.

There were no men. Standing awkwardly beside me, Kaz was a startling contrast to the crowd of middle-aged Karens.

“You’re pregnant!” one woman exclaimed, prodding my belly before her gaze flicked, annoyingly, to my boyfriend.

Her ice cold palm pressed against my stomach, making me shiver. “Tired eyes. Pale skin.” Her hands wrapped around mine. “Swollen ankles and fingers. Oh!”

Her eyes lingered on my boyfriend again, who looked more uncomfortable. “Sweetie, are you having… complications?”

“What?”

Another woman ambushed Kaz with fresh cookies. He took one with a polite smile, taking a bite, while our neighbors battered him with questions about my birth.

When they left, I felt nauseous while Kaz was chomping down on his third cookie.

“Why you?” I demanded, when the door slammed shut.

“Huh?” Kaz mumbled through another cookie.

He was strangely talkative, after spending six hours ignoring me. Leaning against the wall, his head was tipped back, a stupid grin split his mouth. “What's up?” He held the cookie up, a smile curling on his lips.

My boyfriend hadn't smiled since before my diagnosis. “Man, have you tasted these? They're insaaaane.” He tossed another in his mouth, giggling.

I ignored his unusual behavior. “They were asking you the pregnancy questions,” I had to sit down, my head was killing me.

“Why ask you about the birth?”

Kaz looked like he was about to respond, his lips twitching. “Fuck.”

He shook his head, blinking rapidly. “Do you think maybe I drove too long? I feel kinda… maybe overdid it, or some…thing…”

His words started slurring together. “I feel kinda…”

He stumbled back.

“Dizzy.”

“Kaz!”

His name had barely left my mouth before he collapsed.

The back of his head cracked against the glass coffee table.

“Preeclampsia, right?”

The woman's voice startled me. I twisted around, but she was already slamming something into the back of my head.

Her words fell into ocean waves as I felt her drag me from my home, carpet becoming concrete beneath me.

“You know, women were never the original bearers of children,” she hummed, almost like a nursery rhyme.

My eyes flickered as I lay on my back while she pulled me inside her own house, and down cement stairs.

The room I was taken inside was warm, thick, suffocating air brushing my face.

Around me, hospital beds filled with shadows. Pregnant women with bulging, veined bellies way past their due date.

Something slimy filled my mouth. No. Pregnant men.

A college aged man stared at me through half lidded eyes, face gaunt, the color drained from him.

“Men… believe it or not, are far better carriers. The male reproductive system— organically designed by us, of course— can carry and maintain and deliver perfect, healthy babies with zero complications!”

I was lifted onto a bed and strapped down, heavy restraints pinned over my pregnant belly.

When I screamed, I was gagged.

“It's okay, honey,” she whispered. “Your twins are going to be fine. We’ll give them a little longer inside the male, so they're perfectly healthy and grown!”

She leaned close, breath fluttering my cheek. “We just need your consent for the transfer! Which will be painless, of course! Well, for you.”

Kaz’s screams cut through me, as I was gently laid down.

A sharp point found my stomach, and I found myself… nodding.

Smiling.

I was a Mommy first.

Always.

“Yes.” I said, as blood ran thick across my belly with the first prick of the scalpel.

My twins kicked, like they were excited.

“Do it.”

It’s been five years since Mom traded my brother for a fully functioning coffee maker.

A real, industrial-style machine with coffee filters, a touch screen, and even an illuminated keypad! 

Most of the electronics in our home were dead, and then there was our thousand-dollar fucking coffee machine sitting on the countertop next to rationed bread and rice. 

Mom didn’t care that coffee was a luxury, and filters were more expensive than our house.

She used it once. The day after my brother was dragged away, the coffee machine was handed to her in a neat little box with a bow. Mom carefully removed the packaging, pulled out the machine, and made herself a flat white. She took one sip, and then dumped the rest down the drain. 

Since then, she barely acknowledges our coffee machine. 

I make sure to make coffee every day. 

I use my welfare on filters, buy the best coffee mugs, and real, fresh milk instead of the instant shit that comes out of a packet. 

Today, I set down my favorite mug. 

“Good morning.” I greet the machine. 

The countertop is soaking wet. 

I notice the leak immediately, my chest aching. 

“Fuck.” I grab a washcloth, but my hands are trembling. 

Warmth soaks through the cloth and I panic, dumping my hands in the faucet and scrubbing them until I can’t fucking breathe. 

“Mom,” my voice chokes up and splutters as I douse my hands in ice cold water that is never warm. 

Mom could have traded my brother for a goddamn microwave. 

“Mom!” I shriek, resorting to scrubbing my hands on my filthy shirt. Mom doesn’t have a washing machine, so my clothes are discolored and wrong and stick to me like a second skin. 

I grab a towel and clean up the leakage, my heart clogged in my throat. Stupid fucking coffee machine. I spit the words when it finally comes to life, coughing up bean juice and barely filling my cup. I drop the filthy towel soaked through. I hate it.

I hate that it sits there trundling like an engine, ignited and alive, churning out coffee.

“Elya?” Mom mumbles from the living room. “What’s wrong?”

I blink back tears and down the coffee. It tastes bitter without sugar. I hate it.

“Nothing,” I tell her. But I’m already wrapping my arms around the stupid fucking coffee machine. I throw it against the wall and scream until my throat hurts, until my saliva is tinged with red. Then I regret it. 

I drop to my knees, panting, breathless, scooping it into my arms. “I’m sorry.” I cradle the stupid thing, running my fingers over the cracks in the bottom. 

It’s still warm, still leaking all over my hands. I wipe them on my jeans and try to smile, tucking my knees into my chest.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” I squeeze the coffee maker closer, my lungs heaving, my sobs sputtered. “I’ll put you back,” I whisper into the rusted plastic that smells like burning. “I’ll put you back, and… and you’ll make me more coffee, all right?”

The coffee maker doesn’t respond because it’s a fucking coffee maker.

“Elya.” Mom steps into the kitchen, already in a mood. 

She doesn’t even look at the coffee maker stuck to my chest. 

“Sweetie, I was talking to your boyfriend last night,” she leans into the countertop, arms folded. 

She’s not looking at me. Instead, her head is inclined, gaze glued to her broken washing machine that still sputters water now and then. 

Mom broke off the door and used it for a mixing bowl.

“You’re not planning on having kids.” 

Great conversation starter. 

I have many responses. Women weren’t allowed jobs.

Especially disabled women. My brother, Ross, was deemed useless for having a boyfriend. He couldn’t, and didn’t want to provide mom with grandchildren. So, Mom traded him in for a coffee maker.

“I don’t want kids,” I tell my mother. 

I stand up, and place the coffee maker back on the countertop. 

I try to ignore the slow trickle of liquid pumping out of the back. “Your coffee maker is bleeding again.” 

Mom sighs, her eyes flicking to her washing machine. 

She doesn’t shout. Doesn’t even sound angry. Just like when Ross told her he was marrying a man. 

“So, you’re just going to kill off our family name?” 

Her tone isn’t poisonous, but her words still sting. “You know, you could go out there right now and find a nice, capable young man, and all you have to do is get pregnant and give him a child.” 

I ignore her, cleaning up the coffee maker leak.

Three towels, and it’s still bleeding, still dripping over the countertop. Still staining my skin.

“Elya.” Mom’s words collapse into ocean waves behind me.

I already know she’s called them.

But I want to stay with the coffee maker just a little longer.

So, I make an espresso, my hands trembling.

The maker refuses to work initially.

Then I gently run my fingers over the top as it sputters and thrums.

A single splatter of scarlet drops into my cup, and I find myself smiling. The doors fly open, masked men grabbing me. 

They’re gentle, because I am fragile goods. I don’t resist as they drag me outside. 

A van awaits me, already leaking thick red sludge into the street. 

The exhaust fumes smell and taste of blood, and I drop to my knees, a scream clawing. 

Humanity ran out of oil. 

So, every car on our street runs on those deemed useless.

Sometimes, I can see chunks of writhing red in the middle of the road.

My brother has been bleeding for five years, and Mom still refuses to fix him.

He's crying.

Every day, he fucking cries, and she ignores him. 

“I’m sorry, Elya.” Mom kneels in front of me in her filthy robe. She prods it, laughing, like it’s funny.

“I need a working washing machine.”

It’s been five years since Mom traded my brother for a fully functioning coffee maker.

A real, industrial-style machine with coffee filters, a touch screen, and even an illuminated keypad! 

Most of the electronics in our home were dead, and then there was our thousand-dollar fucking coffee machine sitting on the countertop next to rationed bread and rice. 

Mom didn’t care that coffee was a luxury, and filters were more expensive than our house.

She used it once. The day after my brother was dragged away, the coffee machine was handed to her in a neat little box with a bow. Mom carefully removed the packaging, pulled out the machine, and made herself a flat white. She took one sip, and then dumped the rest down the drain. 

Since then, she barely acknowledges our coffee machine. 

I make sure to make coffee every day. 

I use my welfare on filters, buy the best coffee mugs, and real, fresh milk instead of the instant shit that comes out of a packet. 

Today, I set down my favorite mug. 

“Good morning.” I greet the machine. 

The countertop is soaking wet. 

I notice the leak immediately, my chest aching. 

“Fuck.” I grab a washcloth, but my hands are trembling. 

Warmth soaks through the cloth and I panic, dumping my hands in the faucet and scrubbing them until I can’t fucking breathe. 

“Mom,” my voice chokes up and splutters as I douse my hands in ice cold water that is never warm. 

Mom could have traded my brother for a goddamn microwave. 

“Mom!” I shriek, resorting to scrubbing my hands on my filthy shirt. Mom doesn’t have a washing machine, so my clothes are discolored and wrong and stick to me like a second skin. 

I grab a towel and clean up the leakage, my heart clogged in my throat. Stupid fucking coffee machine. I spit the words when it finally comes to life, coughing up bean juice and barely filling my cup. I drop the filthy towel soaked through. I hate it.

I hate that it sits there trundling like an engine, ignited and alive, churning out coffee.

“Elya?” Mom mumbles from the living room. “What’s wrong?”

I blink back tears and down the coffee. It tastes bitter without sugar. I hate it.

“Nothing,” I tell her. But I’m already wrapping my arms around the stupid fucking coffee machine. I throw it against the wall and scream until my throat hurts, until my saliva is tinged with red. Then I regret it. 

I drop to my knees, panting, breathless, scooping it into my arms. “I’m sorry.” I cradle the stupid thing, running my fingers over the cracks in the bottom. 

It’s still warm, still leaking all over my hands. I wipe them on my jeans and try to smile, tucking my knees into my chest.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” I squeeze the coffee maker closer, my lungs heaving, my sobs sputtered. “I’ll put you back,” I whisper into the rusted plastic that smells like burning. “I’ll put you back, and… and you’ll make me more coffee, all right?”

The coffee maker doesn’t respond because it’s a fucking coffee maker.

“Elya.” Mom steps into the kitchen, already in a mood. 

She doesn’t even look at the coffee maker stuck to my chest. 

“Sweetie, I was talking to your boyfriend last night,” she leans into the countertop, arms folded. 

She’s not looking at me. Instead, her head is inclined, gaze glued to her broken washing machine that still sputters water now and then. 

Mom broke off the door and used it for a mixing bowl.

“You’re not planning on having kids.” 

Great conversation starter. 

I have many responses. Women weren’t allowed jobs.

Especially disabled women. My brother, Ross, was deemed useless for having a boyfriend. He couldn’t, and didn’t want to provide mom with grandchildren. So, Mom traded him in for a coffee maker.

“I don’t want kids,” I tell my mother. 

I stand up, and place the coffee maker back on the countertop. 

I try to ignore the slow trickle of liquid pumping out of the back. “Your coffee maker is bleeding again.” 

Mom sighs, her eyes flicking to her washing machine. 

She doesn’t shout. Doesn’t even sound angry. Just like when Ross told her he was marrying a man. 

“So, you’re just going to kill off our family name?” 

Her tone isn’t poisonous, but her words still sting. “You know, you could go out there right now and find a nice, capable young man, and all you have to do is get pregnant and give him a child.” 

I ignore her, cleaning up the coffee maker leak.

Three towels, and it’s still bleeding, still dripping over the countertop. Still staining my skin.

“Elya.” Mom’s words collapse into ocean waves behind me.

I already know she’s called them.

But I want to stay with the coffee maker just a little longer.

So, I make an espresso, my hands trembling.

The maker refuses to work initially.

Then I gently run my fingers over the top as it sputters and thrums.

A single splatter of scarlet drops into my cup, and I find myself smiling. The doors fly open, masked men grabbing me. 

They’re gentle, because I am fragile goods. I don’t resist as they drag me outside. 

A van awaits me, already leaking thick red sludge into the street. 

The exhaust fumes smell and taste of blood, and I drop to my knees, a scream clawing. 

Humanity ran out of oil. 

So, every car on our street runs on those deemed useless.

Sometimes, I can see chunks of writhing red in the middle of the road.

My brother has been bleeding for five years, and Mom still refuses to fix him.

He's crying.

Every day, he fucking cries, and she ignores him. 

“I’m sorry, Elya.” Mom kneels in front of me in her filthy robe. She prods it, laughing, like it’s funny.

“I need a working washing machine.”

They called us the miracle generation.

Children were seemingly not allowed in this town.

And when, by some miracle, they were somehow allowed to exist, they lasted maybe three or four days. So when an entire class of babies came out of nowhere, that is what our town named us.

Miracles.

Eighteen years later, Seth Daniels killed his parents.

And I don’t mean kill, like he burned the house down with them in it, or poisoned them in their sleep. I mean KILL.

According to the town newspaper my mom is always feverishly reading, the bodies were mutilated.

Like an animal had torn them apart.

I knew Seth. I’d known him since we were little kids. He lived across the road from me. Seth regularly invited me over to watch Power Rangers and would enthusiastically sing and dance to the intro. Seth loved his mom and dad.

The town media went radio silent except for one measly article in the newspaper.

I figured nobody wanted to say what everyone was thinking.

But it didn’t make sense.

This curse had allowed us to live for seventeen years, and now it wanted to do something?

And why would it lash out at parents instead of kids?

Why force the kid to kill their parents?

There was one detail that jumped out at me. It was Seth’s eighteenth birthday. The exact day. I knew this because he’d been talking about having a party at school.

I mean, I’m not a rocket scientist, but what kid actively talks about having a birthday party on the same day they’re planning to brutally murder their parents?

I asked a lot of questions because nobody else was making noise, and I refused to believe Seth had willingly done something like this. Mom said the Daniels case was too gruesome to tell me about, so I did some digging myself. We’re a small town.

Finn Novak is the son of the sheriff, so it cost me twenty dollars and a promise to introduce him to my brother to get into his dad’s office.

It was very cloak-and-dagger. I definitely felt like one of those TV detectives.

The documents were still fresh in the top drawer beneath his desk.

Daniels.

I picked up the folder, motioning for Finn to keep a lookout.

He tossed me a pissed-off look but attempted to charm the receptionist into a conversation while I studied the autopsy notes. After skim-reading, I wished I could delete the information from my memory.

“Mara!”

I lifted my head. The boy was making some pretty intense hand gestures worthy of a Saturday morning cartoon.

“Are you crazy? Get out of there!”

Before I could answer, he pointed behind him, eyes wide.

“My dad is coming,” he mouthed.

Nodding, I forced myself to stay calm despite the way my stomach twisted. I snapped several photos of the notes before swiftly leaving the room and closing the door behind me.

It’s not like Finn expressed any interest in what I was looking for, but he still sat with me on a bench in the middle of the town square, a Starbucks latte balanced on his lap.

“So?” He leaned over, peeking at my phone while loudly slurping on his straw. “What’s the verdict? Did he kill them?”

I had a hard time answering without bringing up my meager breakfast.

“Yes,” I said, staring at the photo on my phone screen.

Mom was right. The autopsy notes were gruesome. Because there was barely anything left to perform an autopsy on.

In my head, Seth had maybe stabbed his parents, but in reality, he had ripped them apart. The notes contained a detailed description of the remains, which weren’t much. A single torso and a head. That was it.

Both victims were Sonia (38) and Oliver (39) Daniels.

The images were black and white, and I could barely make them out, just two square photos stapled to the end of the report. But they wouldn’t leave my mind.

A single head. A torso.

That was all that remained of Seth’s parents.

Which meant somehow, he’d had the strength to rip them to shreds.

I was already thinking it when I passed my phone to Finn, who hissed through his teeth.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered, passing me his empty cup while squinting at the screen. “Crazy asshole actually butchered them.”

“He didn’t butcher them,” I managed to choke out, despite knowing I was deep in denial.

I couldn’t defend Seth when the evidence was sitting right there in black and white. He hadn’t just killed them. He had dismembered them in a way no human, not even some genius serial killer, could. This was animalistic.

The more I thought about it, the sicker I got.

It wasn’t until my mouth filled with vomit and I was on my hands and knees choking up my guts that the gravity of the situation truly slammed into me.

If Seth Daniels had killed his mom and dad out of nowhere, was that fate eventually going to take me too?

It had to be the curse. There was no other explanation.

I didn’t dig any further into the investigation because I was terrified of finding something I didn’t want to see. Murder motivated by emotion or motive is awful, sure, but it can still be understood.

But when it comes to some separate force taking control of your will and forcing you to kill, that’s when there are no real answers. Only questions.

Our town had been plagued by an invisible force that had taken away our children. Could it be that we’d angered it? By being born, had we somehow pissed off this all-seeing god?

It was several days later when Mom told me Seth had been taken to juvenile detention and never even got a court case. He admitted to it automatically.

“Yes, I killed my mom and dad.”

Those were his exact words when he was dragged from his house with his arms bound behind his back, a pair of Ray-Bans hiding his eyes from the world. The words were cruel and unforgiving, spoken in an emotionless drone. He didn’t care.

Watching him get swarmed by local news crews from my bedroom window, Seth almost resembled a celebrity. The way he was shoved through flashing lights and microphones.

Seth Daniels hated attention. Usually, if he got picked to read aloud in class, his cheeks would turn bright red and he’d stumble through the passage trying not to cry.

The boy I saw now was not my neighbor.

This version of him held his head high, movements swift and robotic as he calmly climbed into the back of a waiting SUV.

Despite seeing all of that, despite watching Seth stand uncaring in front of the cameras, I still knew he would never do something like that.

I know murderers can turn out to be the most unexpected people. Friends. Family. The people you grow up with and trust.

But there was something about the Daniels case I couldn’t get out of my head.

Mom told me to forget about it when I started asking questions about this so-called curse, and about how exactly I was born.

Over dinner, I asked one too many.

She dropped her fork onto her plate, startling my twin sitting across from me.

Freddie and I were fraternal twins and looked nothing alike, but that didn’t stop Mom from trying to dye my hair when I was little so I’d match Freddie’s red curls.

I have natural brown hair, Freddie is a redhead, and Noa is blonde.

Normal people would probably question that, but in our town it was pretty common for kids not to resemble their parents because of the lengths people went to in order to have children.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said for maybe the third or fourth time, fully aware I was hyper-fixating. “Why now?”

I forked pasta into my mouth, ignoring my twin’s glare.

“If we really are cursed, why wait a whole seventeen years?”

“Mara.”

Mom cleared her throat, her lips pausing on the rim of her wine glass. When Dad worked late, Mom pulled out the wine. We weren’t supposed to tell him.

“What did I tell you about discussing business that is not ours?”

“But it is my business,” I said. “Seth was my friend.”

“He was my friend.” Freddie had already finished his dinner, occasionally glancing down at his Switch. “You didn’t even like him. Do you remember when you called him an asshole?”

This time, I kicked him. From the way he jumped in his seat, his eyes widening for the fraction of a second, it hurt him.

“We were twelve, and he stole my doll.”

“You still called him an A-hole,” Freddie said in a sing-song voice, his gaze flicking back to his game. “I actually played with him, and he only paid attention to you because he wanted to play on your DS.”

“You called him a big-nosed freak,” I spat back.

“So did you!”

Noa, our more well-behaved little sister, ducked her head to hide her laughter.

“That’s enough.” Mom, who was halfway through a bottle of wine, slammed the glass down on the table. Her eyes found mine. “Mara, if you ask one more question about the Daniels case, I will take your phone for a week.”

Freddie snickered, but she snapped at him too. “That goes for you too.”

She stood up. “I’m going upstairs. Whoever is on the rota, please clean the dishes and make the kitchen tidy before your father comes home.”

Freddie huffed like a child, folding his arms. “What about Noa?” He gestured to her. “She was laughing.”

“I was not!” Noa squeaked.

Judging by the sudden noise that escaped my brother’s mouth, our little sister had joined me in my assault.

Mom didn’t reply. Taking her glass of wine, and the whole bottle, she slunk upstairs as usual.

We were used to it. Every night when Dad was at work, Mom abandoned us at the dinner table and did the same ritual she had been doing since we were little kids.

Armed with nothing but wine and a candle, Mom would lock herself in her bedroom until the early hours of the next morning.

When we were ten, Freddie and I attempted to sneak in and see what she was doing. But at that point, and that late into the night, Mom had fallen asleep on the floor, the candle still flickering away.

That night was the same.

Mom disappeared all night, and I took it upon myself to clean away the dishes. Freddie went to hang out with friends, and Noa practically went brain-dead once she got on TikTok.

Mom had a strict rule.

No matter what, we had to hand our phones in at 11 every night.

That included all electronics, including Switches. In fact, she went as far as switching off the outlets in our rooms, which meant no late-night games of Mario Kart. I thought we would eventually grow out of the rule, but no.

Freddie was, of course, the golden boy, so he had left his phone and Switch on the kitchen table before leaving for his friend’s house, which Mom also said wasn’t allowed, but I guess that rule didn’t apply to him.

I was sitting on the kitchen countertop, frowning at my phone screen, reading and rereading the Daniels autopsy notes, when Noa let out a shriek.

The time was 11:01 which meant Noa was already breaking the no-phone rule.

I jumped off the countertop, pausing to throw my phone next to Freddie’s before the thought hit me.

Why was my first automatic thought to put my phone down?

I tried to pocket it, before a pulsing pain suddenly ignited between my fingers. It felt like an electric shock, only lasting a few seconds, maybe not even that.

My phone slipped from my hands, but not before the lights above flickered and went out completely, leaving me in darkness.

Fuck.

The warm glow of the hallway outside confirmed that just the kitchen had short-circuited.

Mom had always been antsy about technology altogether. She only got us phones because we begged, and Freddie had bought his Switch himself with cash from his part-time job.

My gaze found my mostly okay iPhone lying face down on the pastel pink tiles.

I reached to pick it up, before that same pain writhed up my index finger.

“Mara!”

Noa’s squeak came from the lounge. I found her sitting on the floor, her phone in her hands. Her eyes were wide, her lips stretched into a grin.

“Look!” she whispered.

Following her gaze, I saw my sister grasping her phone. I saw nothing interesting. She was watching a YouTube video, some kind of video essay on serial killers.

“What?”

“It’s charging!”

At first, I had no idea what she was talking about. Before my gaze found the charging symbol at the top of her screen, a lightning bolt indicating the charger was inserted.

But when I followed Noa’s pointer finger, I glimpsed her iPhone charger on the other side of the room, still plugged into the outlet.

Noa was shaking with anticipation. “Wait, that’s not even the best part!” she squeaked. “Look what happens if I let it go.”

My sister dropped the phone, and the symbol disappeared. She picked it back up, and the charging indicator flashed.

Initially, I thought she was playing some kind of trick. But she did it again, and then again, and I realized I wasn’t seeing things.

The phone was charging itself without a charger.

Noa, being Noa, automatically thought she had some kind of superpower. My little sister jumped to her feet and strode over to the television, prodding the screen, only for nothing to happen. Then she tried the lamp on the stand, and the PlayStation 4.

Nothing.

I admit, I was kind of excited for maybe a full minute before I realized there was most likely a scientific explanation, and there was.

According to an article I found online:

“Yes, electronic devices can charge their batteries through various methods without being plugged into a source of electricity.”

Still, according to the author of the article, it usually wasn’t enough power to make a difference, so why had Noa’s phone actually been charging?

I watched the percentage jump from 10% to 16.

I put it down to a malfunction.

It made sense, if I really thought about it.

The next day, however, did not make sense.

I was still half asleep when I awoke to my brother looming over me.

“What is it?”

Freddie waved the phone in my face. “Just read it.”

I did, skimming through the messages, each one sending my gut hurtling further and further into my throat.

There was a sea of grey messages from the recipient, and only two messages in blue from Freddie.

“Skinned of flesh. It was gnarly. Mrs Caine fainted, and my mom had a fucking panic attack.”

“Skull completely pulverized. I can’t believe I saw this shit, man. WTF. There are people guarding the scene now, but earlier you could just fucking walk in.”

“Animal.”

“Crazy fucking psycho. The living room was covered in blood, like a horror movie. My guy painted the fucking walls.”

“There was nothing left on the stretcher they brought out, just skin? There were blue sheets over the body, but there wasn’t even a body. I think I saw a hand or maybe a foot, but they definitely weren’t attached. IDK, it was fucking gross. Mom wants to send me to therapy lmao.”

My brother finally replied in blue.

“Who was it?”

“Sheriff’s son,” came the reply.

“That kid is going to hell, and I’m an atheist. I hope he gets his karma because who does that??? Wasn’t he close to his pop? JFC, I can’t get my head around it.”

It took a moment for the messages to sink in, and I was out of bed before my brain could catch up with my body.

Finn.

In three strides, I was on my knees, choking up dust.

Freddie dropped down onto my bed with a hissed breath. “Didn’t you know that kid?” he whispered. “That was Finn, right?”

His words weren’t fully registering.

This time, I did throw something up, something sour and slimy spluttering from my lips, my stomach heaving.

“You okay?”

“No.”

“Do you… want me to help?”

“No!”

I swiped at my mouth, but it kept coming, this time bouts of stomach lining filling my mouth.

“Did you check?” I managed to choke out, spitting out vomit.

“Huh?”

“Did you check,” I said slowly, spacing out my words, “to see if it was Finn?”

“Oh, yeah, it was him alright. The cops already caught him. Apparently, he was trying to make a run for it.” Freddie sighed. “Maybe he was scared.”

It didn’t make sense.

How could Finn kill his father?

He loved his dad.

I barely knew the kid outside of him helping me get into his dad’s office, but even then, I saw photo frames on Sheriff Novak’s desk. I saw photos of the two of them at Christmas and Father’s Day, on vacations, and just hanging out together.

In kindergarten, a boy had loudly announced that Sheriff Novak was a pig, and Finn wrestled him to the ground, almost knocking the kid out.

Finn was tiny. Lean.

There was no way he was strong enough to rip his father apart.

“Fuck.” Freddie groaned. Hanging upside down off the bed, he twisted his head to look at me, blowing dark red hair out of his eyes. “Are we cursed?”

That was the first time I found myself nodding, my thoughts dizzy.

But that didn’t stop me from trying to talk to him. According to Mom, Finn was being shipped off to juvenile detention at noon.

Until then, he was locked up downtown.

Sheriff Novak was dead, so the town’s law enforcement was scrambling to appoint someone new. The station had been packed all morning before people slowly started to disperse.

I took my chance, slipping in with a group of frantic parents screaming about the safety of their kids. While the woman behind the counter tried to calm them down, I ducked through the door at the back and into the cells.

I expected guards.

There were none.

I figured the chaos with the parents had given me the perfect distraction.

The first thing I noticed when I stepped inside was the flickering light. Not from the bulbs overhead. In front of the cells sat an empty desk with an open laptop. As I stepped closer, I realized it was the laptop screen flickering erratically.

When the bulb above me shattered, I jumped.

“Mara.”

Finn’s voice sounded just like Seth’s. Flat. Emotionless.

I spun around and caught sight of him standing behind the bars, hands wrapped around them. Very Silence of the Lambs.

Finn loved horror movies, so I wouldn’t have been surprised if he was jokingly reenacting a scene. Though that would have required him to show even a shred of emotion.

I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but it wasn’t this.

I thought Finn would be hysterical. Crying. Swearing he was innocent, that he would never kill his father.

Instead, I was staring at the face of a murderer.

Or half of one.

His lips curved into a faint smile, but there was nothing behind it. Just like Seth, his eyes were hidden behind a pair of Ray-Bans. Expensive-looking ones that clashed with his plain short-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, both stained with his father’s blood.

When I opened my mouth to speak, his arms dropped to his sides.

“Aren’t you going to wish me a happy birthday?”

The phantom legs of a spider crawled down my spine. I took an involuntary step toward him, my breath catching in my throat.

“It’s your birthday?”

He nodded once. “I turned eighteen yesterday. Wish me a happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” I whispered. “And… did you…”

“I killed my dad,” Finn finished for me in the exact same tone as Seth. No remorse. No hesitation. Nothing to suggest he regretted what he’d done.

“I pulled out his lungs and cut off his head. I skinned him to the bone and dumped his guts in the toilet to hide them.”

“But…” I shook my head, tears burning my eyes. “You didn’t… you didn’t mean to…”

Finn cut me off, slicing straight through my spiraling thoughts.

“When is your birthday again?” he asked, without a trace of curiosity.

The question was simple, but it sent me stumbling backward into the cold concrete wall.

“When is your birthday?”

“Why?”

His expression never changed.

“When is your birthday?”

“June twenty-third,” I breathed.

Finn stayed still for a moment before slowly slipping off his Ray-Bans.

At first, I thought he was going for some dramatic reveal, like a character in a noir movie about to confess every grisly detail of what he’d done to his father.

Instead, the glasses dropped from his fingers, and I saw where his eyes should have been.

Twin caverns of darkness stared back at me, somehow still alive.

I couldn’t stop myself from stepping closer, peering through the dim light of the cell.

No.

I wasn’t imagining it.

Finn’s eyes were gone, ripped clean from his skull.

The skin around the sockets was torn and bruised, the damage jagged and violent.

“Happy birthday,” he said in the same dull, lifeless drawl.

I recoiled. Finn bent down slowly, felt around for the glasses, and slid them back on.

“For the twenty-third, I mean.”

Then he pressed his face against the bars.

This time, a manic giggle burst out of him from nowhere. His expression stayed vacant, but his mouth stretched into the grin of someone who had butchered his father and didn’t care.

“I’m looking forward to you joining me.”

That was when I left.

But before I could slam the door shut behind me, his voice followed me down the hallway.

“And your brother!”

Finn’s laughter turned hysterical, almost animalistic. I could hear the clang of his skull smashing against the bars.

“Don’t forget your brother!”

I was dragged out of the sheriff’s office almost immediately and lectured by Mom for two straight hours. But even sitting in the living room while she yelled at me, half the precinct crowded around her, I couldn’t stop hearing Finn’s words.

It was only when Mom pointed at me, her lips moving soundlessly, that I snapped back to reality and got hit with another lecture about privacy and illegal entry.

I ignored most of it.

Sitting cross-legged on the couch beside Noa, who was pretending to scroll through her phone, I finally spoke up.

“I think it’s the curse.”

The room fell silent.

Mom looked genuinely startled for a second before shaking her head sharply.

“That is not what we are talking about, young lady. Do you understand how serious this is?”

“Yeah, Mara,” Freddie chimed in from across the room. Like Noa, he was doing a terrible job pretending he wasn’t enjoying every second of my interrogation. “I can’t believe you’d be so careless and stupid…”

He trailed off.

“Oh wait! Didn’t you break in last month to steal documents from the Daniels case?”

A grin tugged at his mouth.

“Pretty sure that was illegal too, but what do I know? I’m just a high schooler. I don’t sneak into the sheriff’s office when I’m supposed to be in class.”

I glared at him. “How do you even know that? You go through my phone?”

He shrugged, comfortably adjusting himself on the recliner. “Your passcode is four zeroes. A toddler could bypass it.”

I don’t know if it was the stress of what happened with Finn, or my brother’s dumb fucking grin, but I was already lunging across the room to… I don’t know. 

He’s taller than me, more built. He could squash me if he really wanted to. So what I thought was going to be a fight turned into me trying to do some damage while Freddie just shoved me away with a scoff.

I did manage to hit him in the nose, but that was when Mom came in, pulling us apart and going into Mom-mode.

“Mom-mode” was when she really got mad.

Noa decided she no longer wanted to be a spectator and wandered into the kitchen. 

I was sent to my room, and Freddie was lectured for antagonising me. 

Several hours later, he appeared at my door with a half-eaten donut, a cup of hot cocoa, and a half-assed apology, which was his attempt at letting me know he was scared I was going to get myself hurt.

I took the donut and cocoa and told him to go away.

He did, after standing there for a while looking like a kicked puppy. I closed the door on his face when he made a point of trying to make me feel sorry for him.

I wanted to talk to him about Finn, but he would just tell Mom and get me into trouble.

So I found myself with information that was driving me crazy.

My eighteenth birthday was approaching, and more and more kids were turning on their moms and dads. After Finn, it was Addie, then Jason, Sara, and Kiara. All of them had turned eighteen within weeks of each other.

I thought the town was going to start freaking out and calling those of us who were left monsters, insisting we never should have been born.

But to my surprise, there was barely any news coverage, and it almost became normal to hear about yet another kid being sent to juvenile detention.

June arrived, and the days crept by faster and faster until it was the eve of my eighteenth birthday, and I found myself standing in my bathroom, trembling fingers wrapped around a razor blade.

Every time I thought about actually doing it, slicing into my flesh until my wrists were dripping scarlet and I was struggling to breathe, I couldn’t.

So I dumped the razor in the trash and left the bathroom, only to run into Noa.

Wrapped in her pink bathrobe, my little sister looked like a giant marshmallow hiding behind scraggly blonde curls.

“Mara!” Noa was grinning ear to ear, as usual. She grabbed my hands and squeezed them. “Do you remember what we did as kids?”

From the look on her face, I knew exactly what she was talking about.

When Mom was in bed or at work on our birthday eve, the three of us would scour her room for presents. We had eventually grown out of it, but every year Noa insisted on at least one search. It’s not like I could refuse when my sister already had a tight grip on my arm and was yanking me into Mom’s room.

When I stumbled inside, I found our brother on his knees under Mom’s bed, rifling through boxes and bags.

I was surprised Noa had managed to drag Freddie into it, considering every other year he rolled his eyes and bid us adieu, calling Noa a baby. 

But now he was just as enthusiastic as he had been when he was little, when he used to shush us and turn it into a game.

I would take one corner, Noa would take the closet, and Freddie would crawl under the bed because he was the only one who wasn’t scared of monsters hiding under there.

For a moment, I considered just walking away and telling them they were being stupid and acting like children.

But I did want to forget about the reality of turning eighteen and possibly murdering my family. In a way, I guess I wanted to be a kid again.

So, just like when I was five, I wandered over to the furthest corner to search for presents that didn’t exist. I knew they didn’t exist because Mom gave us cash every birthday inside a card.

Still, it was fun to search and feel that childlike magic come over me again. The thrill of pulling things aside and delving into boxes for hidden treasures, dolls we wanted, or the newest games console.

To make Noa happy, I shoved a few things aside, finding myself smiling. Mom was always bad at hiding our presents.

I was about to make that comment when Noa squeaked in delight.

“I found something!”

When I twisted around, she was already partially inside the closet, one foot sticking out, her head buried in Mom’s clothes. It looked like she was grasping at something.

Freddie, who had crawled out from under the bed, straightened up and shot me a look.

“Really?” his eyes said. “Aren’t we a little too old for this?”

“We are.” I mouthed back.

His grin transported me back to when we were nine and the two of us had collectively found five wrapped gifts, then spent an hour shaking them to figure out what they were. But there was also that glimmer of excitement in his eyes when he joined Noa in front of the closet, the two of them managing to heave out what looked like a large box.

I joined them hesitantly. “Any idea what it is?”

I frowned at the box the two of them were struggling to hold properly. It was huge, almost the size of the closet itself.

When Freddie and Noa finally managed to balance it, the three of us stepped backwards to take it in.

Immediately, something cold slithered down my spine.

First, it was the state of the box.

Old.

The cardboard was rotting.

Noa shrieked when a mountain of bugs crawled out of the flaps.

Looking closer, it seemed to be a box for a toy or a doll. But when I squinted, I realised the box was open. It had been open for a long time, and the more I looked, the sicker I felt.

There was something staining the cardboard, an old red colour painting the flaps and the inside of the thing itself.

Suddenly, things were happening too quickly for me to understand.

A blur of movement to my right. Freddie dropping to his knees and barfing everywhere.

Then Noa stumbling out of the room.

I could hear her screams.

I could see my brother retching, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the front of the box.

Because on the front of the box was… me.

MARA.

I was staring at a photo of myself smiling widely, colourful words printed across the box:

“NOW GROWS TO FULL SIZE!” (Mom’s Net Certified)

The printed words looked like a different language, even though I could still read them.

“CHILD™. HAVE YOU EVER WANTED YOUR VERY OWN CHILD? WELL, NOW YOU CAN! JUST PULL OUT THE CORD, AND YOU HAVE YOUR VERY OWN SON/DAUGHTER!”

I stepped forward when something moved.

Freddie yanked me back, but I was already delving deeper into my mother’s closet and finding a much newer box.

This one was unopened.

Occupied.

A fully grown college-aged guy peeked through the plastic packaging.

This time I saw the cord, like an umbilical cord connected to the thing inside the box, which was asleep.

Its eyes were shut.

“FREDDIE,” it read. “THIS TIME IN COLLEGE!!!”

Before Freddie could see it, I shoved it back, stumbling, my heart in my throat.

I frowned at the blood staining the bottom of the second box when my brother grabbed my hand and yanked me backwards.

Before I could fully register what was going on, he was dragging me downstairs.

I think he was trying to get me out of there, but then he stopped, freezing in place.

When I followed his gaze, I found two birthday cards set up on the mantelpiece.

They were labelled in our mother’s handwriting.

The purple one was mine.

The pink one was Freddie’s.

I opened mine up, but instead of a twenty-dollar note slipping out, I found myself staring at a countdown reflected onto my face in red light.

59

58

57

Below that:

“My dearest Mara,

I am so happy I met you and was able to call you my daughter. I found you at the age of seventeen, but you have given me a lifetime of memories I will cherish.

You will be running out very soon, and like the other moms, I don’t want to see you go.

I am supposed to be giving you back tomorrow, but we have each made a pact. With every child we obtained, every mother and father agreed that sending you back to those people would be terrible.

Giving you to another mother would break my heart, sweetheart.

I have heard your biological mother has never stopped searching for you, and trust me, she won’t find you.

So I’m not going to give you back.

I do not support the company I got you from, but I have always wanted a child.

And this town cannot have children. I have lost too many inside me to be hopeful.

Happy birthday, my beautiful daughter.

And goodbye.”

I’m not sure what emotions I felt at that moment, but I finally understood why Finn, Seth, and the others had killed their parents.

I was wrong.

There was a motive.

Rage.

“What the fuck?” Freddie dropped his card, eyes wide. “We need to get out. We need to fucking get out of here, because whatever this thing is, it’s going to blow.”

My brother shook me violently.

“Are you listening to me?! We need to get Noa and get the fuck out of here!”

Going to blow, I thought dizzily.

Had Mom planted a bomb?

There was no time to find it. No way to get out.

I was nodding along with my brother, trying to find Noa, who had disappeared, when it hit me like ice-cold water.

Finn standing in the cells with his eyes carved out.

Seth wearing Ray-Bans to cover his eyes.

Every other kid I saw always wore sunglasses, always hid their eyes.

With the countdown reflecting onto the wall and Freddie screaming at me to find our sister, I wandered into the kitchen, pulled open Mom’s prized knife drawer, and picked out the sharpest blade I could find.

It had been driving me crazy ever since seeing the sheriff’s son’s mutilated face. Why would he do that to himself? Why would he kill his father and then carve out his own eyes?

Part of me thought it really was a curse that had taken them as some kind of reward.

But I was wrong.

Of course I was wrong.

Finn Novak didn’t scoop out his eyes because he was fucking crazy.

He carved them out because he had gotten that exact birthday card.

That exact countdown.

And somehow, he had known, just like me, as I stuffed my sweater sleeve into my mouth, that the bomb was part of us.

Digging the blade into my eye and jerking it at an angle to sever it, I screamed into my sleeve, managing to choke out sobbing pleas for my brother to do the same. The countdown was still in my head, and if I concentrated, I could hear it.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The thing sandwiched inside me.

It could have been either eye or both, but I didn’t have time to guess.

I was already on my knees when I managed to scoop out my eye with the knife and then my fingers.

When the beeping stopped, I pressed my face into the kitchen floor and breathed in and out, using my sleeve to staunch the blood pouring down my face.

My vision was ruined, and I was pretty sure I was going to be blind, but it was better than being blown to pieces.

Freddie was already in front of me, eyes wide and confused, clumsily grasping for the knife to do the same.

“We’re okay,” my brother hissed.

He was already following my lead, biting into his sleeve and hovering the knife in front of his eye.

Noa stood in the doorway.

I could see her shadow, and just seeing her, I knew she was trembling, too scared to come near either of us.

I opened my mouth to reassure her while helping Freddie sever the thing inside him.

Then… pop.

I heard it first, an audible popping sound in my ear.

Noa screamed behind me.

Something warm hit my face.

Warm and red, coating my eyes and cheeks.

When I wiped the startling scarlet from my face, I found glistening blood dripping from the walls and slick across the floor, the countertops, everything.

I reached out for my brother.

But he wasn’t there anymore.

I don’t care if I’m some artificially grown freak who was born at seventeen years old.

I have already raided my kitchen for the best knives I can find.

So I can find my mother and father.

And make them suffer. 😊

11:57.

Sitting cross-legged in the middle of pitch-black LA, my phone sits in my lap, a shard of glass tucked into my fist. I squeeze tighter, ignoring the trickle of warmth through my fingers. I count a full minute, my heart pounding in my chest, my breaths shuddering. Another minute. 

11:58. 

Behind me, a group of drunken college students are screaming. One of them throws an empty cup, and it hits the back of my head. I don’t react. “Ooh, shit!” one of them yells. “Sorry, babe!”

He sounds young. College aged. The guy has his arms wrapped around two high school girls. Fifteen at the youngest. 

Bitterness swells inside me, threatening to spill from my lips, a vicious poison I can't control. I swallow it down. 

00:00 lights up my lockscreen.

I pull off my suffocating hoodie that smells of stale BO and coffee, revealing my dress I had to hide. I'm too young to be wearing a revealing dress. I'm too young for tattoos. I'm too young for stilettos. 

The dress is my favorite; a vintage silk gown that sculpts all of my curves and pools beneath me. A boy I used to know a long time ago bought it for me in Florence.

I pass the grinning college boy, his head nestled into the younger girl’s shoulder, and I can't resist the words bubbling up. Violent. Sour. I remember my first boyfriend. I was 21. He was 56.

He told me I was a good girl, and gave me a starring role in his movie. 

My words are personal and taste like bullets. “Date your own age, kid.” 

He laughs. Spits. “Kid?” He splutters. “Aren't YOU a fuckin’ kid?” 

It takes maybe half a second for him to realize. After all, I'm no longer hiding under my sweatshirt. His eyes fill with stars, lips twitching into maybe an apology as he fights to apologize, fights to remember how to treat someone like me. He shoves the younger girls away, like she's trash.

Because I'm suddenly valuable in his eyes.

I'm a star. 

Ignoring him, I step straight into a club. 

A security guard stops me immediately. “No minors.” 

I pull my ID. “I actually turned eighteen today.” 

The guard holds my ID up to the light, squinting. “You're one hundred and three.” He deadpans. 

Still, he lets me in with an eye roll. “Happy birthday.” 

The first thing I do when I step into the club is go to the bathroom. Two teenage girls are on their knees doing cocaine with a rolled up page from a book. 

“Close the door,” one groans, struggling to sniff a line.

I step inside a stall and waste no time pulling out the shard of glass and cutting out the pea-sized tracking device sandwiched under my skin.

I wipe my hands on my dress and flush it down the toilet.

My phone vibrates when I'm cleaning myself up in the mirror, watching flakes of scarlet drain down the plug hole like tea-leaves. “Excuse me,” one of the girls mumbles from my feet. She lifts her head, stars glittering in wide, coked-out eyes.

“Aren't you—”

I answer my phone instead of answering. 

“Jay?” 

“Kana!” 

Jay’s voice is younger. Fuck. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Kana, they got me,” he whispered. “I found my wife! She...she's buried in Virginia---"

“Jay, where are you?”

“I don't know,” he wails. “I can't…. I brought my car, but I… oh god, Kana, I…” 

“You forgot how to drive.” I whisper. “Cut out your tracker. Destroy your phone. I'll be there.”

“Ohh my gawwd,” one of the girls giggles. She's curled up now, hair splayed around her like a halo. “Now I know who you are! You're Kana! From that kids show---"

Back in the club, I throw myself through dancing bodies. I bump into a guy, whose eyes widen under flashing lights. “Urgh!” He shoves me back. Disgusted. “Who let a boomer in?” His lips twist. “Are you looking for SOME, you old bitch?” 

Ignoring him, I stumble outside, straight into the security guard.

“Lady.” He looks disgusted. Appalled, when I throw my hands up to hide myself. “What are you doing here?” His expression twitches, and I know he recognizes my dress. Maybe my face. His mouth opens, but I don't give him time to speak.

I jump into my car, already out of breath.

My hands find the steering wheel, wrinkles folding into each other.

My cheeks are melting, coming apart. I can't resist a smile.

Even when my beautiful face concaves in the mirror, I only feel relief. 

Jay’s place is empty when I arrive. I find him next to the swimming pool. 

No.

I find a twelve year old kid wearing a man’s suit that bleeds around him, curled into a ball.

“Kana.” 

My manager stands behind me wearing a patient smile.

“Sweetie, what did I tell you about reporting to me when you turn eighteen?” 

She pulls out a small bag, then a needle.

I am too frail to stand up, never mind fight her. 

“Kana, baby,” she hums, slipping the point into my ancient skin. My real skin. "This is for your own good, Kana." She cradles my face, as my skin melts from my bones, shedding from my arms as new skin— young skin, slowly starts to sprout. “You are our country's golden girl,” she hums.

“Our beautiful, youthful Kana Goldie.”

Her grip tightens around my jaw, as I shrink, my beautiful dress— the one Thomas bought me in Florence. 

The one he told me I looked beautiful in.

Mature.

Ancient silk round me, slipping from my bony shoulders. My bones narrowing, shattering beneath stretching flesh sculpting me  into a child once more. 

My manager smiles as I pull the dress around me.

She dumps a kid-sized long sleeved sweatshirt over my head. Jay stands up, and I pretend not to hear his muffled sobs.

“Get dressed, both of you,” she addresses us. “You've got a recording tomorrow.” 

My boyfriend is a superhero.

No cape. No superpowers or origin story.

He just was.

Today, we were drinking milkshakes and strolling through the town square. Dex was the most popular guy in school, so he’d high-five and greet every passerby, a jazzy dance in his step. Five years after graduation, and he was still the talk of the town. The older generation treated him with candy and warm smiles.

He was charismatic and funny, often pulling me into a waltz in the middle of town “just because.”

I was talking about college, barely paying attention to where I was going, and then bam! Random falling piano!

It happened too fast for me to even process.

I looked up, a shiver crawling through me. My boyfriend was already on it, head snapping up, his eyes darkening, his milkshake slipping from his hands.

Dex, as always, was lightning fast, yanking me out of the way. The piano hit the ground and exploded on impact.

My chocolate banana milkshake crept back up my throat in a sour bile.

“Wow.” Dex laughed, pulled me closer. “What would you do without me, huh?”

I drained my shake and tossed him a sheepish smile, swallowing down chocolate banana flavoured bile.

His question hung in the air.

He was right.

Without him, I'd be dead.

“Do you think I’m…like, maybe cursed?” I asked when we were home.

“Maybe?” Dex rested his feet on my coffee table, flipping channels. “Are you 100% sure you sure you haven't pissed off a witch?”

“Shut up!” I squeaked, and he laughed, coming closer, cupping my face, and jerking me gently to face him. “Why though?” I whispered, when he kissed me, softly, tenderly, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Why do you always know exactly when I'm about to hurt myself? It doesn't make any sense—”

The way he held me made me feel weak, thoughtless. He kissed me again, muffling my words. “Because I love you,” Dex whispered, bumping my forehead. “I'm your…” he closed his eyes, his lips twitching. “I'm your knight... in shining armor, Alex.”

I kissed him back, suddenly starving for his touch. I grabbed for the buttons on his shirt, my hands shaking, my cheeks on fire. I wanted him. Heat flooded through me, my breaths shuddering as I pulled his collar apart. We hadn’t done it yet. I’d been waiting for the perfect time, and it was… it was now, right?

We weren’t kids anymore. We were twenty-two years old.

Responsible adults.

I found myself shoving him onto the sofa with a grin, a new-found confidence buzzing through me.

Dex hit the cushions, and I straddled his lap.

I didn't want kids.

But I did want him.

“Wait.” He gasped out when my lips found his, hungry, starving.

“What?” I sat back, breathless, my skin ignited.

“Babe.” Dex’s gentle kiss led to me pulling off his shirt.

Dex was never the one who initiated it. Always me. He just sat back, and I had the reins.

His breaths tickled my cheeks. Short bursts of laughter as I peppered his neck in kisses. “Do you think…I respect women?” His question took me off guard.

My lips froze, nibbling his throat. “What?”

He laughed. “Oh, come on, babe!” Dex sat up, lips pulled into a smile. “I respect women, right?”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Just because!”

I shuffled off of him and we ate dinner in silence. When he left for the gym, I had a sickly taste in my mouth. I thought it was just a one-time thing. Dex wasn't usually like this. He never asked these types of questions. Dex was an English major.

He… he quoted The Great Gatsby and unironically mouthed to Wannabe.

Then he asked again during our dating anniversary dinner.

We were eating tacos and watching b movies, and I was laughing hard, my mouth full of steak and cheese, and he leaned over, lips pricking into a smirk.

Dex wiped my mouth with a swipe of his napkin. Closer, and his breath was in my face. “Do you think…” he cocked his head, his gaze piercing. It could have been the light, but his eyes were different. Colder.

His lips curved, as if silently mocking me. “Alex, do you think I respect women?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?” I demanded. “Yes? Obviously!”

I finally answered him. “Yes, you respect women! Can you drop it?”

Last night, I heard him talking to himself. I caught him lounging on the sofa talking loudly, but when I rushed downstairs to see, he was alone. “Who are you talking to?”

His eyes found mine, lips breaking into a grin. He slowly stood up, strode over to the coffee table, and picked up a marble paperweight.

“They wanted me to be your superheroooo at the start, you know.” Dex threw his head back and laughed. He started toward me. “Like… saving you from shit. Your ‘knight’ in shining armor, or whatever.”

He mocked his earlier words.

“Dex.” I whispered, stumbling back.

His expression twisted. Maniacal. “Shut the shut fuck uuuuup, oh my GOD you are so goddamn annoying. Your constant whining, your, “what if I'm cursed”? BS. It's lit-er-ally so fucking exhausting.”

He kicked the table over. “Jeez. The constant validation these guys need is crazy!” His lips split apart in a grin.

"Do I respect women? Chat can't make up their fuckin’ mind! They make me do soppy romance shit, ask me the same goddamn question over and over, and it's like fucking OBVIOUSLY, bro? Why wouldn't I respect women?”

He stopped in front of me. “WELL?” He demanded an invisible audience. Something cold crept through me, glimpsing something glittering, mechanical, ignited in his eye.

Dex’s smile stretched into a smile which didn't reach his eyes. “The poll is live, chat!” He swung the paperweight teasingly. “Do I KISS the bitch?”

He leaned closer, his breath feathering across my cheeks.

“Or fuckin’ KILL her?”

My boyfriend was a superhero.

No cape. No superpowers or origin story.

He just was.

Today, we were drinking milkshakes and strolling through the town square. Dex was the most popular guy in school, so he’d high-five and greet every passerby, a jazzy dance in his step. Five years after graduation, and he was still the talk of the town.

The older generation treated him with candy and warm smiles.

He was charismatic and funny, often pulling me into a waltz in the middle of town “just because.”

I was talking about college, barely paying attention to where I was going, and then bam! Random falling piano!

It happened too fast for me to even process.

I looked up, a shiver crawling through me. My boyfriend was already on it, head snapping up, his eyes darkening, his milkshake slipping from his hands.

Dex, as always, was lightning fast, yanking me out of the way. The piano hit the ground and exploded on impact.

My chocolate banana milkshake crept back up my throat in a sour bile.

“Wow.” Dex laughed, pulled me closer. “What would you do without me, huh?”

I drained my shake and tossed him a sheepish smile, swallowing down chocolate banana flavoured bile.

His question hung in the air.

He was right.

Without him, I'd be dead.

“Do you think I’m…like, maybe cursed?” I asked when we were home.

“Maybe?” Dex rested his feet on my coffee table, flipping channels. “Are you 100% sure you sure you haven't pissed off a witch?”

“Shut up!” I squeaked, and he laughed, coming closer, cupping my face, and jerking me gently to face him. “Why though?” I whispered, when he kissed me, softly, tenderly, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Why do you always know exactly when I'm about to hurt myself? It doesn't make any sense—”

The way he held me made me feel weak, thoughtless. He kissed me again, muffling my words.

“Because I love you,” Dex whispered, bumping my forehead.

“I'm your…” he closed his eyes, his lips twitching. “I'm your knight... in shining armor, Alex.”

I kissed him back, suddenly starving for his touch. I grabbed for the buttons on his shirt, my hands shaking, my cheeks on fire. I wanted him. Heat flooded through me, my breaths shuddering as I pulled his collar apart. We hadn’t done it yet. I’d been waiting for the perfect time, and it was… it was now, right?

We weren’t kids anymore. We were twenty-two years old.

Responsible adults.

I found myself shoving him onto the sofa with a grin, a new-found confidence buzzing through me.

Dex hit the cushions, and I straddled his lap.

I didn't want kids.

But I did want him.

“Wait.” He gasped out when my lips found his, hungry, starving.

“What?” I sat back, breathless, my skin ignited.

“Babe.” Dex’s gentle kiss led to me pulling off his shirt.

Dex was never the one who initiated it. Always me. He just sat back, and I had the reins.

His breaths tickled my cheeks. Short bursts of laughter as I peppered his neck in kisses. “Do you think…I respect women?” His question took me off guard.

My lips froze, nibbling his throat. “What?”

He laughed. “Oh, come on, babe!” Dex sat up, lips pulled into a smile. “I respect women, right?”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Just because!”

I shuffled off of him and we ate dinner in silence. When he left for the gym, I had a sickly taste in my mouth. I thought it was just a one-time thing. Dex wasn't usually like this. He never asked these types of questions. Dex was an English major.

He… he quoted The Great Gatsby and unironically mouthed to Wannabe.

Then he asked again during our dating anniversary dinner.

We were eating tacos and watching b movies, and I was laughing hard, my mouth full of steak and cheese, and he leaned over, lips pricking into a smirk.

Dex wiped my mouth with a swipe of his napkin. Closer, and his breath was in my face. “Do you think…” he cocked his head, his gaze piercing. It could have been the light, but his eyes were different. Colder.

His lips curved, as if silently mocking me. “Alex, do you think I respect women?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?” I demanded. “Yes? Obviously!”

I finally answered him. “Yes, you respect women! Can you drop it?”

Last night, I heard him talking to himself. I caught him lounging on the sofa talking loudly, but when I rushed downstairs to see, he was alone. “Who are you talking to?”

His eyes found mine, lips breaking into a grin. He slowly stood up, strode over to the coffee table, and picked up a marble paperweight.

“They wanted me to be your superheroooo at the start, you know.” Dex threw his head back and laughed. He started toward me. “Like… saving you from shit. Your ‘knight’ in shining armor, or whatever.”

He mocked his earlier words.

“Dex.” I whispered, stumbling back.

His expression twisted. Maniacal. “Shut the shut fuck uuuuup, oh my GOD you are so goddamn annoying. Your constant whining, your, “what if I'm cursed”? BS. It's lit-er-ally so fucking exhausting.”

He kicked the table over. “Jeez. The constant validation these guys need is crazy!” His lips split apart in a grin.

"Do I respect women? Chat can't make up their fuckin’ mind! They make me do soppy romance shit, ask me the same goddamn question over and over, and it's like fucking OBVIOUSLY, bro? Why wouldn't I respect women?”

He stopped in front of me. “WELL?” He demanded an invisible audience. Something cold crept through me, glimpsing something glittering, mechanical, ignited in his eye.

Dex’s smile stretched into a smile which didn't reach his eyes. “The poll is live, chat!” He swung the paperweight teasingly. “Do I KISS the bitch?”

He leaned closer, his breath feathering across my cheeks.

“Or fuckin’ KILL her?”

Superheroes always win.

I grew up with superhero movies, the self-insert fantasy so many kids fell in love with. We didn't want to be teachers or astronauts or princesses. We wanted to be superheroes. Every movie held this unspoken confirmation that if you gained supernatural powers, you would win.

Manifest abilities, defeat the bad guys, and save the world. That's what I was taught. 

That was… until the third Tom Holland Spider-Man movie.

Which was unironically a HILARIOUS choice for movie night.

They're playing it in the rec-room on an ancient flatscreen TV they've had to replace four times. 

The rec-room is where we have mandatory movie night. Tonight, it's Cabin 8’s turn.

The walls are yellow. Yellow floor, yellow wallpaper. Yellow beanbags I pretend aren't discolored and bloodstained. Even our faces are yellow, but it's more of a sickly, jaundice yellow eating away at us.

I blink at the screen. Once. Twice. Every scene is too fast, too colorful, too bright.

The characters are speaking Spanish and the screen has a huge crack through it, so I can barely understand what’s happening.

Most of the movie is shadowed in a dull, green blur from the damage. Maybe it's a side effect of the drugs. I watch a fight sequence, my lips numb, my bones stiff and wrong, paralyzing me to the spot.

I’m pretty sure Tom Holland’s face isn't supposed to be that green. But I can kind of understand what's going on. 

My mind hadn't quite caught up yet, my inner voice is slooooooowwwwww. Robotic.

Sometimes, it doesn't make sense.

Sometimes, it's in a different language.

Sometimes, I'm not even talking, I’m meowing.

Rolling my head back, I blink up at unnatural yellow light glaring down at me.

My thoughts are slow, picking up sometime around the mid-point of the movie: how long had I been watching this movie? How long was left?

I count nine kids surrounding me, slumped on the uncomfortable beanbags provided, their heads cocked at unnatural angles, endless blots of drool pooling from grinning smiles, like they’re permanently waiting for the punchline to a joke.

The only exit is a door with a single grimy window, guarded by a tall, meaty sack of flab I’ve affectionately named Fuck Head.

Fuck Head is not a fan of me, not since I laughed out loud when he revealed he had terminal brain cancer.

I said, “I feel sorry for the tumor,” and he stuck his gun in my face and threatened to blow my brains out. 

He'd been keeping an (understandable) distance from me lately.

The strawberry blonde next to me is too zooted to speak, jaw slack, head bouncing on her shoulder, a puddle of drool seeping down her bright orange camp uniform. Blondie refused the candy they gave us.

They're like smarties. One red and one blue. They taste like ass.

Blondie spat them out, so a male guard took pleasure in punching her in the gut so hard her mouth popped open in shock. 

He delivered the pills with a right hook to her face, leaving her curled up in a ball, her mouth hanging open. The girl only showed life when the movie started, slowly straightening, knees pressed to her chest.

I think she used to be pretty.

Maybe a cheerleader.

Short red hair tied into a straggly ponytail, stray strands hanging in unfocused eyes glued to the screen. I think she used to smile. Laugh lines still crease her lips.

Every so often, the girl whimpers, and I pretend not to see tears glistening in her eyes. 

I know why she's crying, her hands balled into fists.

I know why the boy in front of me keeps giggling to himself, burying his head in his lap and mumbling songs only he knows.

Why the rest of Cabin 8 (or, at least those conscious) watch this movie with a cold kind of irony pulling our drug-drunk brains together, eight faces awash in a bilious glow. I can sense it bristling between us, an unspoken, mutual agreement. 

Superheroes are supposed to fucking win. 

“Connor Davies.” My name comes over the intercom in a sharp, crunchy hiss that snaps my thoughts back to clarity.

My senses are back. The acrid taste of the “candy”, and my own vomit, piss stained uniform. I stay still, my gaze glued to the movie. Peter Parker was saving the world. 

The intercom screeches for a second time, loud enough to cause a stir; individual needles pricking the back of my skull.

A boy in front of me twists around and pointedly glares at me. I miss his hair.

He’d recently outgrown my nickname for him, “Curly”, before they sheared away his thick, corkscrew curls. I wonder what will happen if I tell him his face makes my stomach flutter, even with his stupid bald head is like staring at a giant toe. I've considered other names for him. 

“Baldy” feels mean. 

“Egghead” is straight up bullying. 

“Connor DAVIES.” The order is AI generated. I’m surprised it has the ability to raise its voice. “Please report to Visiting Room A.” 

I have no choice. Fuck Head is in front of me in three staggering strides, his thick, flabby hands yanking my arms behind my back.  He marches me to the door and I get one last surge of rebelliousness and candy still swishing around in my system, ready to confess my stupid fucking crush for Curly. 

Before I can, the door slams shut with a metallic clang, and Fuckhead is marching me down The Green Mile. The camp is small. Converted from an elementary school under pressure from the government. Middleway Elementary, to be exact. They forgot to remove the sign.

Kids drawings line the walls as I'm violently pulled down a long, winding hallway, once colorful classrooms  transformed into a row of grey, monotonous prison cells. 

I’m shoved inside a room with a wooden table and two plastic chairs.

Sitting in one of them is my mother. She doesn't smile when I'm forced to sit down.

I notice her hair is shorter, now a blonde bob.

Her clothes are a far-cry from her usual thrifted tees and sneakers: fur coat sculpting a white dress, and sequined stilettos. I nod to the bag clutched in her lap. Real leather. She's left the 8000 dollar price tag. “I didn't think you were a Prada person.”

Mom won’t meet my eyes, her gaze glued to her lap.

“The National Parents Association settled for three million,” she whispers, not looking at me, looking at everything: her shoes, her lap, the fucking bloodstains on the table, everything but her son.

Every kid in this stupid fucking camp is stained on her hands, scarlet ingrained into each meticulously manicured nail.

I smile wider until my jaw fucking hurts. “Three million,” I say, the words twisting in my throat threaten to spill into something else; something that fills my mouth with bile I can't swallow. I’m suffocating. “Wow, Mom,” I bite my tongue so hard I can taste warm red.  “That's awesome.” 

Mom picks at a loose thread on her coat. “Per family,” she adds softly. She pretends to be horrified at the smears of blood on the table, pretends to care that my face is thin and my skin is yellow, and my eyes are bruised. She leans across the table like she's going to grab my face, cradling me.

I hate myself for craving  her touch. Instead, her lipsticky mouth pricks into a big smile. Mom is finished pretending. “The government agreed to pay each parent three million dollars.” 

Mom’s smile curls slightly. She reaches forward. 

“Honey,” Mom ruffles my hair instead. “I know this isn't… ideal.” 

“Oh yeah, I know,” I say, and laugh a little. “It wasn't your fault.” 

So does she, more high pitched. A true performer, my mother. “Right?” Her smile broadens. “I knew you'd understand, darling.”

“I do.” I stand up and turn to Fuck Head, spreading out my arms. “Can I hug my Mom?” I ask, and he shifts uncomfortably. “Please.” 

Fuck Head hesitates, and then nods.

He's not as fucking dumb as I thought. 

I reach out for my mother with a smile. “Mom,” I whisper. I am touch starved. I want to touch her. I want to wrap myself around my Mom. “Could I have a hug?” 

Mom nods. “Of course.” She says, and awkwardly presses her shoulder to mine. 

She doesn't even touch me, her hands limp at her sides. I pull her closer to me into a real hug. I revel in her warmth, the smell of her expensive perfume suffocates me.

I bury my head in her shoulder, in the fake animal fur lining her coat. Not even 3 million dollars can rid the stink of cigarettes and cocaine ingrained into her pores. “I missed you,” I tell her, my words taste and feel like vomit. “I missed you so much, and I… I hate it here.” I sniffle.

“They hurt me, Mom. The guard…” I can't stop myself, collapsing into sobs. “The guard hurts me. He fucking HURTS me.”

“Connor, darling,” Mom’s voice is detached. Already away with her own thoughts. She's thinking about her next wardrobe fixation. Not that it's my last day. My last supper. My last movie night. “I need to get going.” she pulls away, “It's going to be okay, baby.” 

I pull her closer. I want to hug my Mom.

“Connor.” Mom hums in my ear. “Honey, that's a little tight.”

“I know.” I whisper. “But I'm a Superhero.”

I pull all of her into me, squeezing her against my chest.

Her breaths shudder when her lungs pop, her bones coming apart one by one, cracking beneath my embrace. Blood splatters from her mouth, her eyes rolling back. Still, I squeeze my Mom until her eyes dislodge and then burst from her sockets; her skin disintegrates and her muscles and bones become liquid. 

I let my Mom slip from my fingers, a thick ooze of fleshy mass and brains staining Prada. Something ice cold stabs the back of my skull. Fuck Head has been waiting for this moment all night.

He shoves me to my knees, jamming the barrel deeper.

“Count to five, kid,” he grunts.

I do.

One. 

I squeeze my eyes shut. 

Fuck.

Eating that Mr Beast bar in the third grade was the worst mistake of my life.

I thought it was a joke.

I was at work when my boyfriend called, out of breath. Crying. 

“Have you seen the news?” Roman whispered. His voice broke into another nervous laugh as I opened TikTok. “I’m driving to you right now,” he hissed. “What the fuck are they talking about? I’m…I’m taking the side streets,” he hesitated. “Just in case.”

“In case what?!” I squeaked, scrolling through my FYP. 

A video popped up: a press conference. The president stood behind the podium while the health secretary addressed the nation.

I felt a cold shiver crawl through me. The conspiracy theorist who looked like a rotting corpse, who had infamously tried to ban vaccines for children, was making an announcement. “My fellow Americans. We are currently living through an epidemic. But rest assured,” he said, spreading his arms, “we have found a cure.”

A cry startled me. This time it was Ben, a colleague, sprinting down the hallway and taking the stairs two at a time, stumbling on the last three. “The truth is, men do not have agency, as we originally thought.” The health secretary said. “They do not think for themselves. After months of research, scientists at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention have identified a hormonal irregularity present in 93% of male perpetrators of sexual violence."

"This irregularity is caused by a parasite which  spreads itself through seminal fluid, which is why it hijacks the brain and controls these urges.”  His tone darkened, his half-lidded glaze glued to the camera, jaw jerking like a ventriloquist dummy. 

“Starting now, males between the ages of eighteen and thirty years old, will be eligible for the cure.” He coughed, swiped his nose, and wiped it on his suit. 

“While the parasite is resistant to most antiparasitics, we have found a solution, thus protecting women and bringing our males back to their senses!”

“Roman?” I choked out. “Are you still there?” 

“Yeah.” His voice crackled through the speaker in a whimper. “They're blocking the road, Lydia.” 

In front of me, government vehicles were already surrounding the parking lot.

I ducked when bullets started flying, men dropping as they tried to run.

Half of the men in my office were dead, lying in pooling scarlet. 

I slammed my hand over my mouth, curling into a ball under my seat. The windshield shattered, and I screamed into my palm, muffling the raw screech scratching at my throat. A man in a mask approached my car, and I felt the cold, cruel metal grazing the back of my skull.

“Hands on your head!” he yelled. “Now!”

“I… can't turn around!” Roman’s sudden shriek down my phone froze me in place, paralysis bleeding into my bones. “They're dragging guys out of their cars. If I try to turn ‘round, they'll shoot me!”

Another gunshot ricocheted in my skull. 

Ben, a colleague I'd known for years.

Who was engaged.

His body lay in stemming red, his brains creeping across the concrete. “Don't fight them,” I managed to get out. I squeezed my eyes shut when Ben’s body was trampled over. Muffling another sob, I caught myself— caught my voice. “Go with them, Roman. Please.” 

He laughed. Harshly. “You don't get to decide that!” 

“Yes, but—”

Roman cut me off. Sobbing. Trying to hide it, and failing spectacularly. Somehow, I still felt close to him. His voice was a comfort. “You just… you just  fuckin’ expect me to willingly lobotomize myself because a conspiracy freak thinks my semen is a goddamn living thing?” 

“Roman.” 

“I was cheating on you,” he said in a shuddery breath. “I was going to break up, but I never got the chance.” 

I knew exactly what he was doing. 

Pushing me away– and I hated that he was right. I could hear his car door swing open. 

His stumbling footsteps. 

Orders screaming at him to get on the ground. 

“State your name and age,” a voice ordered.

“Roman Calstone,” my boyfriend said calmly. “Don't you think it's weird?” He whispered. 

“What?!” 

“The age bracket,” Roman’s laugh was more of a sob. “Just the young? They only want the young and healthy. Isn't that weird to you?” 

“Roman, what are you talking about?” 

“Bye, Lydia.”

“Age.”

“Twenty seven, sir.”

“All right. Grab him and get him in the—”

I ended the call, suffocating.

It took twenty four hours to realize something was wrong.

I returned home and tried to ignore our neighborhood, ripped apart. Overturned cars and bodies lying stained red. I greeted our six-month tabby, Bella, like usual, gathered her into my arms, and fell asleep with my nose buried in one of his sweaters. The next morning, I made coffee and avoided my phone. The procedure took two hours, according to a flyer posted through our door.

Which meant Roman would be walking through the door any minute.

And I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do.

I waited for him. All day. My stomach was churning.

His last words burned in the back of my head.

But Roman didn’t come home.

I was falling asleep, a migraine pounding in the backs of my eyes, when a gut-churning scream rang out.

Mrs Carter, our neighbor.

I didn’t think, catapulting to my feet and running outside.

I expected her son, Alex, to be back.

But instead, she was on her knees, sobbing, screaming into trembling hands.

Something slimy filled my throat. I pulled out my phone, tapped on TikTok. Another press conference was taking place. This time the health secretary was nowhere to be seen, the president standing in his place.

“I can officially announce that as of yesterday at one hundred hours, we successfully drafted our brave warriors to fight for this country. Healthy young men who were brought back to their senses!”

His smile expanded, and I hit the ground, all of the breath sucked from my lungs.

“God bless our soldiers!” the president laughed. “And God bless America.”

When I was sixteen, I fell in love with a boy with hair as red as the sunrise. 

One summer, he strode into my house and found me caring for sick bees. He stood for a second, thick red strands dancing across his eyes, before crossing the room and pressing his face against the glass tank. 

I called it my “bee hospital.” 

“I think that one is dead,” he said, laughing when I shoved him.

Jem stayed with me all day. 

It was hot, so he brought iced tea and ice cream. 

His knees bumped mine, and before I knew what was happening, his hands found my face, gentle, pulling me closer. 

He kissed me, covered in dirt from searching for flowers for my tank and sweaty from crawling through my yard.

I remember his lips tasted sour, prickly, and like sugar water, because the idiot had downed a capful when I wasn’t looking.

I remember being taken aback and maybe a little mad that he'd kissed me in front of the bees. I kissed him back. It was uncomfortable and clammy, but warm.

I was breathless but happy breathless. When it was over, I blinked, shoved him away, and continued nursing my bees. 

“Sorry,” Jem stood up, his cheeks blazing red. 

He scraped hair out of his face, and then seemed to remember that he was filthy. 

“I shouldn't have done that.” 

He nodded to the bees, a smile curling on his lips. “In front of Joey, Phoebe, and Rachel." 

I peered into the tank. Joey, my favorite bee, was watching us with his little beady eyes. I jumped up, grabbed my blanket, and threw it over the tank. Then I marched over, grabbed Jem’s face, and kissed him until I was breathless. Until he slid into me like a puzzle piece and felt right.

Fifteen years later, we wed. 

I was almost thirty, sitting in warm shallows on the beach, my knees to my chest, my head comfortably nestled in his shoulder. I noticed a familiar prick on my arm. 

I laughed, holding it up for my husband to see. “Look.” 

A bee was creeping across my shoulder, almost like it was trying to act subtle. 

I enjoyed the way it tickled my skin, buzzing softly against me.

Jem chuckled into my chest, his breath warm. He buried his face deeper. “Aw. Your bee friends came back to see you.” 

My response was cut off by a loud, buzzing sound, this time in my ear. It was different. 

Deafening. 

Enough to send me crawling back, smacking my ear.

“There's something…” the words suffocated my mouth. 

I coughed something up, a bloody mass slipping through my lips. Rose petals. I hid them quickly burying them in the sand. 

“Jem.” 

I couldn't breathe suddenly. The sun was too bright. 

I coughed up another slimy rose petal, batting away a bee trying to slip through my lips.

“Noah?” Jem sat up. “What's wrong?” 

Another bee touched down on my chest, crawling across my stomach. 

One burrowed into my eye, manic wings fluttering. I screamed, a raw screech ripping from me. The first time I'd screamed at a bee; but I didn't feel bad.

When a bulging, fuzzy mass tried to crawl into my mouth, I spat it out in a hysterical cry. “Get them off me.” I whispered, my voice barely a croak. “Please! Get them off me!” 

A vicious, buzzing swarm slammed into my ears, my skull, like screeching static. But I wasn't the only one. 

A woman sunbathing a few feet away started screaming, a foreboding black cloud batting at her hair. 

Jem pulled me to my feet, dragging me back home. 

The bees smacked into the windows, a bleeding mass of black trying to get through. 

It wouldn't stop. 

A relentless, never-ending buzzing screeching in my skull. 

“Block the doors.” Jem’s voice was a heavy breath. He grabbed towels, stuffing them under doors. 

Something sour filled my throat, and I choked it up, white spew trickling from my mouth. Jem’s voice was ocean waves as I stared down at my arms. Thinner, my bones narrowing, my skin peeling from pearly white effortlessly. 

A cry built in my throat, my lips  numb. 

My body felt strange, light, like I was flying. 

I barely noticed myself hitting the ground. 

I could hear Jem’s footsteps thudding around me, but my mouth didn't feel like mine anymore, like it was slipping from my face. “Noah!” 

Jem's voice collapsed into a low buzzing. 

His hands grabbed at my arms, and I felt them come apart, my skin no longer skin— my bones protruding, my muscles swelling and bursting into vivid red blooms. My mouth, no longer a mouth, splitting apart, my cries dying in a throat that had collapsed. 

Beneath me, my body, an entanglement of veins like vines, my blood thickening. 

“Jem.”

My thoughts wavered from words to nothing,  as his figure became a shadow with no human features.

I sensed him moving, before water drenched me. 

Relief bled into me. 

I could breathe again. 

“Everyone?” Jem’s voice echoed, more of an afterthought. “Yeah, I watered it. I did exactly what you said.” He paced back and forth, and I wondered why it was so hard for me to breathe, to speak. My breaths no longer felt like they were mine. 

Instead, I was breathing because I was… wet.

“So, is this it, then? It's a flower? 

My husband’s words tangled as my mind started to split and fade.

He crouched in front of me, reached out, and plucked my eye from my socket.

His face drenched in shadow. 

“Sweeet.” He prodded me, and the thing that was my mouth, a bulging mass of fleshy pink, spat up something acidic.

He stood, opened the window, and that buzzing screeching collapsed into me.

A grin split his lips apart. 

Jem crouched in front of me as the first bee landed, burrowing inside my mouth.

“I’ll let them do their thing.”

I was a freshman, and I wanted community. Friends.

I heard the cheer squad were just an extra-curricular group rather than an actual major-level class, so I figured I’d give them a shot. It’s not like I could ignore them.

On my first day moving into my dorm room, I must have walked into the same girl three times. 

I firmly believe it is not possible for a human being to be permanently happy.

And yet that was her.

She wandered around like the sun shone right out of her ass, and it was both endearing and terrifying.

The girl resembled the sun herself, a halo of golden curls held back in a scrunchie, a flaunting sundress, and matching ribbons wrapped around her wrists.

The Sunbeam Squad were easy to spot because they were all wearing insanely bright yellow, waving around gold streamers with ribbons tangled in their hair. They all spoke in insanely high-pitched voices like they inhaled helium for a living, but that must have been their shtick, right? 

It was kind of cute. 

I wasn’t expecting such a welcome in the shape of guys and girls looking like they had just stepped off an ABC Kids set.

The girl who handed me a flyer and yelled in my face about school spirit was practically hopping up and down, a bright grin splitting her lips apart.

I nodded and smiled politely, stuffing the flyer into my bag and heading into my room to finish moving my stuff in.

When I looked out of my window a few hours later, the Sunbeam Squad were still threaded through the crowd, each of them wrapped in glittering fairy lights illuminated by the late evening sunset glow. Sunbeam.

Yeah, I got it, but it was still kind of overkill. They were starting to remind me of a cult.

That, however, didn’t stop me trying out. I’m fairly athletic, and they were exactly what I wanted. I’ve never had a group of people I could call friends.

Though it’s not like I could blame anyone but myself. I was a shut-in for most of high school. I either worked or preferred my own company in my room. One of my biggest regrets is pushing people away, friends I wanted to get even closer to. 

Because now they had built these lifelong friendships and relationships, and I was stuck at eighteen years old with nobody but childhood friends I spoke to once a year when we sent mutual holiday greetings to each other. But college could change that.

At least, that’s what I hoped.

I spoke to as many people as possible on my first day, and in my head, I was making them. Slowly but surely, I was actually making friends in my classes, people I wanted to hang out with.

Sunbeam was my attempt to go even further and join a club. Through word of mouth during my first few weeks of classes, I learned they were more of an extra-curricular group for fun.

They didn’t cheer competitively and had been formed in the mid-90s by some kids who wanted to create a community built around positivity and school spirit.

Sunbeam had a reputation for being Watson State’s beacons, the team’s good luck charm. It was well known across campus that the squad was the reason behind the college’s fortune.

It had been like that since they formed thirty years ago, with members through the generations carrying out that pledge to spread as much pep as possible.

While I say they seemed nice judging from what I heard from others, they weren’t exactly the easiest clique to get into.

Unless you were already on the squad.

I saw them around campus between classes. They always moved as a group, the six of them with their arms wrapped around each other, brandishing the school colours. The guys wore loose-fitting varsity jackets, while the girls flaunted cheer skirts.

The way they acted was a little too close, like they were more than friends, and community and friendship had bled into something else. Like they had just walked out of an early 2000s teen movie. 

Not that I was complaining. 

Their style was intriguing. 

They were like this untouchable group of gods placed on the highest pedestals.

They ruled over campus, which made me want to get to know them even more.

So, I tried out, which was my first mistake of many during freshman year.

It didn’t hit me that I was way over my head until I was standing in the college gymnasium in front of a four-person panel like I was auditioning for a Hollywood movie.

Sunbeam took their try-outs incredibly seriously, which was weird considering they were known to be the complete opposite.

There were maybe fifty applicants, and we had to stand near the back wall and watch others try out one by one, which was already setting off my anxiety. Weren’t they supposed to be closed try-outs? Initially, I was excited.

I had my routine in my head. What I had learned from watching the squad at my old school. 

High V, Low V, followed by a Touchdown, and then a backflip. I was confident.

I mean, it ticked most cheer moves off the list and even had a flip to complete the routine. My high school was a mixed-sex quad, so I learned a lot from watching the guys’ moves during pep rallies.

I wasn’t really worried about the quality of the moves since they were known for not taking everything too seriously.

But watching the others try out, doing impossible flips without crash mats and twisting their bodies in ways I didn’t know were possible, I quickly realised I was screwed. 

My competitors were acting like they were auditioning for an Olympic-level team. 

My gut was dancing when I took centre stage.

The panel was made up of four members of the squad. Two boys and two girls, including the blonde who handed me the flyer on my first day. I was surprised when her eyes lit up with recognition.

“Oh, I know you!” she squeaked. Leaning forward, her smile seemed to brighten, illuminating her features. All four of them seemed to emanate a warm glow.

I felt myself relax slightly, the knot in my stomach loosening. 

Maybe their heightened positivity thing wasn’t a shtick after all.

The girl, as well as the other members of the team, seemed genuinely happy to see me trying out. “What’s your name?”

Her voice reverberated off the walls, and I suddenly became aware of the dozen other students watching me.

“Alex,” I said, offering a shy wave. “Hey.”

Still grinning, she nudged the redhead next to her playfully.

The guy was like no one I’d ever seen before. He was a goddamn traffic light.

He was easy to spot in a crowd and was usually one of the low-key members who kept his head down. All those colours painted across him, and yet somehow he wasn’t blinding people.

Though admittedly, they suited him. 

Bright red hair clashed with the blue and gold of his football jersey, his pasty skin and dark eyes drinking me in while the blonde girl tugged on his sleeve. “See? I told you annoying freshmen would work!”

In response, he chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Whatever you say, Evie.” The guy straightened up, leaning his chin on his fist, a curious spark in his eyes. “Alright.”

Twisting around in his chair, he signalled for music. When it started, the beat slammed into me, rumbling beneath my feet. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”

I’m not going to describe my routine because I don’t have time to explain how fucking bad I was. 

In my head, I was doing okay. 

I was ready to finish with my backflip, but the music abruptly cut off, and I found myself struggling to catch my breath with my hands in the air, panting like an idiot.

The blonde maintained her smile, but it was slightly strained.

I could tell she was struggling to keep up the façade of a Sunbeam member while also retaining critical thinking.

The redhead looked like he was in pain.

He was the first to speak, and I could tell by his sympathetic smile that I’d screwed up. 

The others, who I hadn’t fully taken in until that moment, an Asian American guy and a girl with pigtails, were laughing like preschoolers. They didn’t stop until the redhead shot them a warning look.

Weirdly enough, the crowd of onlookers didn’t join in. I expected the redhead to politely tell me I sucked, but instead he cocked his head, chewing on his pen.

“You’re good,” he said. “You’re a good dancer, and I liked your moves…”

He trailed off. “But it’s positivity we’re looking for, and you didn’t smile once during your whole routine, which made you look stiff. Like you weren’t even enjoying it.” He shrugged helplessly. 

“I like you, and I like your dancing. I’m sure you could be even better if you worked on it. There are countless dance clubs here, so maybe you’d be better suited there.”

After exchanging a look with the blonde, he sighed. “Unfortunately, you’re not the type of person we’re looking for.”

Evie nodded. “I agree. We pride ourselves on staying positive and smiling. I didn’t see that in you, Alex.”

“Same here.” Pigtails, still giggling, joined in. “I don’t think you’ve got enough school spirit.”

The other guy scoffed. He looked to be of Korean descent. Unlike the redhead, he was always at the centre of their group, always joking around and laughing. Just looking at him told me he was the leader.

“Bullshit!” He slapped the table with one hand, running the other through his thick dark hair. 

“I liked it. Fuck pep, am I right?” He threw his pen at the blonde, who retaliated with a squeak, lobbing hers back at him. “Ignore these clowns. I think you’ve got what it takes. We just gotta work on you, y’know? All you’re missing is a cheesy grin.”

He pointed to himself, stretching his lips into the widest smile he could muster. “See? Like this.”

“Clowns?” Evie shook her head. “I didn’t see one smile. Sunbeam is all about smiling!”

“You make us sound like a cult.” The Korean-American caught my eye. “Which we’re not, by the way. These guys are just scared of change.”

“Okay, that’s too far.” Pigtails shot him a scowl. “Are you seriously disrespecting the alumni who created us? Who birthed us?”

“Well, yeah!” He threw his paper at her. “Sunbeam is a pep cult. We get high off happiness. I thought we established that.”

“Take that back!”

“Never! Why do you think I joined? To get high! Do you really think I joined for the cheering?”

They were joking around. I could tell by the smiles on their faces, a smile I knew I would never be able to mimic.

“Quiet.” The redhead shushed them.

The guy had been sitting silently, studying me. He leaned back, folding his arms.

“See, even now, even when I’m considering giving you a chance, there’s no hope in your eyes. Not even a glitter of excitement. You’re still not smiling, and that’s what we want, Alex. We want people who will embody what Sunbeam is all about.”

“Even if I give you a second chance to brighten up your routine, your smile will be fake. And that’s not what we want. We want people who are willing to shed their humanity and become beacons.”

Beacons, huh?

And they were seriously saying they weren’t a cult?

The redhead stabbed at his sheet of paper with the end of his pen. “Can’t you just give us one smile? It won’t kill you.”

That was when the others started laughing, and I wanted to punch the asshole in the face.

“Dude, chill.” The Korean-American played with his pen, twirling it between two fingers. “He’s right, as much as I hate saying it. We do need smilers, unfortunately. But hey, you can try out next year! Just remember to smile, alright?”

He threw something at me. A squashed candy bar. Which somehow made me look even more pathetic.

I found myself nodding, even when I knew it was all bullshit. 

Still, what each member had told me hit harder than it should have. They were just words. What could they do?

It turned out words were far more powerful than I realised. I just didn’t know it yet.

I didn’t wait for the others to speak and made a quick getaway, my gut twisting and turning.

They were a cult. That’s what I decided. These guys were a cult who needed members willing to throw away their souls. Probably for ritualistic sacrifice.

They needed weak people, I thought, even when part of me knew they were right. I wasn’t a smiler. Every photo I’m in, I’m either frowning or look constipated.

Still, I didn’t dwell on the try-outs for too long. By the time a week had gone by, I had mostly forgotten about it and threw myself into my studies and college life.

Though something was wrong with me.

It was as if the world had slowed down, had stopped making sense completely.

Every day felt like a dream, and I felt like a ghost, like I was dissociating from my own body. Conversations with people felt fake. Like I was making them up.

I remember waking up day after day in a daze I couldn’t pull myself out of.

It was only several weeks later that the thick mind fog blanketing my brain finally lifted, only for me to hear the news that all six members of the Sunbeam squad had disappeared.

I don’t know how I didn’t notice. How I didn’t see the police investigation or hear rumours spreading around like wildfire.

According to the college, it wasn’t technically considered a disappearance since the members were all over eighteen and no longer minors. 

However, an investigation was conducted, with a statement released saying they were due to perform at Knoxville College, cheering on our team. 

But they never turned up. 

And what made it worse was their bus had been found abandoned on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

Sounds bad, right?

Well, that’s what we all thought.

Vigils were already being held, and bodies hadn’t even been found yet. Every time I walked back to my dorm after classes, the night glowed with warm golden light, candles flickering in the breeze.

I’m not sure how many days went by. They all blurred together. Then our college made another statement.

The members of the Sunbeam squad were alive and healthy and had been sent to a training academy for professionals.

When the student body responded with confusion and scepticism, the college reassured us they would return once they were finished training.

And while my classmates were relieved, I found myself confused.

Sunbeam didn’t cheer competitively. Their whole thing was spreading cheer and pep regardless of how good they were.

I had seen them perform, and they were good, sure. Better than average. But definitely not good enough to be trained into pros.

Their moves were too clumsy, too half-assed, which I was convinced they thought overwhelming positivity could somehow fix.

So it didn’t make sense that they had been sent to some elite training academy.

I kept up my scepticism until I saw them for myself.

The college was right.

Sunbeam returned a week later like nothing had happened.

I did notice a change in them. I think everyone did.

Sunbeam were known for their pep and cheer, their constant smiling faces that drove me crazy, and it’s not like that stopped. They still smiled. They still wandered around campus laughing together in their own little world.

That was when people were watching. When they didn’t have an audience, though, they detached from each other.

Their eyes darkened, expressions twisting like each of them could smell something rotten in the air.

I started noticing they were getting progressively clumsier at keeping up the Sunbeam façade they must have pledged themselves to when they joined the group.

I figured it was just exhaustion. They must have been through intense training.

Anyway, months passed. I started feeling less distant, and the fog choking me faded, thankfully.

I started junior year moving into a shared house with my roommate, and the only thing I heard about Sunbeam was that one of their ex-members was rumoured to be pregnant.

As for the rest of the squad, they were still popular, still talked about, but their disappearance had definitely made people wary of them. I even heard someone say they were considered bad luck.

I guess people thought they had sold themselves out for a chance to make it into the big leagues.

And honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me.

Forced positivity can get you far, sure. But recognition can get you further.

It was just a few weeks ago when I was invited to a game, our first of the season after delays caused by cuts to the sports department.

I’m not much of a sports fan, but I needed a distraction from the mountain of assignments piling up on my desk.

When I sat down with a chilli dog and Coke, I wasn’t expecting to get so invested in a game where I had no clue what was happening. 

It was loud and obnoxious, and I was choking on the stink of fried food, but it was fun.

It was fun until Sunbeam walked out onto the sidelines.

I glimpsed them in a blur of blue and gold, and a dull pain crawled across the back of my head.

“You okay?”

My housemate’s voice was barely distinguishable when I found myself transfixed by the way they moved in erratic jumps, quickly taking position.

They had gotten better.

Everything that made Sunbeam what it was had been stripped away.

Their smiles were forced. Wrong.

I remembered how they used to push and shove each other, making the crowd laugh. Now they moved in near perfect sync, no longer shaky or stumbling into each other.

Their routine was longer than usual, and when the Korean-American guy perfected a triple flip, the crowd went insane.

I expected him to smile when he landed, grinning into the audience to generate the kind of energy Sunbeam thrived on.

But his expression stayed stoic. Robotic.

They were stiff. Heads up, backs straight, staring ahead.

I had been told during try-outs that fake smiles weren’t allowed, and yet that was all I was seeing.

Egotistical grins. Curled lips. Quick glances between each member.

I expected reassuring looks and inside jokes only they understood.

Instead, it looked like a mutual agreement.

They were planning something.

And from the looks on their faces, it wasn’t a firework show.

Sunbeam used to generate happiness. Their smiles, even beneath the façade, had once been real.

Now they emanated power.

The way they stood. The guys at the front preparing what I guessed was a lift, the girls balancing on top of them. Their routine ended with the music reaching a climax, the two main girls raised high in the air while performing High V’s.

But they didn’t stop there.

When the crowd exploded with applause, one of the girls slowly raised her arms and shot finger guns into the audience.

She fired twice, and every time she pulled that imaginary trigger, her painted lips stretched into a maniacal grin. Until her gaze landed on me. And then behind me.

I could see it in her glittering eyes, eyes I could no longer call human.

I met Evie at the start of freshman year and again during the disastrous try-outs.

I knew her wide smile and the glint of passion twisting her expression, a love for the group and its members she couldn’t put into words. But right then, I wasn’t seeing Evie, a Sunbeam cheerleader.

I was seeing something else entirely.

A being scanning faces in the crowd for a victim.

Her expression melted from gleeful delight into something twisted and putrid, someone craving the exact opposite of everything Sunbeam preached.

I watched her lips.

I watched the words form silently, drowned out by the crowd’s cheering.

But I saw them clearly.

“Drop.”

She said it before pulling the imaginary trigger again.

No sooner had the word left her mouth than someone screamed behind me.

I twisted around to see a guy collapsed on the ground.

He was pronounced dead five minutes later by his sobbing girlfriend, who had attempted CPR.

When I turned back to the field, the Sunbeam Squad were gone.

It didn’t make sense that they could have caused the guy’s death.

But it couldn’t have been a coincidence, right?

Evie had fired into the crowd at the exact moment he dropped dead.

Finger guns weren’t weapons, obviously, but the timing was too perfect.

I already knew there was something wrong with Sunbeam.

Obviously, when I tried to tell people this, I was called crazy. Delusional. I reported it to the student information building and got nothing but a blank stare.

The woman wasn’t even attempting to hear my story. She heard “murder” and “Sunbeam,” and her lips curved into an amused smirk.

“You know, you are quite fascinating.” Leaning back in her chair, the woman frowned at me through wonky glasses. “First you unexpectedly quit, and then you accuse them of murder, which I can tell you is false.”

She flipped through a notebook in front of her.

“According to the autopsy report released a few days ago, the young man died of a brain haemorrhage, not the result of being pretend-shot by a cheerleader miming finger guns.” The woman cleared her throat.

“Tell me, what exactly do you have against the Sunbeam Squad?”

“What?”

“You quit the squad at the end of your freshman year,” she said. “And now you’re trying to accuse them of murder? Fascinating.”

Her words struck me, a shiver sliding down my spine. The office was cosy, and when I sank into the rich leather couch in front of a roaring fire, I recognised the book on her desk. It was a dog-eared copy of Harry Potter. I’d seen it before. But that was impossible. I had never been in her office.

“Quit?” I shook my head. “No, I don’t…” I trailed off, stumbling over my words. “I’ve never been part of Sunbeam.”

“Were you not?” She shook her head, a crease forming between her brows. “Ah, I must be getting you mixed up with someone else.”

I nodded. “Just… can you listen to me? That Evie girl was fucking…”

She cut me off. “Language.”

“Sorry. Evie. She was… I don’t know what she was doing. It was like… like magic.”

“Are you sure you didn’t dream it?”

“Yes!”

“Mmm hmm.” The woman cleared her throat, dismissing my protests.

“I’m not a doctor, but if you’re experiencing memory loss and confusion, I suggest going to the hospital. As for your ludicrous claims, you should keep them to yourself. That poor young man died from a brain haemorrhage. Terrible and tragic, yes, but accidental, and not the work of…” She tilted her head. “I’m sorry, what exactly were you claiming it to be?”

“Magic,” I said again.

When she raised a brow, I couldn’t resist groaning. “I saw her! She shot into the crowd and mouthed something!”

“She… mouthed something?”

“Yes! But…”

Again, her words sliced into mine. 

“Okay, let’s say you were right,” she said. “If this girl shot into the crowd with her imaginary gun, wouldn’t it be a gunshot wound that killed him? You said it yourself. It was some kind of witchy magic. So where was the bullet wound?”

When I tried to speak, she raised her arm to shut me up.

“Exactly. There wasn’t one. Because the man suffered a haemorrhagic stroke, and nothing could be done to save him.

"Your claims that a group of teenagers carried this out as murder are not only blatant defamation, but also deeply disrespectful to the young man and his family. Now, please leave my office. I don’t want to discuss this anymore.”

The woman nodded toward the door.

“I think you’ve been watching too much TV. Might I suggest focusing on your studies?”

I left her office, slamming the door behind me.

My housemate wasn’t much help when I told him. He said I was maybe a little too obsessed with Sunbeam. He headed to work, and I ended up in the lounge trying to focus on an episode of Criminal Minds. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Evie.

I saw what she said.

Drop.

But it wasn’t the force of her imaginary finger guns ricocheting back. It was the word itself. Drop.

It had been alive on her lips, like a sentient thing bleeding into existence.

I eventually fell asleep twisted like a pretzel in my housemate’s favourite chair, only for three loud knocks on the door to tear me from slumber. I was on my feet immediately, blinking in confusion. We almost never got visitors.

Stumbling toward the door, I hesitated. I imagined Evie standing on the other side.

I imagined her raising her arm and shooting her pretend finger guns directly into my head.

When I opened the door, I was surprised to find three little kids. The youngest couldn’t have been older than nine. To my surprise, they were dressed in Halloween costumes. There was a little witch, a ghost, and a scarecrow, all carrying pumpkin-shaped candy buckets.

It took me a moment to realise I was staring at trick-or-treaters. It wasn’t even mid-October yet.

“Hey there,” I said. “Uh, you guys are a little early.”

The little girl’s eyes were wide and unblinking.

“We want candy,” she said, holding out her bucket. “Now.”

I decided to be firm.

“It’s not Halloween.” I took a small step back, tightening my grip on the door handle, ready to slam it shut. These little shits were freaking me out. 

It wasn’t just their tone. Their expressions were completely vacant. There were no lights on behind their eyes, and that terrified me.

“Sorry, kids, I don’t have any candy. But like I said, come back when it’s actually Halloween and I’ll have candy bars for all of you.”

What I wasn’t expecting was for the scarecrow to pull a knife from his pumpkin bucket. 

He didn’t hold it clumsily like a child would. There was something deliberate in the way his fingers wrapped around the handle, like he’d held one before. The kid pressed the knife to his own throat and made a slicing motion. Like the little girl, his eyes were blank and unblinking. Something was wrong with the way he stood. Stiff. Puppet-like.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He squeaked out a laugh.

I didn’t even see him lunge. I was already stumbling backwards, losing my footing.

The kid moved with impossible speed, and before I knew what was happening, the hilt of the knife was buried in my lower leg. I didn’t even feel the pain at first. My body was fuelled entirely by adrenaline, pushing me to get away from him.

I remember falling backwards. I remember my trembling hands wrapping around the handle and yanking the knife free. Red spilled down my jeans and splattered across the hardwood floor.

The kids turned and sprinted down the steps into the night, and I watched them in a daze.

They didn’t move normally.

They stalked down the sidewalk like video game characters. The witch shoved a passing old man before pulling out a gun and pointing it at his head. But she didn’t shoot.

The three of them ran off, and it was only when I watched the tip of the witch’s hat disappear into the darkness that I caught sight of something in the corner of my eye.

Before I heard laughter.

The tree in front of me moved. At first, I thought they were shadows. Then the shadows bled into figures. Four of them.

I caught flashes of the school colours. Blue and gold. Twin ponytails. Velvet blonde hair. The unmistakable Sunbeam varsity jacket.

The group laughed and whispered among themselves, not exactly making much effort to hide.

When they stepped out from behind the tree, I recognised Evie immediately. 

Her fingers were pressed gingerly against her nose while thick red pooled down her chin.

The others were the same, swiping at their faces with jacket sleeves. They didn’t seem fazed. 

The redhead’s gaze stayed latched onto the retreating children, his lips curling into a grin. 

I could sense he was still tethered to them. 

Still commanding them to act out grand theft auto. They had caused the man’s death through the game, controlling those children like puppets.

I wasn’t crazy or delusional. Evie had killed someone by shooting imaginary finger guns, and somehow the others were able to bleed into children’s heads and take them over.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I heaved out a breath. 

The pain was starting to hit in waves I had to grit through. I couldn’t move. 

I was stuck curled on the floor while they laughed.

I was halfway through punching 911 into my phone when one of them came over. 

The Korean-American. The one who had been the nicest to me out of all of them. The genuine smile I remembered was gone, replaced by something inhuman. Something I didn’t want to question.

With his hands shoved into his varsity jacket pockets, he approached me with mocking eyes, almost like he was trying to mimic his old self.

The guy knelt in front of me with a chuckle. “Kids these days, right? They’re animals.”

His voice, no, his words, hurt me. I felt each one penetrate me like gunshots.

My wound wasn’t bad. At least, that’s what I estimated. I didn’t think the kid had hit anything vital. But I needed the emergency room. One hand was still clamped over my side, drenched in red.

I managed a hiss, reaching for my phone when he snatched it from my grasp and waved it in the air.

“Fuck off. What did you do to those little kids?” I gritted out, trying to grab my damn phone.

The pain in my side was getting worse. It hurt like a motherfucker, dizzying bolts of electricity crashing through me like waves of boiling water. I tried to get onto my knees, but he shoved me back down. The guy cocked his head, confusion creasing his expression.

“Ouch. That must hurt.”

“What did you… what did you do?” I hissed.

His presence was hurting me. 

Every time he opened his mouth, it was agony. Somehow, it was worse than the stab wound. This pain was unlike anything I’d ever felt before. The kind I’d rather die than experience. A cry clawed its way up my throat, fight or flight taking over. Again, I tried to move. Tried to get away from him.

But he pinned down my arms and prodded at my side before sticking his finger into the cut and twisting.

“I didn’t do anything, Alex.”

His voice barely hit me before my vision blurred and I screamed. Like a fucking animal, I screamed.

But not because his fingers were digging around inside me.

My brain was suddenly boiling, a metal rod piercing my skull and stirring it into soup. His voice was inside me. Bleeding into me. Taking me over.

But it wasn’t just his voice.

The world blurred around me, and suddenly I wasn’t in my doorway anymore, bleeding against the wall.

I was moving.

Walking.

No. Being dragged.

Except these weren’t my memories. This wasn’t my mind.

I could see bare feet beneath me slapping softly against white tiles. When I looked up, there was only white stretching ahead of me, like I was being led straight into the clouds. This was a building. Glass doors.

Electronic panels. People in black guarding each entrance.

It took a while for me to regain my senses. Or maybe for him to regain his.

We could smell chlorine and taste rusty coins at the back of our throat. Feel the freezing tiles against our bare feet.

There was a strange sensation at the back of our head. We kept wanting to run our fingers through our hair, but every attempt only touched bare skin. Scuffed, uneven skin.

Tight fingers were wrapped around our arm, dragging us deeper into the white oblivion until a glass door appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

From now on, I’m going to describe his memories vaguely. I’m only going to tell you what I saw.

The room reminded me of a classroom, except there were no desks. The other members of Sunbeam stood pressed against the back wall, staring straight ahead, their eyes fixed on nothing. But I could see them trembling. Terrified.

The squad wore pale white shorts and T-shirts stained with ugly red splatters. Glitter still clung to their faces. Ribbons hung from bedraggled curls.

Their feet were bare and filthy, just like ours.

When we were shoved forward, we took our place beside Evie, who had half her hair shaved off. Her arms were folded over her cheer uniform, her bare feet tapping against the floor.

A woman with dark red hair tied in a severe ponytail stepped into the room and asked if either of us wanted to show her what we’d learned.

Evie eagerly raised her hand.

“Okay, Evie.” The woman’s voice was too sweet. Sickly sweet. She gestured her forward. “Show us what you’ve got.”

The door opened, and a man stepped inside. His hands were tied in front of him, his eyes empty.

Evie nodded, determination burning in her expression. She cleared her throat.

“Shatter.”

Nothing happened.

“Intent, Evie,” the woman corrected. “It doesn’t matter how you say the word unless you use proper intent. Try again.”

The girl growled in frustration.

“Shatter.”

The man’s head flew from his torso in a river of red, and the girl squealed in excitement.

While we watched in horror, the rest of the squad slowly surrendered to despair.

Different days bled together. Faces changed. Heads were shaved. Hair grew back. Fear turned into joy.

A blonde girl exploded into bloody chunks that splattered across the walls.

“Yes!” the redhead yelled, high-fiving Pigtails before launching into some bizarre handshake. “That’s what I’m TALKING about!”

“Bang!” one of the girls cried, forming finger guns.

With every shot, innocent people dropped against the wall one by one, their skulls blown apart.

She bounced excitedly on her toes. “Bang, bang, bang!”

“Keep going,” the woman’s voice crackled through a speaker. “You’ve almost got it.”

“Divide.” Pigtails pointed at an old man who was instantly torn apart by an invisible force, wet chunks of him slamming onto the floor.

“Show off,” the redhead sang.

He lounged against the back wall, using his jersey to wipe blood from his face while the others painted the room scarlet. With simple words and hand gestures, they could tear people apart piece by piece.

Pigtails snorted when another test subject was dragged in.

“Oh, you think you can do better?”

“Think I can?” the redhead laughed. “I know I can.”

This time he jammed two fingers against his temples. The others stood against the wall with folded arms while he stepped into the center of the room.

“Rip it out.”

The test subject’s eyes widened. Trembling hands clawed at her own skull, fingernails shredding flesh.

“Rip… rip it out?”

His lip curled. “That’s what I said.”

We never saw her rip her own brain from her head.

We were already curled up with our forehead pressed to the floor, screaming into our knees.

Another flash. Another scene.

This time we were slicing into our wrist with shards of glass. Pulling back strips of flesh to reveal two wires tangled through muscle and bone. One red. One blue.

“Why won’t you submit?” a sharp voice snarled.

Our body was strapped to metal restraints.

“Out of all of them, you refuse it.”

A hand cracked across our face.

“You don’t want it!”

He started laughing.

“You don’t want control?”

He leaned closer.

“Tell me to mutilate myself. Tell me to tear out my own brain stem! That’s the beauty of it! No matter how impossible the order is, it will be completed! Control, my boy. Use it. Do you understand how much you are going to shape this world? Words!”

“Do you know how powerful they are? Spoken from the right mouth, with the right intent, they can cause bloodshed, pain, misery. Despair drowning our already shattered earth. And you will stand at the center of it. You will bring this world to its knees, Jason.”

“Now do it. We call it cutting, but you might find it easier to call it erasure. Make up your own word if you want. The only thing that matters is intent.”

Something sliced into our arm. It wasn’t medical. It was torture.

He drove something sharp into the wound and twisted until we threw our head back and screamed at the ceiling.

“You’re the last one,” the man hissed. “Do it.”

“No.” His voice, our voice, cracked apart. “I… I can’t!”

“Do it!”

He dragged us down another long corridor until we reached a second room.

“Drown.”

Jason’s voice suddenly echoed inside my skull.

I could feel him resisting it, trying to hold back the force behind his own words. But the command kept slipping free.

“Drown. Drown. Drown. Drown.”

We stood in the doorway of a smaller room. In the corner, a figure sat curled against the wall.

A guy.

I recognized our school colors immediately. A bloodstained varsity jacket over shorts and a T-shirt.

When he lifted his head and turned toward us, my breath caught in my throat.

He looked exactly like me.

No.

It was me.

His eyes were hollow and haunted. My mother’s eyes stripped of everything human.

Like someone had hollowed him out and left behind a shell.

As suddenly as the memories came, they were ripped away.

I blinked hard, and Jason looked just as confused as I felt. Slowly, he pulled his finger from my wound.

The man’s voice still echoed inside my skull, agonizing and relentless. I could feel the command clawing through my nervous system, my body preparing to obey something that didn’t even exist anymore.

“That was… just a trick,” he muttered. “Yeah. Just a trick.”

I found myself nodding automatically.

“Just… a trick…” I whispered.

Blood spilled from my nose, splattering down my chin.

“Louder,” he ordered.

“JUST A TRICK!” I screamed.

The force of the words dropped me to my knees. I panted against the floor while Jason frowned down at me, suddenly uncertain. He wrapped my wound and told me it wasn’t bad. And somehow, it wasn’t.

I watched in disbelief as my skin slowly stitched itself back together.

“Go into your kitchen,” Jason said.

The command ripped through me like bullets.

My body moved on its own.

I stumbled into the kitchen while he followed behind me, grabbing a scarf from the table.

“Get on your knees.”

I obeyed instantly, collapsing onto the floor with my breath trapped in my throat.

I could sense the others standing in the doorway as he tied the scarf over my eyes. 

The heel of his shoe slammed into the back of my neck, forcing me flat against the ground.

“I want you to wait for me to kill you.”

The words buried themselves deep inside me.

So I waited.

Even after they left. Even after the door slammed shut.

I waited until morning.

Only then did control slowly return to my body, enough for me to rip the scarf from my eyes.

But I’m still waiting.

My brain is trapped in constant panic. I jerk around whenever I’m alone, checking every corner, every shadow.

I was dragged to Friday’s game against Harrington.

During Sunbeam’s routine, they did it again.

They had the crowd’s full attention while Evie mouthed something I couldn’t hear.

I felt her words anyway.

Sharp as needles slicing into me.

But they didn’t fully penetrate.

They’ve done something to the student body.

Ever since then, I’ve caught people staring at me. Those whose minds they’ve crawled inside. Blank, mindless eyes. Every so often, someone brushes against me. Fingers wrap around my throat.

I hear footsteps trailing behind me. Those little kids from that night. I keep seeing the little witch girl in the corner of my eye. They’re building an army, waiting for the moment Jason decides to kill me.

If only I knew what happened to the Sunbeam squad. Maybe I could help them somehow.

But something tells me they’re far beyond help.

And so am I. Sometimes I wonder if one day I’ll finally be allowed to remember what really happened to me during freshman year. And why, ever since entering Jason’s mind, I dream of a white room.

I only know one Korean phrase after being here for five years.

“Hee-mang-eul il-da.”

Hae-ri was fourteen years old. Tiny, with brown, bushy hair, always in pigtails. Born in Korea and raised in Virginia. In the States, she was called Sunny.

Her favorite subject was math, and she came to Korea to watch BTS’s comeback concert. Hae-ri told me when she got home, she'd eat a big bowl of ice cream. ‘Because all of this is a misunderstanding’, Hae-ri told me with a big smile. “I'm going home, don't worry!”

Her parents were supposed to come take her home.

Hae-ri died three years ago. After a year and a half in the International Resident Welfare Centre, she was the size and weight of a six-year-old. She was brittle and wasting away, her once big blue eyes bulging from their sockets, reminding me of the creatures in my childhood storybooks, the grim fairytales illustrated in gnawing black ink.

All Hae-ri did was ask if she could go home. Three words, and a bullet pierced through her right eye. Hae-ri didn't know a lot of Korean. She said she preferred English. Her aunt wanted her to study in Korea over the summer. But Hae-ri preferred Virginia, her friends at home, and her horse. America, Hae-ri told me excitedly, was her home.

I barely registered the gunshot ricocheting in my skull.

Her last words rang in my skull as warm red soaked through my canvas shoes, wet and slick between my palms when I tried to hold her; tried to tell her it was okay. If I did anything else, I would be killed too. Huimang-eul ilhda.

All hope is lost.

No.

To lose all hope.

Lights.

Blaring neon lights blind me.

Camera.

The stage is set. An audience of faceless shadows.

My face fills every screen: my heavy eyes protruding from hollow sockets, old red staining my temples, an ugly mass of duct tape plastered over my mouth. To my left is Matt. British. His head of filthy blonde curls is bowed despite the audience’s protests. To my right, Alya. Canadian. She's smiling through her gag, a wide, cheesy grin she's praying will keep her alive. Her looks are what is keeping her alive. Three years stuck in a detention camp, and Alya was still glowing under her sweat-stained uniform; stringy red locks pinned into a ponytail. It's a humiliation ritual at its core:

Let's all laugh at the foreigners.

A soldier sticks his gun into the back of my head.

Action.

…

0 hours: five minutes: fifty-five seconds.

It was too hot. That was my first thought stepping off the plane.

Humid air prickled my face as I headed through customs with my carry-on.

Incheon International Airport was a beautiful, shimmering maze.

Endless twists and turns, escalators leading nowhere, crowds buzzing around me too fast to follow. “Excuse me…” I attempted to ask for the exit in broken Korean, to a young woman selling water.

“It's just over there,” she told me in English. She smiled brightly, nodding at my suitcase. “Have fun!”

I had severely underestimated Korean politeness.

I collapsed into an angular metal chair and pulled out my phone.

“Mind if I… sit… here?” A lanky six-foot-something British guy with a shaved head loomed over me, out of breath, suitcase in tow. He held up a hand for me to wait, then slumped into the seat with a loud, exaggerated groan. “Matthew,” he wheezed.

“Just let me catch… my… breath.”

I think I was about to say the start of, “Hi.”

Maybe my name.

0 hours: 1 minute: fifty seconds.

I was caught off guard by my ears popping suddenly, the meagre meal I'd forced down on the plane violently lurching upward.

0 hours: 0 minutes: twenty seconds.

The glass screen separating us from the runway shattered, and one by one, the planes preparing for takeoff blew to smithereens. I saw the explosion.

The giant plume of smoke. The color draining from Matthew’s face.

Then the shock wave hit. Dust. Smoke. Screaming.

Soldiers stormed the airport. Another explosion, and I was half blind, a sharp, tinny ringing in my skull. A woman’s body lay next to me, her blood flowing. So much blood. Smoke polluted my vision.

The ceiling split open. Glass showered.

Falling, shimmering crystals slammed down.

Like a waterfall.

I crawled forwards, kneeling in someone else’s obliterated skull. Chunks of brain speckled perfect porcelain white. Another shockwave, and I curled into a ball.

Screaming.

Crying. Praying.

I wanted my Mommy. I knew what to do this time, slamming my hands over my ears. Rough hands yanked me to my feet.

Sound was sucked away, and I was running somehow. No. Dragged. I was being dragged. Stumbling, I tripped over a hand still holding a phone. I fell over a backpack. Slipped on a girl’s stomach spilling from a bisected torso.

My mind thought soldier.

Going to help me.

Help.

Safe.

Was my leg broken?

Maybe. I couldn't feel it.

Blood. Was it my blood?

No.

I was soaked, but none of it was mine. My sweater was splattered.

My jeans damp against my skin. Those same hands yanked me close. My mouth was open. Sound slammed back, my own wail rattling my ears. An emergency siren screeched; gunshots echoed around us.

The soldier’s lips moved. His expression was cold, and it wasn’t until my mind snagged on his uniform that reality hit.

No.

The thought was incomplete, barely a cry.

“Foreigner?” He screamed, spittle hitting me in the face.

An icy wave slammed into me. I was born in China. Mom raised me in the US. But I no longer had the right to say that.

When the DPRK invaded, I wasn't Korean.

So, to them, wasn't human.

“Foreigner?” He demanded again. I was shoved violently to my knees.

The soldier’s words still echo in my mind five years later, on my knees. About to be executed.

Like Matt.

Like Alya.

Like Hae-ri.

Yes.

I am.

How can I even get a signal down here?

I’m back with an update.

Please note that my first post was written on my laptop at home where I felt safe and secure. Right now, I can’t say the same.

I’m writing this on my phone on 85% battery. I hope there’s enough connection to get this out into the world. It’s so cold down here I can barely type, but that’s all I can do right now. I need to tell you what’s going on. And hopefully you can help me.

After making my post last week, I drove myself crazy worrying over whether it would be taken down by Disney themselves, or I’d end up dead in a ditch.

I’m on summer vacation right now, so I’ve spent most of my days in my room trying and failing to sleep and monitoring my post to see if anyone else has had a similar experience or a loved one missing at the park. But things seemed fairly quiet.

I can’t say I let my guard down, but I did start to relax a little more. The whole point of making the post was to get this off my chest. Ten years of frustration and anger that I’d failed to save two kids who never grew up.

I saw it myself last week.

I saw the horrifying reality behind being a Disney park performer. That’s not something you can keep to yourself. I’ve been told my entire life that what I saw as a kid was just my rampant imagination.

Therapists told me I had to let it go, that I’d had a bad experience at Disney, and I couldn’t let it define my life.

Well, they were just adults who refused to entertain the idea of what I was saying being true.

They only knew facts and logic, and none of what I was saying fit any of those categories.

One of those adults was, of course, my mom, who found out I’d been back to the park after being “officially uninvited” and had grounded me for a week. As long as I was living under her roof, the rules which have crippled me my whole life still applied. There was no point trying to explain what happened.

I knew it would be like screaming at a brick wall and just wasting energy when I could use that to figure out how the fuck I was getting back in there without getting potentially arrested.

It was clear to me that the park saw me as a threat and was willing to shut my mouth whatever it took.

The first step was making sure I didn’t set foot in there. God only knew what the second would be. On Sunday night, I received a phone call at around 8.

I can’t remember what I was doing. Every day since going back to Fantasyland had been a blur of nothing, a colourless wave of time slipping by and nothing else.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Flynn Rider, or Roman, the boy who had been physically turned into a Disney prince against his will.

He followed me to the gate. Mindless animatronic drones aren’t supposed to do that, right?

That’s what I had seen a week ago.

What happened to Snow White.

Flynn showed me what he and Rapunzel were being turned into ten years ago, their skin turned to metal, their humanity being drained away by a strange device connected to their ear.

And surely what I had seen a week ago had been the finished product.

So, why had he followed me? With the question haunting the back of my mind, my brain clouded with cotton candy thoughts, I grabbed my phone and tapped ANSWER on an unknown number.

I didn’t realise it was unknown until I took a second look at the screen. For a moment, I considered putting the phone down, but a nagging feeling kept me holding on.

“Who is this?”

“You’re a coward.” The voice on the other end of the line rattled with static, and something slimy squirmed its way up my throat. It was a guy, maybe two or three years younger than me. “I’ve been waiting for you to go back,” he hissed out.

“I’ve been waiting for some kind of update, but there is none. You’ve given up on them, haven’t you? Because you’re a coward.”

“I…” I couldn’t speak.

What was I supposed to say?

“You’re what?” He scoffed.  “Sorry? If you were sorry, you would have gone back. You wouldn’t just leave them.”

Suddenly it was so hard to swallow, to breathe in and out. “How did you get this number?”

He’d seen my post. I don’t know how the hell he’d gotten my number, but this guy had read my post.

The kid ignored me, continuing to spit poison down the phone. “We both know that if you hadn’t attracted attention to yourself the second time you got in there, you could have gotten past the guard and done exactly what you should have done ten years ago,” he let out a sharp hiss.

“But you didn’t, did you? You freaked out and left them to fucking rot. Again.”

It was the emphasis on the last word which made me put the phone down.

Anger I couldn’t even comprehend. A cocktail of desperation and pain and frustration which felt eerily familiar to my own. I expected the guy to ring again, but he didn’t, and I wondered what his connection to my post was. Was he a faceless reader desperate for an update, or someone closer?

Either way, I knew I had to get back in. I’d gone in solo initially, so this time I’d blend in with more people to avoid getting caught. I have a restraining order, so the police could get involved if I got caught again. But when I relayed that thought in my head, that’s exactly what I wanted.

I wanted the police to be alerted, so I could finally bring what Disney is doing to people to light.

As long as I got into that room and led the police to the bodies, the machine, and all the other fucked up shit going on, I’d be able to save them.

So, I started planning. I got another fake ID, went over the map of the park multiple times, and noted down every detail. Next, I had to find others to go with, which was easy. I have four close friends, one of which is my neighbour.

When I suggested the idea to a group of my friends from school on our group chat, I got a mixed response. Most of them were happy to go, excited to spend their last summer drowning in the nostalgia of their childhood. Others, however, were sceptical.

I didn’t know there were so many horror stories surrounding Disney. Ghosts, missing families, and mysterious deaths.

Zach, who lives next door and has been my friend since we were in diapers, sent me multiple articles detailing child disappearances dating all the way back to the 60s.

I asked him if it was the same for young adults, but no, it was just kids. Which couldn’t be right.

The bodies I saw when I was eight were all teenagers, all of them missing limbs and heads, painted in the deepest shade of red I’d ever seen. I know as a kid your perception of the world can be different, but I know what I saw. As I read through seemingly endless lists of disappearances in and around the park, however, there was no mention of the names I was looking for.

There were no Mayas or Romans. No accounts of the hysterical eight year old girl who was thrown out of the park in 2011, which I knew must have gained at least some traction online through the years.

The internet loves its conspiracy theories according to Zach, and I should have been there somewhere.

It made me wonder. Were these stories fabricated by the park themselves?

To suffocate the real stories bubbling to the surface, where the name Roman might have popped up on a Google search, or Maya. They had second names, identities I didn’t know, families still waiting for them to come home. Knowing that there were no traces of them, or that they had been wiped away intentionally, only made me more desperate to go back.

I knew exactly what I had to do. I’d written the instructions in notepads, doodled them on anything which could be written on throughout the years, desks, school textbooks, my own arms. I’d turned them into a mantra to stop brewing panic attacks. First tunnel. Rabbit hole.

Fairy dust. Big red button. The only things in the way were the fucking guards and the possibility of being recognised.

This time they knew what I looked like, so I cut my hair and dyed it the dullest color I could find. I knew it wouldn’t completely change my identity, but it would help me blend in with the crowd. Zach noticed.

He didn’t say anything, but I caught his awkward glances during the car ride.

I kept my head down while the others sang to pop songs and exchanged memories from our four years at Westbrook High.

At one point, Zach leaned over and showed me his phone displaying a news article on Disney disasters. Zach is the type of guy who would rather watch a serial killer documentary than go to prom. In fact, that’s what he did in junior year.

He’s fascinated with all things paranormal and mysterious, and there was nothing like potential horror at the most magical place on earth to get his synapses tingling.

“Look at this.” He stabbed at the screen, his eyes igniting with excitement. “Look! It says here in 1992, thirty people were poisoned on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride.”

Before I could answer, he was cutting me off again.

“Oh! And apparently someone was beheaded on ‘It’s a Small World’ in the 80s due to some kind of malfunction with the ride.” Zach frowned at his phone. “I think this one is more of an urban legend, because there’s not really much about it.”

That caught my attention.

“Is there anything else about It’s a Small World?” I asked, my stomach galloping into my throat.

Zach’s gaze snapped back to his phone. “Not that I know of. I mean, there’s nothing here and I’ve been scrolling for ages.”

I swallowed, thinking back to the phone call I got on Sunday night. “What about performers?”

“What, like the people in costumes?”

My chest tightened, and I struggled to relocate the words in my head.

First tunnel. Rabbit hole. Fairy dust. Big red button.

“Yeah,” I said. “Has anyone reported anything… weird about them?”

“Weird?” Zach frowned. “There was something about some performers pouring hot soup on ride goers as a prank, but that’s it. The kids were fired, and there was an apology made to the people who got covered in soup. Which is actually hilarious.”

“So, there’s nothing about It’s a Small World?” I pressed.

“Nope.” Zach pulled off his beanie, swiping his clammy forehead with the back of his hand.

As usual he was a mess, but somehow that “mess” was also marginally attractive.

Tommy, our designated driver and latest addition to our group, a British exchange student who was almost the complete opposite of him, had been stealing glances at the guy all morning.

“I told you last night, there’s nothing. Just ghost shit.” He shrugged.

“There are rumours of maybe the odd teenager going missing, but they’re just that. Rumours. And besides, what about the countless ghost sightings? They’re definitely the souls of the dead children.”

Zach used his phone as a flashlight and held it under his chin. It didn’t create the effect he wanted when we were in broad daylight, and it wasn’t even noon.

Still, he tried. He deepened his voice. Zach was in the drama club since freshman year and admittedly his spooky voice was pretty good. “Have you guys ever heard of the haunting death of…”

“No, Zach.” Key, who had been car sick for most of the trip, lifted her head from her knees. “No, we don’t need to know about badly written urban legends. Because if you keep talking about people being beheaded, I’m going to behead you.”

“Ouch.” Tommy shot Zach a grin. “She’s gunning for you, mate.” His gaze flickered to me before he turned back to the road.

“You don’t strike me as the conspiracy theory type, Emma.” Tommy leaned forward and cranked the radio up.

I considered telling them everything, but that would mean taking them with me and I didn’t want them to get hurt.

“I was just curious,” I said.

Zach, however, didn’t seem convinced. He went back to his phone, but every so often I’d catch his worried gaze.

When we arrived at the park, I was dizzy with nerves. I put my head down and avoided eye contact when we went through the gate. As soon as the four of us were walking down the strip, however, I got brave again, just like when I was eight.

But this time the sweet aroma in the air turned my gut, and my gaze latched onto every Disney performer who walked past with bright smiles.

Key, who was still recovering from her barfing episode, ran off to stalk some of the Frozen performers, and Tommy reluctantly went after her.

I used that opportunity to head to Fantasyland quickly, so I could get it over with. My mind was awash with hurricane thoughts as I pushed my way through the crowd heading to It’s a Small World, which was open to my relief.

I joined the queue waiting and took a moment to think through everything.

I had to get to the first tunnel and jump off the ride, then find the rabbit hole and get down to what I’d pegged the Scarlet Room.

Where the metal monster lay in wait, chewing and spitting out bodies and creating performers through twitching human shells, drained of their humanity, everything they were. It’s weird.

Everything around me seemed so happy, so joyful and colourful, with little kids laughing, oblivious of what was underneath our feet, Disney classics blasting through overhead speakers, and the scents of cotton candy and popcorn being pumped into my nose.

And yet I was about to go back to the hell I’d seen when I was eight.

I was watching Snow White hand out candy apples to little kids crowding around her, and I felt sick.

I couldn’t look at her without remembering her twitching movements on the conveyor belt coming out of the metal monster’s mouth.

I keep trying, but it’s hard to put that kind of despair into words.

Seeing her, this girl with no identity who had been turned into Snow White, who had been this character for ten whole years and was still there, still trapped, because I couldn’t do one simple thing.

It wasn’t long before my body started to react to my racing brain, thoughts that wouldn’t shut the fuck up. My palms grew sweaty, my breath caught in my throat.

The closer I got to the ride, the sicker I felt.

Do you know that feeling when you can’t breathe? Air makes sense, and you know you’re breathing it, but somehow your brain has convinced you you’re not? That’s what it felt like. I felt like the world was ending around me, my vision feathering.

I was sure I was going to throw up all over the guy in front of me when someone grabbed my shoulder. I twisted around, expecting to see a guard coming to kick me out, but it was just Zach with his usual smile.

“Aren’t you a little old for It’s a Small World?” His gaze went to the roof. “Also, this ride is really creepy.”

The knots in my gut loosened slightly.

“Are you scared?”

“What? No!” Zach blew a raspberry. “I just want to know why your first destination is kid central.”

“Nostalgia,” I replied, watching little kids jump onto the ride.

It looked exactly the same as ten years ago, with added refurbishments. The animatronic dolls were a lot brighter with a fresh coat of paint, moving more naturally instead of swaying to that haunting song.

I noticed the whole set was different, and when I looked into the water, it was a lot deeper than I remembered.

“Huh.” Zach shrugged. He gave me a playful nudge. “Hey, I’m not judging you for wanting to be a kid again. It’s kind of adorable.”

He had no idea how much I wanted the exact opposite.

“And why exactly are you here?” I asked when the two of us jumped aboard. To my surprise, we weren’t the only ones above the age of five. Another teenage boy, around fifteen or sixteen, sat in front.

I grabbed a seat at the back just like I did as a kid, and Zach slumped down next to me.

“I have my reasons,” he said while I watched two guards jump on at the front. As long as they didn’t turn around and focused on the little kids, I could step off the ride when we reached the first tunnel.

Zach’s answer didn’t really hit me until we started moving, and I lifted my head, my gaze snapping from the water to the first wall of dolls which came to life as we slowly glided past. The kids sitting ahead watched in awe, and admittedly it was less creepy than last time. The dolls were a lot more lifelike.

Zach was filming the attractions on his phone as I got ready to jump up.

When the ride was enveloped in darkness from the first tunnel, only lit up with ghostly white light, there was sudden movement in front of me.

The younger boy who boarded with us stood up, swiftly planting one foot on the side of the ride, and leapt onto the narrow ledge.

There was a moment when I thought he was going to fall, his arms windmilling as he dived across the stark narrow gap, but the kid righted himself and hurriedly ducked behind a grinning doll twitching back and forth.

Zach’s attention left his phone for a moment. “Woah. What’s he doing?”

“No idea,” I said breathlessly, pulling apart my belt.

Zach grabbed my arm. “Wait, what are you doing?” His tone rose in panic. “Are you seriously following him?”

I jumped up, throwing my arms out for balance. “When you get off this ride, I want you guys to get out of here.”

“Why?”

“Just trust me.”

“What?” Zach twisted in his seat. “Emma, you can’t just… you can’t just jump off a ride!”

Ignoring him, I followed the boy’s movements. Now that I was an adult, it was harder to stay on my feet.

Throwing my arms out to keep my balance, I stumbled to the edge of the boat and jumped onto the side with one leg, using the rest of my body to catapult myself onto the ledge.

When I turned to face my friend, I caught fear in his eyes as the boat bled into the next tunnel.

Zach didn’t say anything. He didn’t start shouting or trying to get an orderly’s attention. He just stared with wide eyes and twisted lips. I could only give him a half-hearted smile which promised I’d explain everything when I saw him again.

My brain was quick to remind me of the fears which had been drowning my subconscious since coming to the park for the second time. What if I never saw him again? What if my name became obsolete too? Just another number, a statistic in disappearances on some internet forum.

I couldn’t think like that. Not when I was so close.

Focusing on the now, I followed the shadow of the boy who jumped off before me. His movements were erratic.

I watched him drop to his knees, clawing around for something, his hands grasping at the ground. I sensed his desperation and was reminded of my eight-year-old self. How much I wanted to save Flynn and Rapunzel.

Something warm crawled up my throat when I realised what I was doing. Slowly, I made my way over to him, dodging a security camera hidden in the corner of the cave.

“You’re looking for the rabbit hole, aren’t you?” I said, keeping my voice down.

I remembered it being hidden in the dark. I found it by accident. Ten years later, however, the rabbit hole was nowhere to be found. Almost like I’d imagined it.

It was almost funny. Like I’d tripped back into a reality where all of this was fiction, a stupid fantasy in my head.

Just like my mom said.

“Where is it?”

The boy turned to face me, though his face was shrouded in darkness.

“You said it was here, so where is it?”

His voice was familiar, minus the interference and crackling.

I swallowed. “You called me.”

“And you’re Emma,” he spat. “You abandoned my brother. Twice.”

Brother.

Shattered jigsaw pieces slowly slid into place in my head.

Oh.

As I closed the distance between us, the eerie glow emitting from the wall of dolls illuminated his face, and I got a glimpse of my past, my heart hurtling into my throat.

There were certain attributes that definitely separated them, but the resemblance was uncanny.

If I looked past the prosthetics and makeup, the crooked nose, and wide cartoonish eyes I had seen ten years ago, I imagined this was what the boy underneath the Disney Prince would have looked like.

I could see him in the freckles speckled across his cheeks, darker eyes which gave off an intimidating glare, and that same scowl.

This was a much younger version of him, a version I hadn’t even stopped to think was real. Of course he had a family, but I had been ignorant to think that after so many years they’d forgotten about him, that he was just a cold case and they had moved on.

I wondered if the permanent look of annoyance was hereditary, but seeing him felt… good. Like I was seeing Flynn again, the so-called fantasy.

“You could have saved him.” The boy’s voice was almost a plea. “You could have saved all of them, and you didn’t.”

I could only nod. “I know,” I whispered. “I tried.”

“You tried?” He rolled his eyes. It was crazy how much he was like his brother.

“I had to scroll through over-descriptive bullshit to find out that my brother has been turned into a mannequin or a Five Nights knockoff, or whatever the fuck you said, but also that you left him. You abandoned him for ten years and knew exactly what was going on.” His voice splintered.

“Did you not once think to maybe call the fucking cops? And I’m not even talking about ten years ago. You were a kid, sure. But I mean a week ago. You’re, what, eighteen, and you didn’t go to actual law enforcement who could have actually helped you?”

When his yell echoed, I grabbed him and yanked him behind a life-size doll.

“You need to be quiet,” I said. “There are cameras everywhere, and if you keep yelling, we’re going to get caught.”

The boy resisted against my grasp and then reluctantly nodded.

His words were still a hurricane in my head. Poison, sure, but the boy was right.

But who would believe a hysterical teenager over a multi-billion-dollar company?

When I was sure he was going to be quiet, I let him go and focused on finding the rabbit hole.

“It’s not here,” the boy said after maybe half a second of searching. He turned to me, hissing in frustration.

“It is. Just keep looking,” I said, but I wasn’t sure.

I was waiting for the ground to leave my feet, but nothing was happening.

“You said it was here!” the boy groaned. “You said it was at the first tunnel!”

I could tell he had a short fuse. He was pacing back and forth, running his hand through his mess of hair.

“Did you lie?” he spat. “Was that post to get attention? Because… because that’s what people do these days, right? They lie to go viral, to get those likes and comments… is that what you did?”

The kid trailed off, and he looked so helpless, glaring at the ground.

I saw anger, desperation, longing. Even if he didn’t believe it, even if he thought I’d made it all up, he still wanted to know for sure. He still had hope, and I admired that. The kid hadn’t given up on his brother, even after ten years.

“You’re kidding.” I kicked at the ground, scanning for the rabbit hole. “You really think I’d lie about all of this?”

“Kids do anything these days to go viral.” He folded his arms.

“Then why are you here?” I was slowly losing my patience. “You came here! You believed me!”

He shrugged. “I’ll believe anything to get closure.”

“My imagination isn’t that good.”

Looking at the ceiling, I remembered cracks in the tunnel, but they were gone. The ground was a lot smoother.

“It’s been refurbished,” I muttered. “Which means they built the new ride over the old one from 2011.”

And following that line of thinking, I turned my gaze to the walls. If my theory was correct, we were under the old ride.

Though I wasn’t the only one thinking it. Roman’s brother wandered over to something, and when I squinted, I realised he was grasping metal prongs sticking out of rough brick.

A ladder.

He went up first, and I joined him.

Just as I thought, the ladder led to the old ride.

But still no sign of the rabbit hole.

During my research, I read that there were multiple tunnels underneath the park. Apparently, they were known to the public, used for performers to get to their designated workstations across the park.

The old It’s a Small World ride had been left to the elements, the water drained.

It didn’t take us long to figure out that the ladder had led us to the second tunnel, and after wading through shallow dregs of what looked like sewage, we finally found it.

As an adult, there was nothing spectacular about it. When I was a kid, it was a magical portal into The Scarlet Room.

Now it just looked like an abandoned construction accident.

The two of us stood over the hole in silence.

“You read that I met your brother, right?” I spoke softly. “So you know what happened to him.”

The boy didn’t look at me, his gaze fixed on the oblivion underneath us.

“You met him a week ago.”

“He looked right through me,” I whispered, cringing at the memory of Flynn’s robotic grin.

“No, I’m talking about at the gate. He actually spoke to you.”

Roman’s brother lifted his head, his expression crumpled.

“That’s why you’re here.” He searched my expression for a sliver of hope. “You think he’s still in there.”

I didn’t know how to answer. He was right. I did think his brother was in there… somewhere.

“There’s something else.” The boy cleared his throat.

“What’s that?”

“The police. They’re not coming.” He laughed shakily. “Even if you do call them, they won’t come. Or they will, and they’ll come up with some bullshit story.”

Before I could speak, he sighed.

“Two weeks after my brother disappeared, two strangers came to our door with a deal Mom and Dad couldn’t refuse. And hey, they fucking hated him anyway, so why not sell him to an evil corporation?”

“They shut your parents up,” I said.

“Yep. We moved into a big house, dad got a new car, and I got whatever toys my mom thought would shut me up too.” The boy’s expression darkened.

“They sold my fucking brother.” He stabbed at his temple, emphasizing every word. “They sold him for a better life, one where they got everything handed to them on a silver fucking platter, and they didn’t have to put up with him anymore.” He sighed. “According to my parents, my brother ‘ran away to a friend’s house and emancipated.’”

“They sold him.” I shivered. “To Disney.”

“I didn’t know it was Disney at the time, but yeah. I was just pissed because you got caught before you could help him.”

The boy sniffled and swiped at his eyes, but he didn’t cry.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Jasper.”

“You sure you want to do this, Jasper?”

He stubbornly folded his arms. “I was seven when he disappeared. I had no clue what was happening. Unlike those assholes, I still waited for him to come back, and it killed me when he didn’t. Ten fucking years, and I waited. He’d be an old man now.”

“At twenty-seven?”

He shot me a sickly smile. “Haven’t you heard? Anything close to thirty is ancient.”

“He’s definitely not an old man.”

The boy’s eyes darkened. “Whatever he is, I want to know if there’s anything left of him to take home.”

“Back to your aunt?”

His eyes softened. “Yeah. Even after a decade, she’s still in pieces. Aunt Lydia is all I have left.”

I nodded. “And what if you don’t like what we find?”

He pulled something out of his hoodie. A lighter.

“Easy. I’ll torch the place.”

When I could only manage a hiss, Jasper sighed. “Relax, I meant the room with the metal monster who ate Snow White.”

Jasper’s words were strangely comforting. This kid had taken in every word I’d written, every experience I’d struggled to get down with trembling hands.

He believed it all and still had hope for his brother.

I remember wanting to talk to him or apologize, or something, something which would make up for abandoning Roman. But sudden footsteps and voices sent my body into panic, and I stumbled forward and reached out, the force of my hands sending Jasper tumbling into the dark, gravity plunging me into that oh-so-familiar darkness which had haunted my nightmares since I was a little kid.

Unlike the first time, I wasn’t expecting fairy dust or the air to carry me. I expected exactly what I got: a fall which lasted maybe a few seconds before impact. This time, I didn’t land on concrete, instead something soft with the sensation of bedclothes.

It took me a second to realize I’d made it.

Back to The Scarlet Room.

Which was exactly the way I’d left it. When I lifted my head, blinking back feathered vision, I was greeted by that same red light. The monster contraption towered over me, a lot bigger than I remembered.

The metallic shark-like jaw resembled something from a Saw trap.

The conveyor belt wasn’t visible, but I knew it was still there, locked inside waiting for its next victim. The only thing which was different was the ground.

Instead of the floor, I was lying in what I can only describe as feeling like being suffocated in dead fish. Jasper’s cry sent me hurtling up, and when I fully drank in what I was standing on, I should have known. I should have known that ten years had passed, and that pile I’d seen as a kid would only get bigger.

The two of us had landed in bodies entangled with each other, limbs and torsos like broken doll pieces and missing heads blanketed in clothes stained ancient shades of red. And those were the ones at the top. I didn’t have to look far to see a skeletal mouth poking from another dismembered corpse.

Jasper was hyperventilating when I found him. Not screaming or crying. Just staring into nothing. Shaking. His eyes wouldn’t find mine, only what we were standing on, his sharp breaths getting heavier.

“Jasper.” I grabbed his shoulders before he could freak out. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. Breathe.”

“Breathe?” He spoke in pants. “He’s here.”

His gaze flitted back and forth, drinking in the hell we had found ourselves in. “Is this where he’s been?” Jasper shrieked.

“This… this is where he’s been all this time? Buried in… in this?” He dropped to his knees. “But he won’t be able to breathe! We need to get him out. He can’t breathe. Oh God, he’s been here. All this fucking time. Here. He’s been here.”

My attention went to the red button which was still there on the same panel of buttons and switches.

“Can you stay here for me?” I whispered. “Just stay here, and I’ll press the button, okay?”

He didn’t reply, clawing through bodies. He was looking for Roman, I realized.

I wanted to stay with him, but something told me if I stayed, I would only make things worse.

I don’t know how I managed to get off the pile of bodies. I just staggered, looking for direction, my stomach trying to catapult into my throat as I stamped on heads and decomposing flesh.

When my feet found the ground, I dragged my legs over to the panel. The button was right in front of me, what Flynn and Rapunzel had begged me to press ten years ago. As I slammed my hand into it, I wondered what was going to happen. They didn’t tell me what pressing the button would do, only that I had to press it.

I got the answer before I could suck in a breath. The ground rumbled beneath my feet, and I looked up to see if the monster was coming to life once again.

But no, it wasn’t the metal contraption which was moving. It was the ceiling.

Jasper and I had come through what looked like a chute, and to my horror, the ceiling, suddenly lined with tooth-like spikes, began to descend. I understood with a sickening twist in my gut exactly what Flynn and Rapunzel had meant.

They didn’t want to be saved, I thought dizzily, my gaze going to the ceiling, to the crushing spikes stained crimson.

And then the pile of bodies.

They wanted to be free.

And I was a week and ten years too late.

I shook my head at the thought.

No, that couldn’t be right.

I saw Rapunzel, Maya’s, arm. I felt patches of her skin. I hugged Flynn, and he felt human!

And just how… how did they have so many bodies? Surely someone must have noticed!

“Emma!”

Jasper’s yell sent me hurtling towards the pile of bodies, but I was seeing something else: what looked like a door.

And Jasper’s shadow heading towards it.

He was waving his arms. “I’ve found a way out!”

A way out? My brain felt like cotton candy.

Another look at the ceiling told me we had maybe a minute to get out of there.

Jasper had already slipped through a large metal door which had opened automatically.

It must have been triggered when the ceiling started descending.

When I followed him through the door, which slammed behind me, I found myself standing on white marble flooring. The place reminded me of a hospital ward. But I wasn’t alone. A youngish man in a suit had a tight hold on Jasper’s shoulders.

“Hello.” He nodded at me. “I was about to show your friend where his brother is. Would you like to come?”

I could only follow the two of them down winding hallways which blurred into one mass of disorienting white.

The man stopped at what looked like a storage closet and held open the door. “There you go.”

Jasper pulled away from the man and stumbled inside, and I was close behind. I was right, it was like a storage closet. But instead of clothes, there were people. Characters. I glimpsed Ariel, Snow White, Aladdin, the Frozen sisters, and…

“He looks exactly the same.” Jasper’s voice was a whispered hiss. He stepped forward as if in a trance.

“Roman?” Jasper grabbed Flynn and shook him. But he was limp. “Hey!” His trembling hands grazed the boy’s face. “What did they do to you?” When the prince didn’t move, Jasper grew hysterical, clawing at his face and the material of his costume.

“Roman! Hey, you spoke to her! I know you did! You said… you said it was a small world, right?”

He turned to me. “Roman said that! Didn’t he?”

The man cleared his throat. “It is an old model, so we expect blips, including abnormal speech patterns.”

“Think of it like this,” the man said. “Imagine you went to sleep a long time ago, and suddenly you wake up inside a shell of steel made to entertain.”

He clucked his tongue. “Kid, our performers aren’t supposed to have self-awareness. If they did, it would drive them crazy, and would you blame them? Years spent in relaxing slumber only to find their body has gone. Every self-aware moment in a body which has stopped will make you regret ever hoping to be set free. And why would you want to escape?”

“You are entertaining children, allowing them to bask in a fantasy of their own mind.”

The suited man’s lips curled. “Would you really want that for it?”

I thought back to Roman’s jacket, and the world around me started to spin.

Was that him? Had I found his body and never realized it?

Then who, or what, the hell had dragged me from my mother?

“It.” Jasper repeated the word. “What do you mean, ‘it’? That’s my fucking brother!”

When he lunged forward, the man pulled something out from his jacket. An iPad.

And on the screen were four separate cameras. I recognized each face.

Key, Tommy, and Zach.

Key and Tommy were walking down the strip eating ice cream, while Zach was standing outside It’s a Small World. The man’s eyes turned to me. “One word from you, buttercup, and I’ll be recruiting your friends too.”

I could have strangled Zach.

I told him to leave.

I TOLD HIM TO FUCKING LEAVE.

I wanted the man’s attention to be on me, because I am the one who caused trouble.

Instead, though, his greedy eyes were on Roman’s younger brother.

“Peter Pan,” he said, tapping his chin. “Or, with adjustments, perhaps Hans?”

Jasper paled. “I don’t understand.”

“What is there not to understand? Your brother serves us well, and we like the look of you too.”

“Go and fuck yourself.” Jasper took a shaky step back. He held up his lighter, but it wasn’t much of a weapon.

“Come anywhere near me and I swear to fucking God, I’ll torch this whole place. Just watch me, assholes.”

Jasper hissed when he was grabbed from behind by people in white who came out of nowhere. Before I could comprehend what was happening, Roman’s brother was being forcefully dragged away.

His lighter hit the ground, and I snatched it up before any orderlies could see.

As for me, I’ve been shoved back into The Scarlet Room with the promise that if I try anything, I’ll be sending Key, Tommy, and Zach to the slaughter. The man said it’s on a timer and the button can’t be manually pressed.

Because of course it can’t.

So now I’m stuck in here with thousands of bodies I’m scared still have their minds, deep, deep down.

I keep thinking about it.

The human body dies. It rots and decomposes.

Consciousness? It keeps going.

It keeps thinking.

Where are Roman and Maya’s bodies? If they’re gone, their performer selves would be too, right?

What did that man mean by waking up to find their bodies gone?

I’m overthinking things that… that don’t even matter if I’m going to die in this room.

I have Jasper’s lighter, but what am I supposed to do?

I’ve called my friends, my family, and the police.

None of them are picking up.

I need to get Jasper out of here before he has the same fate as his brother.

Please.

Get me out of here.

I was 8 years old when I met Flynn Rider.

Well, in my kid brain, I did.

I’m not going to tell you his real name right now, but it will make me feel better if I refer to him as Flynn.

The trip had been for my birthday, and everything I endured before setting foot inside those towering gates was worth it.

The long car ride and the sicky feeling in my tummy which wouldn’t go away, the relentless heat scorching the air, as well as Mom yelling at me for not putting on sunscreen.

All of it was worth it when I stepped into Fantasyland, a chocolate milkshake with rapidly melting whipped cream in my clammy hands, that sickly feeling twisting into anticipation.

I remember the air itself smelled like cotton candy and deep-fried everything, and I was so excited I was speechless.

Mom was next to me, keeping a firm grasp of my hand.

She was looking through the map, slurping on her own rainbow-colored slushy.

I was blowing raspberries at passers-by when I glimpsed one of my favorite Disney Princes across the walk. I had seen Tangled a grand total of thirteen times.

Fourteen, including the time I was sick and hallucinated the whole plot while watching it.

Flynn was different from the other Princes.

He made me laugh all the way through the movie. Just the scene when he was knocked out with the frying pan had me dying of laughter and rewinding the Blu-ray, much to Mom’s annoyance.

Flynn looked exactly like he did in the movie: longish brown hair swept to the side, a hook-like nose clashing with otherwise handsome features, and his signature leather satchel strapped over a white shirt and blue jacket.

I expected him to be talking to the other kids running by and yelling his name, but he wasn’t paying any attention to them.

Instead, he leaned against the wall with his arms folded, the sword he was supposed to wave around like in the movie sticking out from his belt. He looked like he was scanning the crowd. Every kid who walked past caught his attention.

He seemed to come alive for a moment, standing straighter, his frown twisting into a smile. But as soon as their parents joined them, his shoulders slumped again.

He was looking for something, I thought, and that made me wonder if there was going to be some kind of show.

Earlier, Mom had taken me to an Under the Sea interactive show.

But when I strayed further from Mom and closer to Flynn, the Prince wasn’t putting on any show, or at least none I could see.

But he was looking for something in the crowd.

I hid behind a statue of Ariel and peeked behind it. When I was sure his gaze went back into the crowd, I waved with a grin.

There was no sign of Maximus or the frying pan, or its wielder, but I was happy to see him at least. I was waving my arms like a maniac when he finally caught my eye, and something in his expression changed. Again, his eyes flickered back and forth, looking for something.

This time he stood up straight and looked me directly in the eye.

I grinned at him, and he smiled back and took out his sword, waving it. Then he winked at me, and after a moment he gestured me over.

I hesitated at first.

Mom told me to never talk to strangers, but this was Flynn Rider.

He wasn’t a stranger.

I knew him like I knew my friends.

Mom would understand me talking to a Prince.

When I looked over my shoulder, I saw Mom still talking to her friend, and I was in her field of vision. Just like she said.

So, it would be okay.

I skipped over and jumped in front of him.

“Are you Flynn Rider?” I lowered my voice. “I don’t like your real name.”

Eugene Fitzherbert was the worst name in the history of mankind.

He shrugged. “I guess.”

When I stopped smiling, he seemed to rethink his answer. His expression twisted, and I swore I saw pain.

Pain he was trying to hide.

Still, though, he grinned, which was forced.

“Oh, no, yeah, of course I am! Flynn Rider! That’s me.”

I folded my arms. “Your nose is bigger in the movie.”

“Thanks.”

Flynn’s smile wasn’t as big as it was in the movie. He seemed… distracted.

His voice was different too.

He sounded younger, like my older cousin who was in his last year of high school. But I wasn’t going to complain. He had just confirmed it was him.

“Hi!” I waved my drink. “Can I give you a hug? You’re my favorite!” I had to think for a moment. “After Maximus.”

I expected him to roll his eyes and laugh like he did in the movie.

Flynn and Maximus had a love-hate relationship, and it was one of my favorite parts.

Instead, though, he nodded. “Yeah, sure.” Flynn looked behind me. “You, uh… are you with your parents?”

I followed his gaze. “Yeah, my mommy’s talking to her friend,” I said. “She talks forever. My daddy said he wants to divorce her for it.”

I was so excited I couldn’t stop speaking, even when I hadn’t completely thought my words through.

He nodded. “Ah.” Flynn grabbed me awkwardly and wrapped his arms around me in a hug. He smelled like crushed fall leaves and spicy oranges.

I opened my mouth to tell him how much I loved the movie, when his grip suddenly tightened, and then it was hard to breathe without taking a sharp gulp of air.

My face was pressed against his shoulder, and the scents of fall leaves and oranges were suffocating. I tried to pull away, tried to cry out, but he held me tighter.

“Listen, kid,” Flynn said, his voice far too different now. He didn’t sound like a prince. He sounded like a stranger.

“I need you to do something for me, and I know this is scary. I know you’re scared, and I wouldn’t be doing this if I wasn’t fucking desperate. Trust me, I’m not… I’m not like this, okay? I didn’t just wake up this morning and decide to kidnap a kid.”

His voice broke, and he was panting into my shoulder. I could feel something warm dampening the straps of my dress.

“You’re going to follow me away from the crowd, okay? Forget about your mommy."

He wanted to let me run away. But something was stopping him. Something dark, a shadow hanging over him.

Something about his words, his voice, was sincere. Or maybe I was just a naïve eight-year-old who wanted to go somewhere with a fictional prince.

At that point, I couldn’t see the faceless figure behind the costume, the boy with no identity who was crying out for help. All I saw was pure fantasy.

“Come with me. That’s all I’m asking. I’m not that scary.”

I could only squeak into the material of his shirt.

“Okay, I am slightly scary. I don’t blame you for wanting to run away.”

“Can’t I help you here?” I whispered.

“There are too many cameras.”

“What about my mommy?”

“I’ll bring you back to her. I just need help…” He groaned. “Defeating the evil… queen, or whatever.”

“She’s back?” I whispered in a shriek.

“Yeah, sure. Gotham is back.”

“Do you mean Gothel?”

The boy sighed. “Yes. Gothel. Are you going to help me or not?”

When I managed a nod, his grip on me slipped away. I was free. I was free of his suffocating grasp, and I could have run.

I could still hear Mom several yards away. But when I looked up at Flynn, at the look on his face bleeding with desperation and pain and emotions I couldn’t even understand at that age, I knew I had to go with him.

The world was different when I blinked and fully took everything in. colors were duller. The crowd was thinning, and the smell in the air reminded me of expired milk. Flynn was no longer illuminated in light like earlier when I first glimpsed him.

Now he was shrouded in a darkness I didn’t understand, tendrils of black twining around him. The sun was drifting across the horizon, and the sky was darkening.

Flynn took my hand and stepped back several times before he started to run. I stumbled, struggling to keep up.

“Where are we going?” I gasped out, twisting around and catching one last glance at my mom. She was oblivious, a smile on her lips.

Panic filled me.

Would I see my mom again?

I tripped over my shoes, but he just pulled me further before I could bend and tie my laces.

Flynn didn’t answer my first question, and I managed to choke it out again when we slowed. Flynn came to an abrupt stop. He was calculating where to go.

His gaze snapped to a security camera, and he took a step back before yanking me behind an attraction.

There was a sign that said CLOSED, but Flynn kept going, pulling me past signs telling us to go back, and then helping me climb over a gate. When I hit the ground knees first, he helped me to my feet.

“You okay?” He frowned at my grazed knee, but I could barely feel it.

I nodded and tried to smile. “It doesn’t hurt.”

His lips quirked slightly into what might have been an actual Flynn Rider smile before settling back into his accustomed frown.

“Jesus Christ,” Flynn hissed out. He was looking at something behind me. “Please. Never make me do that again.”

“Relax.”

Another voice, and my head snapped up.

There she was under a setting sun, dull rays of sunlight blurring around a halo of golden curls plaited and entangled with blooming flowers, and a purple dress pooling around her feet.

Rapunzel.

Like Flynn, she was different. Her smile didn’t light up her whole face, and her eyes, instead of glittering with excitement and joy, were dark and hollow. The princess had her hands on her hips.

There were certain things I noticed about her that took away the magic. Her dress looked too tight around her waist, and her expression was pinched.

“Did you find a kid?” Her blue eyes shot to me in what looked like hope.

Flynn settled her with a glare. Not playful like the movie. It was the glare my mom gave my dad when he came home late with his assistant.

“Obviously.” He gestured to me. “You don’t seem the least bit fazed that I literally just snatched a child.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“Nope. I don’t think so. But still, this doesn’t feel right. Taking a kid.”

Her eyes softened. “It was for a purpose. You know we won’t be able to get out of here without her.”

“What do you mean?” I whispered. “I thought I was saving you from the evil witch.”

The Princess took my hands gently. “What’s your name?”

I ducked my head. “Emma.”

Rapunzel’s smile was a little more genuine then, at least an attempt.

“Hello, Emma. Now, I know you’re scared, and we wouldn’t be doing this if there was another way. But there isn’t.” Her tone hardened. “We need you to do something for us, okay? And it’s not going to be easy, but you’re going to be brave, Emma.”

“Stop sugar-coating it.”

When I looked up, Flynn’s lips were twisted. His eyes, like hers, were dark, so dark I couldn’t see through them. The glimpse of the real Prince I’d gotten when I grazed my knee was gone, and I was once again left with a stranger. He stabbed at his temples.

“I know this is getting stronger, but you can’t let go of who you are. Who we are. You’re not a fucking Princess, so stop acting like one. If you give into it, it’ll be easier for those bastards to take us.”

He held up his arm and ripped up his sleeve. His skin didn’t look like mine. It looked like it was rippling, writhing, like there was something underneath.

Creepy crawlies.

I bit my lip against a cry. Flynn looked like he was going to cry himself.

“See!” he choked out, stabbing at his arm. “It’s already starting! And I can’t stop it. I can feel this shit draining away everything I am, and it’s fucked. It’s seriously fucked. Do you think I want to become some Disney Prince? I can’t even remember my fucking name! I have to keep reminding myself! And even then, it’s hard.”

I watched as the boy dropped to his knees, his head in his lap.

“I just want to go to college. I want to finish my senior year and see my aunt again. I can’t even remember what she looks like anymore. All of it, everything, is gone.”

He lifted his head, his gaze going to Rapunzel, who was trembling.

I’d never seen Rapunzel look so scared, so hopeless.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to remember her?” he whispered. “Your mom? The mom you keep talking about, but no matter what you do, you can’t remember her face? What she smells like?”

Flynn sighed and reached up to scrub his face. “We’re losing that opportunity. Day by day. Hour by hour. So, yeah, this is my long-winded way of saying you don’t have to keep the façade. So, please."

"She doesn’t need a pep talk filled with rainbows and cotton candy. She needs reality. We tell her what’s going on, and then we tell her what she needs to do, and the kid does it. Because if we don’t? If we keep standing here like idiots playing make-believe, she’s going to get the wrong idea.”

The Princess shook her head with a sigh. She let go of my hands, her expression hardening.

“Right,” she whispered. “Emma, you’re going to help us, okay?”

I shook my head. Flynn was scaring me. “I want my mommy.”

“You can go back to your mommy,” she whispered. “We just need you to do something extra special for us, okay?”

I peeked at Flynn, and he scowled.

“Kid, we don’t have time for this. You’re either going to help us, or…” He trailed off. “We’ll make you help us.”

“You’re scaring her.” Rapunzel shot him a warning look.

“I’m scaring her? Good! How the fuck do we get out of this?”

“Stop swearing,” I whispered. “I don’t like it when you swear.”

The boy opened his mouth, but Rapunzel shushed him.

“Calm down. We’ve still got a few days before they empty us…”

“Empty you?” I shrieked.

Flynn snatched my milkshake and tipped it, pouring the contents onto the ground. “Every drop, kid.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “What do I do?”

Rapunzel straightened up. “Do you know the ‘It’s a Small World’ ride, Emma?”

I nodded. Mom promised we could ride it at the end of the day.

“Well…” Rapunzel bit her lip. “We need you to ride it. And don’t worry, I can get you on super-fast, don’t worry.”

Flynn nodded. “We need you to jump out under the first tunnel.”

“What?”

I started to shake my head, but he gently took my shoulders.

“Listen to me,” he said. “You’re going to sit at the back of the ride. It’s pretty late in the day, so there shouldn’t be too many people. And it’s dark. Rapunzel will make sure your seat belt is loose, and you just have to jump out at the first tunnel.”

The prince shook me so hard the world started to spin.

“It has to be the first tunnel, do you understand? Inside the tunnel there’s a sort of, I guess you can call it an, uh…”

“It’s a big rabbit hole,” Rapunzel said, shooting me a reassuring smile. “Have you seen Alice in Wonderland?”

I nodded.

“Well, it’s just like that! It’s a magical hole in the ground. All you need to do is jump in.”

Flynn must have seen my look of hesitation.

“I know it sounds scary, kid. Like we’re sending you to your demise…”

Rapunzel shoved him hard.

“But it’ll be fine,” he said. “They pump weird crap into the air to prevent kids hurting themselves. Instead of falling, you’ll fly. Like fairy dust.”

Flynn seemed to catch himself actually smiling and groaned.

“Great. I’m really acting like this shit is real.”

“It is real.” Rapunzel shoved him again. “Fairy dust, Emma. You’ll fly. We promise.”

I did want to fly. I’d wanted to fly ever since watching Peter Pan.

“Now here’s the hard part.”

Rapunzel stood up and started to pace while Flynn dropped his head into his arms.

“How long do we have?” the Princess asked.

“Maybe five minutes,” he replied. “And that’s if her mom hasn’t come looking for her.”

“Right.” Rapunzel took a deep breath. “Emma, here comes the hard part, okay?”

She came to stand in front of me, and I looked up, and finally, finally, cracks were starting to appear in her appearance.

Her makeup was running in the heat, and she’d rolled up the sleeves of her dress.

“You’re going to land in a… in a big room,” the Princess said. “And you’re going to promise me that you’re going to keep your eyes closed as soon as you land, okay? You don’t need to see anything, Emma. What you need to do is take two steps and reach out. You’ll feel a big red button, and what you’re going to do is press it.”

I frowned. “Why can’t I look? I don’t like the dark.”

The two of them exchanged glances, and Rapunzel sighed.

“The spell,” Flynn said. “If you open your eyes, the spell won’t work.”

Rapunzel raised her brow. “I thought you didn’t want to play fantasy?”

He shrugged. “You try convincing her to keep her eyes shut without traumatizing her.”

The Princess nodded solemnly. “Right! Two big steps, Emma. Keep your eyes shut extra tight and press the button. You don’t need to see what’s inside the room because there isn’t anything to see. But if you open your eyes, the spell won’t work.”

“The spell on Mother Gothel,” I whispered, my gut fluttering with excitement.

She nodded. “Exactly. Then we can all go home, and you can go back to your mommy.”

There was a pause, and I finally said the words which had been choking my mouth since Flynn started yelling.

“Is someone hurting you?” I asked, a lump in my throat.

The Princess held out her arm. Like Flynn’s, it looked wrong. Too shiny.

“It’s okay,” she murmured. “You can touch it.”

I did, running my fingers over her skin, and immediately retracted my hand with a cry.

Her arm didn’t feel like my own, or my mommy’s. It was hard and smooth and metal. It felt like my mom’s car door when I slammed my hand against it impatiently waiting for Mom to unlock it.

I tried again, and the further my fingers glided past her elbow, the more I relaxed. Her skin felt more normal.

When I frowned at her, the Princess spoke, but her voice was choked.

“See? I’ve still got some patches of skin left.”

When her “skin” started to writhe like Flynn’s, something moving under so-called flesh, I staggered back, and she pulled down her sleeve.

“It’s okay,” she said softly, pointing to her ear.

She pulled off her blonde wig, revealing dark hair tied into a ponytail. It was surreal seeing Rapunzel with different hair, but the more she revealed of herself, the calmer I felt.

The Princess grazed her fingers over her right ear, where something was attached, a device I’d never seen before. The green light reminded me of my cousin’s PlayStation 1.

“As long as you press that big red button, this won’t be able to hurt me anymore.”

“What is it?”

I peered closer, poking it.

Her eyes darkened. “It… it was Mother Gothel.”

She pointed to Flynn, and like Rapunzel, he too was wearing a wig, this time over dark red hair covered with something white and netted.

“See, Flynn’s got one too. It’s like a, uh, magic spell. A dark spell which isn’t making us feel very good. And once you push the reject button, I mean the off button, we’ll be free.”

“We can’t so much as mutter the word help, or they’ll fry us. That’s why we need you.” Flynn poked at his own ear, stabbing at the flashing green light. “That’s why I was looking for kids with no parents. You’re easier to convince.”

He nodded at me.

“You think you can do this, kid?”

“Yes.” I smiled despite my jumping gut. “I want to save you from the evil witch.”

Rapunzel grabbed my hands again.

“Remember it like this,” she said. “Jump off at first tunnel. Rabbit hole. Fairy dust.”

“Big red button,” I whispered.

When I recited it back to her, she laughed and held her hand out for a high-five.

“Alright! Let’s do this, Princess Emma!”

A cry made me jump, and Rapunzel’s smile bled away, replaced with a cry which didn’t hit the sound barrier.

I remember her turning away from me, her fake golden hair flying into my face.

The world seemed to move slowly, and I could only watch as Flynn hit the ground, his quaking hands going to his head. She was already there, grabbing him and pulling him to his feet.

“Flynn.” Rapunzel was speaking, her voice twisted with panic. “Hey, stay with me, okay?”

She grabbed at his face, and I was frozen, watching.

It was just like the movie.

Except in the movie, Flynn’s eyes hadn’t been rolling back and forth, showing the whites of his eyes, sharp rivulets of red dripping down his face. He was crying over Rapunzel’s hisses of reassurance, his fingers clawing at his ears.

“Fuck,” he was speaking in sharp breaths. “My… my head. I can’t… I can’t hold it back. It hurts!”

Rapunzel twisted around to me, her face pale.

“Emma, promise me you can do this,” she cried. “You can push that button, right?”

I managed to nod, watching her help the prince to unsteady feet.

His expression kept changing from who he was, the scowling prince who was always in a bad mood, to something else, something I recognised.

But it wasn’t good recognition.

It felt wrong. Fake.

That plastic grin which split his lips apart and lit up his eyes.

Rapunzel grasped his hand, and I knew, just by looking at her, that she was prepared to put me in danger to save him.

That was exactly what I expected from my favorite Princess, but reality was starting to seep in, and I didn’t like it.

“Stay here,” she said. “Do you have any jobs right now?”

“Just walking around and winking at little brats.” Flynn clawed at his face. “Maya, I can’t do this. They’re in my head.”

His voice was a broken wail, but I couldn’t register it. All I could hear was a brand new name.

A name which suddenly fit Princess Rapunzel.

“You can,” Rapunzel hissed. She cradled his face. “It’s five minutes, Roman! You can hold on for five minutes, can’t you?”

He only offered her a sickly smile.

“And what happens if I end up like Charming? Like Jasmine and Snow White? Fuck, they took Snow today. Tomorrow it’s fucking Aladdin and Eric, and then me. It starts with skin, then brain, and finally…”

“That’s not going to happen,” she gritted out.

Rapunzel marched forwards and grabbed me.

“Come on, Emma.”

This time her grasp was tight, but I held on.

Flynn sunk to the floor. "We're fucked. Get my jacket, would ya?"

Rapunzel didn’t turn around, pulling me with her. “No. Because she’s pressing that button. Stay here, Roman.”

“It’s red!” Flynn yelled while the Princess was helping me climb back over the gate. “It’s got… it’s got a Pikachu on the zip. You know what a Pikachu is, right?”

By the time we were at the It’s a Small World ride, my stomach was galloping. The line wasn’t long, and Rapunzel was quick, pulling me through the entrance and then helping me into my seat.

I noticed her trembling hands when she was buckling me in. “Maya. That’s your name,” I whispered when she was struggling to loosen the belt.

The Princess lifted her head and blinked at me when I said the name.

I could tell by her eyes that she was happy to hear that name, but her lips pursed, and she shook her head.

“They’re nicknames,” she said shakily, smoothing down my dress. “Okay, tell me again what you need to do.”

The ride rumbled underneath me, and in front, a group of kids squealed in delight. When I looked around, it was dark, the water black beneath me. I squeezed my hands into fists.

“First tunnel,” I whispered. “Rabbit hole. Fairy dust. Big red button.”

“And what are you not going to do?”

“Open my eyes.”

Rapunzel nodded. “That’s right,” she whispered.

When the ride started, I waved to Rapunzel, but she didn’t wave back. I still remember her pale face lit up in the glow of animatronic dolls coming to life.

When the song started, I focused on the Princess’s words and stared hard at the running water below me.

There were two orderlies, but both of them were focused on the kids at the front.

As the ride slowly drifted towards the first tunnel, and I was greeted to yet another wall of dolls coming to life in sharp, twitching movements, I grabbed at my seatbelt.

The world was enveloped in black, only lit up by faded white light, and when the kids at the front started screaming, I pulled my seatbelt apart and jumped up.

Everything was spinning, and my legs wouldn’t move properly, but somehow, I managed to plant one foot on the side of the ride.

Flynn told me the ride was close to the ledge, so I only had to step off, and with his words echoing in my head, I made sure the orderlies weren’t looking before stepping off the ride.

At first, I was off balance, and I thought I was going to fall into the water, but I caught myself.

The ride continued without me, and I ducked, just like Rapunzel had told me.

Once the ride went heading towards the second tunnel, I blindly walked on the ledge, scanning for the hole. It was too dark. I couldn’t see anything.

I remember being frustrated, stamping, looking for the magical hole, when the ground left my feet. I cried out, but my scream was swallowed up as I plunged, my body slipping into nothing.

Flynn and Rapunzel had promised me it would be like flying, but it didn’t feel like flying. I lost all my breath in a scream, and I wasn’t floating like I thought I would.

I was slicing through air at a pace I could barely keep up with. They said it would take a while for me to land because of the fairy dust, but when I opened my eyes, there was no sparkling fairy dust.

There was just the dark.

Darkness, before I hit something. Pain exploded in my body, and I had to bite back a cry. Remembering Rapunzel’s words, I covered my eyes before I could see anything, and I could see something.

It was no longer dark, the endless oblivion I’d been trapped in making way for a scary red light. Trying not to cry, I stood up, still with my hands over my eyes.

I’d lost my shoes when I’d landed, and my feet were bare.

I could feel them standing on something soft. When I took a shaky step forwards, the sensation of the ground changed.

No longer soft, like I was walking through materials of some sort, there was something… wet. I was standing in something wet and warm which pooled in between my toes and stuck to my soles.

What did Rapunzel say again? Two big steps.

I took my first step, my breath quivering. It was so hard not to peek between the cracks in my fingers.

Another step.

This time I stepped on something. This time it was cold and squashy. It felt… familiar.

Like earlier, holding mom’s hand.

I reached out for the big red button, but I was clawing thin air.

I started to panic and stumbled back, but I was standing on something else.

This time it was sharp and crunched. I couldn’t take it anymore, and my eyes shot open on instinct. I peeled my hands from my face, choking on a cry.

The gravity of what I had done didn’t fully settle in, but I wasn’t thinking about Rapunzel and Flynn’s words. Instead, I was looking forwards at the source of the scary red light which had illuminated the cracks between my fingers.

There was a giant machine towering over me. It reminded me of a monster, with an angular opening like the jaw of a shark.

I didn’t look at what was inside the monster’s mouth because at that moment, my brain wasn’t registering it. I wasn’t looking at the piles and piles of sleeping people who I had been standing on.

There was a conveyor belt contraption in front of the machine.

I started forwards blindly when I glimpsed the big red button on a control panel of other strange buttons and switches.

But then something caught my eye.

At the very top of the pile of sleeping people was something red.

It stuck out to me, not because of the color, but because of the strange yellow thing connected to its zip.

Something warm slithered up my throat, but I couldn’t cry out. There was no exit, only the yawning mouth of a monstrous metal beast which had spat out all these sleeping people.

Before I could stop myself, I stumbled onto the pile and reached for the jacket, but as I was getting closer, I began to realise they weren’t sleeping.

They were broken like dolls, some with heads and some without. The red jacket, when I reached out to grab it, was attached to something, a body buried in discarded parts. I was frozen, my fingers still grasping the material of the jacket, when the ground suddenly rumbled beneath me.

The monster had woken up.

But it didn’t eat me. It was shaking, spitting, making the same sound as my mom’s lawnmower. The red light turned green, followed by screams. They were deafening, sending me to my knees. It was a girl, her cries rattling my skull. There wasn’t just her scream.

The sound of my mom’s lawnmower continued.

But I wouldn’t listen to it. I couldn’t. When her screams died down and the ground stopped shaking, rumbling, the light turned red once again, and I risked a peek between my fingers.

The conveyor belt was moving, I realised, and on it, bleeding into the dark, was a girl in a dress I recognised.

Her screams were replaced with a melodic voice I knew all too well. I’d seen the movie so many times. I recognised her black hair, her pale white skin. Her face was illuminated in eerie light, a wide smile prickling her lips.

But there was something wrong. The way she was standing. Her drooping eyes which popped out of her skull.

She was posing, her hands clasped out in front of her, an apple balanced in her palms.

“Would you l-like an a-a-apple?” Snow White said. Her legs, metallic and shiny, were trembling beneath her.

Footsteps.

A voice.

“Great. She’s come out wrong.”

I couldn’t move, my gaze still on Snow White. The way a strong pair of arms grabbed and pulled her off the conveyor belt.

“Jesus! Who let a kid in?!”

The voice barely penetrated my ears. I couldn’t stop staring at the Princess, at her drooping eyes and wide grin.

Warm arms grabbed hold of me, and that was when I snapped out of it.

I started screaming, and I didn’t stop until they had cleaned me up and carried me out of the ride, and back into my sobbing mother’s arms. I couldn’t stop screaming, couldn’t calm down, even when mom whispered into my hair that everything was okay.

I was thinking about the sleeping bodies with pieces missing from them.

I told her and the staff about Flynn and Rapunzel, and that they were hurting, that they needed help, but they just laughed at me and said I had a vivid imagination.

I didn’t stop screaming and struggling until a man with a smile too wide for his face told the two of us to leave and gave us free smoothies. Still, I didn’t stop.

Nobody would believe me, and it was killing me that I hadn’t been able to press that red button. Since then, I’ve had twelve therapists, and I’ve bitten three of them.

No matter what I say, I’m told it wasn’t real, that I’d somehow jumped off the It’s a Small World ride, and I’d gone exploring, building a fantasy in my mind.

When I was thirteen, I asked mom to go to Disney for my birthday, but she refused and took me to the movies instead.

I spent my childhood trying and failing to get back in there, and when I turned fifteen and made a plan to go with several friends, mom let it slip that I had been “officially uninvited” from the park due to the incident when I was eight.

Still, that didn’t stop me. I waited until my mom could no longer make my decisions for me, and I went back three days ago.

I changed my name on my ticket and used a fake ID. I didn’t think it would work, but somehow, I got in.

On the 20th July 2022, I went back.

Ten years later.

The park has changed, sure, but I knew exactly where I was going.

First tunnel. Rabbit hole. Fairy dust. Red button.

I use those words as a mantra these days for times when I can’t breathe and panic settles in.

I was muttering them when I headed to It’s a Small World.

The ride looked far different to the one I’d seen ten years ago. It must have received multiple refurbishments. I started to panic. If that was true, then how did I get down there?

To my disdain, it was closed. There was a guard outside, and I strode over to him, going over the mantra in my head.

First tunnel. Rabbit hole. Fairy dust. Red button.

“I need to get in there,” I said through a lump in my throat.

When he gave me a strange look, I hissed out, “I just want to see the ride itself, not ride it.”

He rolled his eyes. “Sorry, ride’s closed due to a malfunction. We’ll have it up and running in a few hours.”

“But…”

“Kid, it’s dark in there, anyway. Can’t see anything.”

I held my breath. “It’s for a project. I need photos.”

“The ride is closed.”

I nodded, a slither of dread curling in my gut. “Right. Thanks.”

I turned around, gagging on the smell of cotton candy and deep fried everything.

What now?

I twisted back to the guard. “Do you know where I can meet Flynn Rider and Rapunzel?”

“Aren’t you a little old…”

“It’s for my friend.”

His lip quirked. “Uh-huh.” He pointed. “Tangled characters are over there, kid. Knock yourself out.”

I ended up at a café I can’t remember the name of. I’d searched for Flynn and Rapunzel, but they were nowhere to be seen. I glimpsed Moana talking to a bunch of kids, and Ariel and Eric walking hand in hand. I couldn’t look at them.

I could feel myself starting to break apart. I’d spent so long trying to get into the park, and now I was there, I felt like I was going to be sick.

I jumped when the bench wobbled, and someone sat across from me.

He held out a cartoon picture in black and white. “See? They can’t get my nose right."

I can’t describe what I felt then. A mixture of pain and regret and joy at finally seeing him again.

It was Flynn.

He looked exactly the same, not aging a day.

It was him, and yet it also wasn’t. Because he wasn’t scowling at me or yelling in my face.

That spark, the spark I’d been scared of as a kid, and what I was desperately searching for as an adult, wasn’t there.

“Hi. Name’s Flynn Rider. Crook by day, dashing young gentleman by night.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m late.” I managed to hiss through a sob I couldn’t hold back.

I looked him in the eye, but he was looking right through me.

It hurt.

Fuck.

This stranger who I didn’t even know, who I tried to save. It fucking hurt that he wasn’t looking at me. His expression was frozen in a cartoonish grin, and I thought back to Snow White on the conveyor belt.

“Ten years,” I whispered. “But I couldn’t… they wouldn’t let me come back---"

“Hi,” Flynn said again. “Name’s Flynn Rider. What would you like to do today? We’ve got a variety of things fit for both kids and adults!”

He jumped up, still with that grin.

“If you need help, just come and talk to me, alright?” He winked, and when I looked closer, his facial expression was frozen. His right eye winking on cue. “I don’t bite. Maximus, however? Does bite.”

“Eugene.”

I couldn’t breathe, suddenly.

Princess Rapunzel was looming over us, giggling. “Be nice to Maximus.”

He rolled his eyes at me, then shot a grin at her. “We get along! Sort of… kind of… almost never.”

Rapunzel’s gaze found mine, and there was fake warmth. Nothing of what I remembered, the sincerity in hollow eyes.

“What would you like to do today? We’ve got a variety of things fit for both kids and adults!”

They were saying the same thing over and over again, and I couldn’t fucking stand it.

I don’t remember much of what happened after that. I went back to the It’s a Small World ride, and I was screaming at the top of my voice, slamming my hands into the gates. There was nobody around, but still, I was grabbed and escorted out of the park.

I was given a bottle of water, and once I gave my name in a hysterical cry, they told me to go home, and if I set foot in there again, the police would be called.

I stayed outside the gate for a while. At first, I thought of plans to get back in, but when the reality settled in that I was too late, ten years too fucking late, I stood up and turned to go. I grabbed my bag from the ground and shouldered it, and I started forwards, but I stopped when the hair on my neck stood up.

My stomach twisted into knots.

I turned slowly to find a figure standing at the gates. I glimpsed fingers wrapped around steel, tightening.

So tight.

Flynn.

His right eye was still winking erratically, a sad smile twitching on lips trying to form a grin.

I moved closer, my breath in my throat.

Flynn opened his mouth.

“It’s… a small… world,” he said. “It’s… a small… world, isn’t it?”

I started to answer him, but that same guard was coming towards me.

“Hey, I said go home! Fucking Disney adults!”

When I looked back at the gate, Flynn was gone.

…

I got a restraining order in the mail this morning.

But it’s not going to stop me.

I might be ten years late, but I believe I can still get in there.

I can still save them.

It's my very first Grief Spotting Gala today. 

I don't have a choice. It's either I take part willingly, or my loved ones will be targeted.

Standing in front of the towering tailor's mirror, I follow instructions already hammered into me as I am measured:

Do not move.

Do not touch the dress.

Do not speak.

Stand silently, and look pretty.

Thank the designers, and wait for further instructions. 

The dress is too small, too suffocating, the bodice crushing my ribs.

Previously worn by a famous actress who publicly died on the red carpet, I can’t help but squirm. It’s shrunk, resized, and cut so tightly that it’s barely a dress, more like a hideous corpse stapled to my breasts.

Her blood is ingrained in the material, clinging to my skin.

It's almost twenty years old. Like me. 

Yet I can still feel it scratching against my skin, her eternal breaths squeezing the life out of me. Evelyn, my stylist, pricks me for the seventh time, and I have to bite my lip to suppress a hiss. It hurts.

The endless pricks pinning this dress to me— fucking hurts.

But I can't say it hurts. I can't even breathe.

The shadows around me are making me pretty, so I must keep my mouth shut.

So, I stand straight, suck in all my imaginary belly fat I am repeatedly bullied for, and grin until my jaw aches.

I'm hungry. But hungry means eating. 

Eating means purging.

Purging means liposuction. 

I don’t mean to flinch. It’s visceral, and very out of character for me. Out of all the Hollywood Dolls, I’m the one who keeps her mouth shut and learned long ago not to ask questions. But Evelyn is no longer careful with my fitting. 

She’s kneeling now, biting her lip in deep concentration, nimble fingers threading the hem into the skin of my thigh. Stab.

I jam my teeth into my tongue and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ignore the ribbon of red running down my leg.

“Huh.” Evelyn mumbles, a dress pin between her teeth. “You've gained weight in your waist, Esme.” 

STAB.

This time, I feel it, a gush of warmth trickling to my ankle.

“Esme, what did your manager tell you?” 

STAB. 

Tears sting my eyes. I don't speak.  I'm not allowed.

“Puree diet and water, only, Darling,” Evelyn sighs. She slaps my thigh, pinching my skin. “What the fuck is this? Huh? What would you fans think?” 

She's asking a question, so I must answer it. 

“I'm sorry,” I say, already rehearsed and ready on my tongue. Thankfully, I can sense her moving to my back, putting in the finishing touches. Another STAB. At least it's not my thigh. 

She tusks. “Your liposuction appointment is next week,” she says so confidently, and yet my skin is falling from my bones.

I am a hollow, skeletal piece of plastic wearing a human face. Ever since my thighs became the topic of discussion online, I've had six meetings with management regarding fixing my obesity. 

“Stop.” A makeup artist buzzing around me halts her work on my meticulous winged eyeliner and draws back like I've slapped her. Her jingling bracelets shriek as she flits around me. Everything about her screams, I don’t want to be here.

Her scowl and narrowed eyes judging my expression, every time I dare exhale. Even my sculpted, artificial body. “Stop moving! Jesus Christ, is it that hard?” 

She grabs my shoulders firmly and jerks me straight. “You’re moving, and I can’t get it right.” She sounds panicked. Scared.

I’m not surprised.

With manicured nails, the woman grabs my face and violently jerks me to look at her. Her own hair is a straggly mess pinned into a ponytail, dark shadows underlining hollow eyes and a smile that secretly fucking hates me.

“Esme.” Her tone is long and drawn out, like I'm a child. “If you keep moving, sweetheart, I will stab you in your eye.” She looks around quickly to see if my manager is lurking, before turning back to me.

Her smile widens, and I find myself mimicking it.

She leans in, continuing to apply gentle strokes. Her breath smells of cigarettes and bubble gum. “And we wouldn't want that, hmm?” Her tone turns mocking.

Exaggerated. This woman doesn't envy me. She pities me. The woman perfects my makeup, and leaves with a spiteful grin. “It's your first Grief Spotting Gala, honey. You need to look perfect.”

The door slams, and I allow myself to jump.

I allow myself to remember a door existed. 

Evelyn finishes up my fitting and spins me around. Violently. Her nails pinch my shoulders, jerking me to spin on the spot.

My hair hangs in clumps in front of extravagantly painted eyes, my lips bright, cherry red. The dress is beautiful. It sticks to me in all the right places. The only thing ruining it is the giant scarlet stain. 

Evelyn somehow adapts empathy for maybe five seconds, her lips pricking into a rare smile. “You're beautiful.” She adjusts me, gripping my chin and tilting my head up. Her smile curls. “You have a boyfriend, by the way.”

She helps me into my handcrafted crystal shoes, her lips brushing my ear. “Reported this morning.”

A shiver creeps down my spine. As a female Doll, I was one of the lucky ones.

Girls were advertised, placed in TV shows and movies. Dolls.

We were there to look pretty. We were there to provide male satisfaction. But being a male Doll? I would rather die. Male Dolls weren't just a commodity. 

Before Hollywood began creating their dolls, Alex Moore was the beginning; a well-known celebrity, most notably as a formula one driver. His worldwide fan base became obsessed with him, parasocially.

He became the face of the industry, the marketable attractive Ken doll plastered on every car and commercial.

Then, Alex watched his best friend crash into the stands, live on TV. His reaction immediately went viral.

Despair in his eyes, a hollow not-yet-grief that couldn't be explained. Eyes glittering with tears, tears that were zoomed in on, edited, made into one minute TikTok edits.

His reaction was slowed down, reposted, commented on, laughed at, and that day, humanity collectively agreed that they enjoyed seeing male breakdowns.

Not just enjoyed. Thrived in them. Demanded them like personal drugs. Men, to them, their emotions, their fragility, was attractive. 

From there, it gained a name. Grief Spotting. 

Starting as a viral trend, it started small.

Men were kidnapped, their reactions streamed live.

Hollywood turned one man’s moment of personal grief into a worldwide phenomenon.

“Esme.” Evelyn’s voice hits like ice cold water. “Pay attention.” 

I momentarily forget to maintain my smile, my expression falling flat. For a moment, there's relief. 

I can breathe again. I make the mistake of exhaling.

A pin slips from my thigh, hitting the floor. 

Then Evelyn slaps me. Hard. 

I can barely feel the sting of her nails. I can't even feel my head jerking back. Evelyn prods my scarlet cheek like it's my fault. 

“You know Beck, right? HBO’s powerhouse.”

Evelyn maintains a professional demeanor, but she can't fight back a grin.

She brushes my hair across my face, then slicks it down. “You two will be making your relationship public during the Grief Spotting.”

“Rumor has it,” she hums, “if you guys give them a show, a real, brutal, beautiful relationship for them to obsess over, you’re free.”

Evelyn brushes my hair from my ears. “You two are going public tonight.” 

She leaves me alone, and I allow myself one brief moment of peace.

I count the minutes until showtime. Guards slip inside my dressing room, grab me firmly, and escort me onto the red carpet to waiting cameras. 

Bright flashes paralyze me to the spot. A crowd of shadows scream my name, but I see no faces. 

I am the main event. Pain prickles across my breasts, and I ache to pull the material from my skin. 

“Esme, Darling!” 

Evelyn joins me.

A man is attached to her arm. Barely a man. My age. I recognize his face vaguely.

All male dolls hold the exact same expression; a hollow, carnivorous rot eating away at any former personality. 

I am sure, being in this man’s presence for barely a minute, that he's suffered.

I'd heard whisperings.

Male dolls were confined to psychiatric units between Grief Spottings for “mental health” reasons. Nobody believed that.

A journalist managed to sneak into a “mental health facility” for the guys, and was mysteriously killed before he could publish his findings. 

Evelyn leans in close. I watch Beck take his place at my side.

He threads his fingers in mine without a word. His hands are clammy. “Seven Grief Spottings, and counting,” she whispers. “Isn't he a national treasure?” 

Sculpted in a white shirt and pants, this man is a walking-jawline. Definitely scouted purely for his sex appeal. If we are going to sell a relationship, we need to be closer. 

“Esme!” One camera man speaks behind a blur of white light. “Esme, are you getting surgery?” 

“ESME, do you think you've GAINED WEIGHT?” Another yells. 

“Esme, sweetheart, when is your surgery?” 

I smile wide and continue down the red carpet. My legs threaten to give way. I am not fucking fat.

“Esme,” a younger boy, maybe high school aged, points an iPhone in my face. “Do YOU think you're fat?” 

“No,” I say politely, words I've already rehearsed. I laugh, and strike another pose to a waiting camera. I am not fucking fat.

“Welcome!” 

A voice greets us from above, and Beck stiffens up next to me.

“To our fifth annual Grief Spotting Gala!” 

The crowd explodes into a cacophony of cheers while a large screen swings down from the ceiling as my fans scream my name. I watch with a meticulous smile and secretly wish it crushes every single one of them. The screen lights up, and next to me, Beck’s breaths shudder.

His hand drops from my mind, lips splitting into a crazed grin.

It's exactly what they want.

The sweat that beads down his temples. His wide, unseeing eyes. 

I've been pretending ever since I was selected that I can push down my emotions and give them nothing. I'm sure of it. Until my gaze finds my little sister. The footage is grainy and drained of color, but it's her. It's Cole. 

My eight year old sister sits cross legged on filthy flooring while a masked man plunges a blade through her skull. I only see blood. I only see the beginning of her cry. I only see her eyes flicker.

Grief Spotting. 

Place two attractive celebrities together. 

And force them to watch their families slaughtered.

Oysters weren't my go-to food, but I was always happy to try new things. 

Michelin star restaurants were usually out of our price range.

For two broke college kids, it was more like cosplaying being rich. 

I wore a dress I'd thrifted for 6 dollars, and Quinn insisted on wearing his Dad’s suit.

The restaurant was surprisingly filled with people our age. Couples. 

I was expecting boomers. 

Oysters tasted exactly what I figured; a slimy mass of fishy mush. Kind of exactly how I imagined biting through a testicle. 

The texture made me gag, but I still managed to swallow it, chasing it down with a mouthful of overpriced champagne.

Across the table, my boyfriend didn't exactly look ecstatic to eat them either.

In fact, after I'd gritted my teeth through another, Quinn was still staring down at his plate with an incredibly forced cheesy-grin. 

“Sorry,” he flashed me an awkward smile, scooting the oysters aside and forking up a brownish lettuce leaf.

He'd already managed to spill unidentified sauce down his shirt.

Quinn popped it into his mouth, shooting me a sickly grin. Growing up as trailer park babies, Michelin stars were a distant world to the two of us. "I was actually expecting, like, a bougie pizza with caviar.” 

He straightened and pushed his plate away, and I couldn't resist a grin. He was backtracking as always, his “great idea” becoming “actually, uhh, maybe no.” 

Brushing thick blonde hair out of his eyes, my boyfriend coughed loudly. “Speaking of pizza, do you wanna ditch the weird-tasting clams and get a good, old-fashioned Pizza Hut?”

Quinn leaned across the table, his breath brushing my ear in a low chuckle.

“We’re waaaayyyyyy too broke for this.” 

I grinned. “We’re not leaving here until you’ve eaten an oyster.”

Quinn’s smile faltered. “You’re not serious.” His puppy-dog eyes met mine. Betrayal. 

“Just eat one oyster,” I said, picking one up and waving it in his disgusted face. 

I wasn't expecting him to actually pale, his cheeks going green. 

When he leaned away, I laughed. “I had to suffer!” 

He curled his lip, avoiding my eyes. “It's your birthday meal.”

“Quinn.” I prodded his plate. “Fine. Just take a bite.”

His smile twitched. “Babe. Come on, I really don't like oysters.” 

“You've never tried them.” I checked the menu for dessert to rid my mouth of fishy bleurgh, but to my surprise, there was only one singular dish: the one we had ordered.

Whoever named these dishes needed to be fired.

What the fuck was, “Mother’s Pearl?”

Quinn was already entering man-child mode. “I don't like fish.”

I dropped the menu. “One bite.” I teased. “It's my birthday.”  

Instead of doing the mature thing and eating the oyster, my boyfriend jumped from his chair and offered his hand.

“Madam,” he mocked. “Let's go get REAL food.” 

I nodded, but not before grabbing his oyster, scooping out the meat, and stuffing it into his mouth. It was stupid. Knowing Quinn, he was supposed to gag dramatically and demand CPR.

Instead, he violently choked it back up, spitting half of it on the table.

His eyes widened, lips twisting, hands flying to his throat.

“Fuck.” I whispered, when he broke into uncontrollable sobs. 

He clawed at his throat, lips parted in a silent cry. 

Apologizing to the owners, I dragged him from the restaurant and into our car outside, grabbed a bottle of water, and watched him down it, swish water around his mouth, and drain the bottle.

When Quinn finally sat back gagging, I allowed myself to let out a giggle.

“Babe.” I nudged him, but he was catatonic, eyes wide, lips curled. 

“Quinn.” I couldn't resist rolling my eyes. “It was just an oyster.” 

Quinn gagged again, loudly, dramatically, and I had a hard time taking him seriously. “Did I… swallow it?” He whispered, his gaze unseeing. “Oh, god, I swallowed it. I fucking ate it.” 

“What?” I laughed again. “Are you allergic?” 

He swallowed hard, spitting down his shirt. “No.” Quinn blinked, tears in his eyes. “Did I swallow it?” His tone hardened. 

“Nope.” I ruffled his hair. “You spat it all over the table.” 

Quinn twisted to me with wide eyes.

I would have thought it was adorable, but this guy was withering away my patience. 

“Promise?” His voice was small. Almost child-like. 

I didn’t respond, and we barely spoke for the rest of the journey. 

Quinn complained that he felt sick and cracked open the window.

I pretended not to hear him, because my own stomach had started to gurgle.

By the time we got home, I had the worst stomach ache of my life.

Agony twisted through my gut. I tried to sleep it off, but I kept ending up back on the toilet, sweating through my dress.

“The oysters.” I choked, my head pressed against marble porcelain as I disgustingly emptied my bowels from both ends.

Dragging myself into bed, I could barely breathe, my stomach churning. 

Quinn’s weight plopped down not to me.

I felt his fingers brush hair from my eyes, prickling my clammy forehead.

“Can you call someone?” I whispered, choking up blackish slime. Numbness spreading through my bones.

Another explosive cough sent a ribbon of slime slithering from my mouth.

“It'll be okay, Claire,” he whispered. His fingers tiptoed across my belly.

Drifting in and out of sleep, my vision swam out of focus. 

Halfway through the night, Quinn jolted awake.

Then I heard him violently vomiting. Scream-crying.

Urgh. Food poisoning was the WORST.

Pain jolted me awake hours later, a raw screech tearing from my throat. 

My belly bulged beneath me, writhing.

Quinn was screaming too. Beside me, he stared wide-eyed at his own pregnant stomach blown up like a balloon. Sweat dripped down his temples, his lips curled into a snarl, his phone clutched to his ear. 

“You fucking pieces of shit,” he sobbed down the phone. “I said I wanted her pregnant! Not me!”

I’m being hunted, and I need someone's help.

If I don't get out of this fucking town by midnight, he's coming for me and this bastard is going to fucking kill me.

I don't know what he is/was/is becoming. I'm so out of my depth right now.

Look, before I start, I want to let you know my ability has nothing to do with the person hunting me down. I just want to clarify.

Yes, this phenomenon is part of what is happening to me.

But it’s not why I'm scared for my life.

All you need to know is that it developed around puberty.

Since I was about twelve years old, I have been able to ‘jump’ into people's bodies.

It's not permanent and there are limitations, so it's not an ability at all.

It's more of a nuisance.

This phenomenon happens during prolonged skin-to-skin contact.

I can hug someone without anything happening, but if the hug lasts a certain amount of time or a handshake, for example, a kiss, or any kind of intimacy... that's the trigger.

When it first happened, I was shaking my middle school principal’s hand.

If I could describe it, it feels like drowning, like being stuck, suffocating, before coming up for air; and this time, I was staring at myself.

I remember my vision was blurry and feathered, and for some reason, I think I was slightly tipped to the side.

I thought it was an out of body experience, but then it happened again.

The next time was with my mom, when she was hugging me. This time, it lasted longer, and I could actually feel myself in my mother’s body. I could wiggle her fingers, and look down at her hands.

I think I can speak for any kid with this kind of Freaky Friday crap happening to them.

I took advantage of it, duh.

I tested my limitations (exactly four minutes and three seconds) was my durability in someone's body, before I was violently yanked back to my own.

Think of it like elastic.

If I pulled too far, I would bounce back. Children were easier to jump into.

Parents were harder to establish myself inside, but my own age was easy.

I tried my friends and started to build my durability.

By age 15, I could last fifteen minutes and thirteen seconds inside an adult body.

Twenty minutes and eight seconds inside a child.

Babies were a no-go. I tried to jump into my neighbors newborn daughter, and was immediately flung back.

In my teens, I built up my endurance.

I was eighteen, starting college, when I ran into another limitation.

I don't know if it's always been like this, or if this thing changes and mutates like a virus.

During my first week at college, I tried to jump into my roommate to check out her schedule.

So, I hugged her.

Just a simple hug, which triggered the jump.

Confusing, yes, and the symptoms post-jumping are a pain in the ass.

In her body, I went through her backpack, and I was careful to count under my breath.

If I'm in a body for too long, they will start to bleed from the nose.

I think it's something to do with pressure on the brain, but I'm not sure.

I haven't explained what happens to my own body during a jump and truthfully? I don't actually really know??

I don't know if consciousness is swapped between bodies, or gets pushed back inside the brain.

What I do know, is my own body goes into a sort of stasis.

Okay, still with me? Good. Let's talk about Rowan.

Rowan was always kind of fucking weird. But he wasn’t always like this.

Ever since he moved out of his frat house, it’s like he’s become a different person.

I’ve known him well, known of him since freshman year. He was that pretentious know-it-all in my philosophy classes, always acting like he had the universe figured out.

Trench coat, hands shoved in his pockets, a permanent smirk on his lips.

He looked like a twentieth-century detective with a stick up his ass.

The most insufferable guy on campus. He debated everyone, never admitting when he was wrong, insisting his opinion was concrete, while everyone else was a fucking moron for not watching old black and white noir movies.

Even when Rowan was wrong, when someone proved he was wrong, dangling the evidence in his face, citing real sources, he’d still double down, leaning back in his chair, heeled shoes resting on his desk.

“I literally have no idea what the fuck you're talking about, dude.” he'd say, when someone brought up a valid point.

With a curl on his lip and a triumphant glint in his eye, he'd remind them that he was top of his class in everything at school and his ADHD just made him smarter, better wired, a true intellectual.

a nihilist riddled with his own existential dread.

“Because nothing comes after death”, he argued.

Over the years, he just got worse.

Even as a twenty two year old, he still acted like his obnoxious teenage self.

“There is nothing, and there will never be anything.” Rowan said loudly.

“Religion is a playground created by old people who were fucking bored. I’m going to die. You're going to die. We’re all going to die.”

He raised his voice, intentionally cutting off the girl trying to argue for life after death.

“We are all going to be consumed by nothing, end in nothing, and never think again. We won’t even be conscious enough to know we’re not thinking! Which is fucking crazy, right?”

His lips spread into a grin. “We live up to one hundred years, and how does it end, huh? It ends in fucking nothing.”

Rowan turned his gaze towards us, eyes narrowed, challenging us to correct him.

"Wealthy or poor, we all end up six feet under the ground. We rot, and our memories rot with us until even the slightest speck of our existence, our names rarely whispered, our photos ingrained in reality fade too."

"The human race has come so far in evolution, so far in bettering ourselves, yet not even we can stop the creeping inevitability of our own demise.”

He laughed, but his voice was shaking, his teeth gritted together, breath coming out in sharp pants like he was both reveling in and terrified of his conclusion.

“We just… end. And who says there’s even an ending or a beginning? How can we be sure we’re even real?

This guy just went on and on.

Like:

"Because what’s the point? Life, then death, then darkness. Forever. That’s what we’re subjected to from birth, the inevitable reality that one day, we will cease to… exist.”

Something twitched in his expression at that word.

Forever.

It was almost like he was giving in, his muscles relaxing as he exhaled a shaky breath. “Oblivion,” he continued, projecting his voice.

“Oblivion never stops. It never falters. It cannot be fought or reasoned with. It is a disease that keeps going, spreading, expanding, eating away across the universe until there is nothing and everyone in this room will become nothing.”

Again, his lip curled, fists tightening. He was scared. Rowan was scared of his own hypothesis, that dying meant ceasing to exist.

And one day, he too would fall prey to that oblivion.

“Rowan.”

Professor F enjoyed the debate initially, but after almost two hours of Rowan’s obnoxious ranting, even he was starting to sink into his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers. “Maybe chill out a little, huh.”

“I'm speaking, professor,” Rowan spoke calmly, and to my surprise, the professor nodded, gesturing for the boy to continue.

“Go ahead.”

“You're wrong.” Clary, a petite brunette, spoke up.

Rowan’s head snapped around, lips curling into a smirk, or maybe he was hopeful.

“Oh?”

Instead of resuming his rant from his chair, Rowan jumped to his feet, and in three strides, he was looming over his opponents desk. Clary. Who just wanted to take part in the discussion.

I could tell by her face, wide frantic eyes and wobbling lips she was regretting her decision to raise her hand to debate him.

Anyone who did ended up in tears, or leaving class.

Clarissa politely argued that there was a lot of scientific evidence of life after death.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” he demanded in a scoff.

Clarissa, raising her voice over his, spoke timidly, her eyes glued to her workbooks.

“Well, there's, umm—”

I watched him, like a predator, lean over the girl’s desk.

“There's what?”

Clary ducked her head, refusing to look him in the eye.

“Clarissa, you're not looking at me," Rowan murmured in a sing-song, his tone a carefully constructed facade, smooth, almost gentle, designed to unravel the knot in her gut. The use of her full name was just another manipulation tactic.

He leaned closer, hands curled into fists, resting on her desk. Rowan’s presence alone made it difficult to talk back to him.

He towered over her at an impressive six-foot-something, dark brown curls pushed back by a pair of Ray-Bans that never left the crown of his head, a single lone curl hanging in challenging eyes.

Rowan knew he was attractive.

He knew his looks alone could swing everyone's opinions his way.

When Clary slowly lifted her head, meeting his gaze, his frown softened into a smile.

Triumph.

“Are you religious, Clarissa?” he asked in a friendly tone, dragging a chair in front of her desk and plonking himself down on it, resting his chin on his fist.

I could sense a collective breath being held across the room.

“I am.” she said. “I believe in reincarnation.”

“Rebirth.” Rowan nodded, his smile was patronizing. “Okay, so let's say I pull out a gun right now and shoot you in the face.”

“Rowan.” Our professor warned.

He groaned, throwing his hands up with an eye roll.

“Okay, fiiiiiine. Let's say I hy-po-thetic-ally drop dead right now from a peanut allergy.”

Rowan was enjoying the girl’s discomfort, the way she tried to lean back.

His grin was spiteful, brow raised, challenging her to throw a rebuttal. “What will happen to me after I die, Clarissa?”

Clary straightened up in her seat, her cheeks turning pink.

“You would be reincarnated.” she said.

“No, before that,” Rowan snapped, his lips curling.

“Yes, I get reincarnated, but is that straight away? How do you know it's not years, centuries, light years before I am reincarnated? And what happens in the time between, hmm?”

He leaned closer, so close that the girl was visibly shaking.

His voice dropped into an almost seductive murmur, his wild eyes begging for her answer. “Tell me oblivion doesn't exist between me dying and my rebirth.”

“Oh, please,” another voice joined in from the back of the class.

Her voice was like wind-chimes, immediately attracting eyes.

Including Rowan’s. The girl had an eccentric sense of style, a multicolored knitted jacket over a pair of overalls, blonde curls piled into a messy top bun.

She grinned at Rowan, her pen lodged between her teeth.

“Sweetie, it's clear you're scared of death, and you're just looking for someone to tell you otherwise. You're full of BS. You're not some genius intellectual. You're desperate for answers.”

Rowan’s lips pricked. “I'm sorry, I can't remember your name, but I don't care."

“Imogen.” she said, introducing herself. “I've been sitting here for half a semester.”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “So, you're a stalker.”

“I’m just a good listener.”

Rowan sat back on his chair. “Go ahead! I'm sure the whole class is curious.”

He gestured to himself.

“I mean I'm curious to know why you think I'm full of bullshit.”

“You're scared of death,” Imogen repeated.

“That's why you just spent over an hour ranting about the impossibility of life after death, you’re trying to convince yourself against your own belief. Because deep down, you’re terrified of what you believe in.” She pulled the pen from her mouth with a pop. “Oblivion.”

Rowan’s lips pricked into a small smile. Somehow, his expression relaxed.

“Was it that obvious?”

The girl shrugged, now in full control of the debate. “You were practically foaming at the mouth, so yes, it was obvious."

Her smile was friendly. “If I might ask, why are you so obsessed with death?”

“I don't want to die,” he deadpanned.

“Okay, but why?” She leaned forward, her lips curling into a challenging smile.

“Just like you said, we all die. Dying is natural. It's part of life. So, why are you so scared?”

It was as if she were tearing down the impenetrable walls he’d built around himself. For once, Rowan was speechless.

He tapped his foot against the floor, his expression softening.

He wasn't used to being challenged, and that was evident in his body language; the sweat glistening on his brow, his fingers clenching and unclenching into a fist.

“Because… oblivion is endless,” he said, tripping over his words. “And I don't want to be stuck inside it. I don't want to lose my self-awareness, my ability to think and realize.”

“But that's just peace,” Imogen said, inclining her head. “You’re just describing dying. Why do you want to be aware when you're dead?”

“Because I do,” he snapped.

“Okay, but why?” she challenged him, clearly enjoying the attention.

“Why do you keep asking why?” Rowan demanded.

“Imogen.” Professor F spoke up. “That's enough. I think we’re done here today.”

“You keep saying you're scared of dying, scared of losing your self-awareness,”

Imogen continued, raising her voice.

“So what, do you want to be constantly aware of being inside an endless void of nothing? Do you really want to be awake?”

“That's not what I said,” Rowan gritted out.

She nodded. “Sounds like you did.” Imogen shot him a grin.

“In the words of the great Hansen: in a mmmbop, you’re gone. You can't stop it. So why be scared?”

Rowan's lips twitched into the smallest of smiles. “I never said I wanted to stop it.”

Imogen cocked her head. “Do you believe in the supernatural?”

Her words slid into me like ice cold needles.

Rowan scoffed. “What, like, fucking vampires and shit? Obviously not.”

“But you do want to believe in self awareness after death,” she said, “Which, arguably, could be seen as supernatural.”

Rowan let out an incredulous laugh. “You're… you're twisting my words! That's not what I said.”

“So prove it.”

“What?!”

“Prove to me you're right.”

“About what?!”

“I said, that's enough,” Professor F said sharply. “If you want to debate in your own time, that's your choice. Sit down, both of you.”

I hadn’t even realized Imogen had stood up, her arms crossed, wearing a smug smile.

To everyone's surprise, though, Rowan was smiling too.

That was the start of a beautiful (and increasingly curious) friendship.

Let me explain.

Initially, the two were just friends.

They hung out in class.

Imogen moved seats to sit next to him, and I saw them on campus getting coffee, or just chilling out.

Rowan was always talking (going on and on and on) and Imogen was either sunbathing next to him, while he sat with his knees to his chest, or her head of curls buried in her arms.

Sometimes, she would rest her head on his shoulder.

I expected him to shove her away, but he didn't.

The two looked comfortable together.

Imogen had a significant effect on him, turning him from an egotistical asshole to a more tolerable, quieter, version of himself.

Rowan was a very obvious pick-me boy.

He joined a frat house, despite their cruel hazing rituals.

Rowan struck me as someone who was terrified of being alone, so he was insistent on finding others.

I admit, I was kind of obsessed with this guy.

I watched his hazing ritual from afar, comfortably hidden under the turnstiles.

Twelve guys stood in the rain in their boxers, balancing on one leg, led by their frat leader, a guy towering over them.

They were mocked and laughed at, told to roll around in the dirt and confess their darkest secrets.

This was like, literal torture.

Eleven of them gave up. But Rowan stayed, trembling, holding himself up for hours, as the day went on.

At first, he had an audience, and he seemed to revel in it.

But one by one, they drifted away, ducking out of the downpour.

When the last student was gone, it was just him standing there, shivering under a sky that grew ever darker. When the rain came down harder, I started to see the cracks form in his expression.

He swayed to the left, then the right, forcing himself to stay upright.

I gave up and ran to him, ready to offer my jacket.

But he just leered at me, wet strands of hair plastered to his face. “Do you have any water?” he asked through clenched teeth.

When I shook my head, he snorted and looked away.

“Well, get the fuck away from me. I'm not a zoo attraction.”

So I did.

As I ran for shelter, though, Rowan was already tearing into someone else.

I glanced back, curious. This time, it was a guy trying to drape a bright yellow sweatshirt over Rowan’s shoulders.

Rowan shoved it off with a scowl. “I don't want your corny fucking sweater, dude.”

“But you're cold.” The guy’s voice was smooth like chocolate. I recognized it.

I didn't know his name, but I knew of him.

There was a rumor that his parents were in the mafia.

I only knew his voice from him standing up in the middle of the class, and denouncing the rumors, never once losing his cool.

He readjusted the sweater when Rowan shrugged it off with a grumble.

“You're going to catch something.”

“And?” Rowan, very quickly losing his concentration, started stumbling on one leg. “Hey, you're going to make me fall!”

The guy stepped forward, and stabled Rowan’s shoulders.

“Better?”

Rowan folded his arms. “Maybe.”

Through the downpour, I caught only flashes of the guy, dark blonde curls nestled under his hood.

When he stepped back, sweater still in hand, Rowan groaned.

“Okay, fine. Leave the sweater, if you insist.” he paused. “Thanks.”

“Rowan!”

Behind me, a familiar blur of blonde curls peeked out from under an umbrella, balancing two styrofoam cups.

Imogen.

Like a disappointed parent, she marched over to him.

“What did I say?”

Still stubbornly balancing on one leg, Rowan scowled. “Come off it, Imogen. You’re not my mom.”

“Fine! I’ll just take these coffees and drink them myself.”

When she pivoted on her heel to leave, Rowan sighed.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

Imogen turned, her scowl morphing into a grin. She handed him the coffee, and he took it gratefully, hopping to keep balance.

“You're an idiot.”

“I’m too cold to argue.”

“Agreed,” the blond guy joined in with a chuckle. He tugged his hood over his eyes, shoved his hands into his pockets, and nodded to Imogen. “I’ll see you back at the house?”

Imogen nodded. “Yep! I’ll buy groceries tonight. Oh! I cleaned the kitchen, so don’t get your grubby shoes on my pristine floor.”

The guy stepped back, offering them a two-fingered salute.

“Sure. I'll start cooking dinner when I get back.”

Rowan stumbled, hopping on one leg. “Wait, you two know each other?”

“Well, yeah.” Imogen shoved him with a grin. “Kaz is my roommate. Idiot.”

“Charlie.” The guy corrected, shooting Rowan a smile. “But everyone calls me Kaz.”

Oh, it was stoner Charlie.

I did know him. I asked him out as a… joke… and he started, like, uncontrollably laughing.

That was where I left the three of them, already soaked through to the bone.

But in the days that followed, it became clear that Rowan and Charlie were getting closer.

I saw them walking to class together, Imogen squeezed between them, and then later, at a party. You're probably calling me a stalker, but I need you to understand—what happened between these three strangers was insane.

And the more I discovered, the more intrigued I became. I was firmly convinced that Charlie was ‘adopting’ outsiders, and converting them into his roommates.

Charlie owned one of the most expensive houses in this city.

The Bolivia residence; the last remaining elder house in town.

Also, an antique goldmine.

As someone who's poor, and definitely uses my ability to scam people, this detail stood out.

I overheard a group of girls talking about Imogen.

The rumor was that she had "slept with half of the freshman class" and swiftly became an outsider before moving in with Charlie.

So, this guy had taken Imogen under his wing.

Now Rowan?

I shouldn't have cared. But beyond the fortune sitting in that house, those three students became impossible to ignore.

Whoever Charlie was, his influence was slowly bleeding into Rowan and Imogen.

It's like they went from normal college kids, to something else entirely.

It started innocently enough. Rowan, now fully tamed and more of a pretentious know-it-all than ever, began drawing stares the moment he entered a room.

I couldn't explain why.

It was like he carried an aura, an unearthly glow that demanded attention. Charlie and Imogen kept their heads down, buried under layers of clothing and hoods, but Rowan wanted to be noticed, despite his permanent scowl.

Something about him had changed, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

Everything, his posture, the way he held himself, his expression, even his voice, was different.

His tone had softened into a smooth murmur, dripping with contempt and amusement, a far cry from defensive hissing.

He ditched the 1920s-style threads for band shirts and jeans, finally wearing his Ray-Bans instead of using them to slick back his hair.

Once a well-known frat boy, Rowan started ignoring his old friends, sticking to Charlie's side.

But what really stuck out about the Bolivia House residents, was that they were pale.

Not just pale. Under bright lights, the three were practically translucent.

Charlie’s face was thinner, gaunt, even, while Imogen’s cheeks had lost their glow, her eyes sunken and drained of color.

They were beautiful but almost grotesque, like freshly embalmed corpses.

If I could describe them in a way that you would understand, imagine a fading photograph.

Here's where it starts getting weird.

There are many diseases that could have made them look like plague victims.

I also considered the possibility of mold poisoning or maybe carbon monoxide, since they all lived together.

But then their behavior grew slightly... disturbing.

They looked noticeably less dead, walking into a party, one Friday night.

Color returned to their cheeks, their eyes were no longer sunken. They looked fantastic.

I watched them from my seat on someone’s Craigslist couch, intrigued by their increasingly erratic behavior.

Rowan went straight into the kitchen, pulling all the blinds shut.

Very normal behavior...

I thought that was off, but it didn't bother me at that moment.

Imogen became insanely talkative, jumping into a random guy’s lap.

But it was Charlie I was worried about.

I was hunting down food to combat the nausea twisting in my gut when I walked straight into him raiding the refrigerator.

I could already see his blonde curls, and for once, Rowan wasn't clinging to his side.

At first, I thought he was scarfing down cold pizza slices, until I caught sight of his twitching hands curled around a pack of raw bacon. Strands of fat slithered between his teeth. I didn’t question him.

I mean, I couldn't question him. Every time I tried, he just grunted. This was a very different Charlie from what I knew.

He was an intelligent, smooth talker, always in control, always high.

This guy’s eyes were half-lidded, vacant.

“Charlie?” I managed to get out in a whisper.

This would have been the perfect time to take him over.

I could last twenty minutes in an adult body, and I was gunning for his.

Not just because of his house, but because of his influence on the other two.

Whoever or whatever Charlie was, he was controlling his roommates.

And I was desperate to know how.

“Charlie!” I hissed again, this time grabbing his shoulders.

He surprised me with an uncharacteristic yelp, his body jerking, curling into itself, claw-like fingers digging into the plastic.

Charlie's head snapped around, wild, unfocused eyes finding mine.

It was almost territorial.

Like he was afraid I was going to take it from him.

“It's okay, never mind,” I managed to get out, well aware of Charlie’s tracking glare, watching my every movement.

I took a single step back, and his whole body jolted, his nose flaring, lips curling into a snarl. When I made it clear I wasn't a threat, he slowly inclined his head, before turning back to his… snack.

I edged away from him, and walked straight into Rowan, who was mid-conversation with another guy.

The two were tucked into the hallway, away from the crowd.

The guy had long blonde hair tied into a ponytail, a plaid shirt over jeans. Australian, by the sound of his accent.

“Rowan, just… please,” the Australian grabbed him, forcing him to look at him.

“Tell me what's going on, okay? You've been flaking out. You're not answering my texts. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Rowan, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, rolled his eyes. He was in yesterday's clothes, I noticed.

The exact same shirt and jeans.

He was trying to act nonchalant, but I saw his gaze flick back and forth between each window, like he was scared of something behind it.

Rowan sighed. “I was sacrificed to a werewolf worshipping cult, and now I crave the taste of human flesh.”

Sam scoffed. “That's not funny.”

Rowan didn't laugh, raising a brow. “I'm sorry, did it say it was?”

“Rowan—”

“I'm fine, Sam.”

“Yeah, but the way you were acting the other night–”

Rowan shoved the guy away with a snort. “All right, well, I'm going to get another drink. Have fun playing detective, Sammy.”

I followed him into the kitchen, where he made out with a random guy, who seemed surprised but into it, only to shove the guy away when the stranger tried to get closer.

He grabbed a dancing Imogen’s arm, pulling her to his side. I couldn't register what they were saying, so I moved closer, blending in with the crowd of drunk students.

“It's almost time,” Rowan said in a sing-song, trying-not-to-panic, but definitely panicking tone. “Where's Kaz?”

Imogen, maintaining a wide smile, tugged him closer, so close that he stumbled, almost losing his footing.

“I’m pretty sure we drew straws, and you picked the short one.”

Rowan dumped his drink down the sink.

I noticed he never looked up. His gaze stayed glued to the ground, or hidden behind his glasses.

“I mean, I was babysitting, but then he ran off. He's like a fucking cockroach. I think I've cornered him, and then he scuttles from my grasp.”

“Well, we need to find him,” Imogen hissed, diving into the crowd. “You go that way, and uh, I'll check the smoking spot.”

“But what if he's outside?!” Rowan hissed back.

Imogen was gone, leaving him alone.

I watched Rowan, clearly panicking, pushing through the crowd of party goers, before he found Charlie standing on the doorstep.

Charlie was stupid still, almost paralyzed, a can of beer still in his hand.

When it slipped from his grasp and hit the ground, something slimy slithered up my throat.

Rowan, after stopping dead in his tracks, joined him, his head tipping back, eyes on the sky.

On a perfect full moon.

“Oh, fuck,” Imogen shoved past me, shading her eyes.

She marched toward them, trying to pull them back. But Rowan didn't move.

Charlie stood perfectly still.

I watched Imogen’s expression twist with fear, with hopelessness, as she tried and failed to pull the boys back.

She lifted her head in an attempt to grasp Rowan’s shoulders and yank him back, her resolve was already bleeding away the second her eyes fell on the illuminated sky.

I swore at that moment, I watched moonlight fill, almost suffocate, her eyes.

Imogen’s arms dropped to her side, and she joined the other two.

Just staring at the sky.

After that night, the Bolivia House kids started to build a reputation for being weird.

I was convinced Charlie was at the center of it all.

He was the one who was affected first, and the other two followed.

After months of watching three students turn into something more, I came to the conclusion: the only way I was going to find answers was to jump into Rowan’s body.

He was my safest bet. I had a feeling Charlie wasn't human.

If he wasn't, then surely he would detect me.

Rowan, however, was a classmate, and easy to perfect the jump.

I could take his body, go back to his house, take what I needed, and jump back.

I hadn't seen him in a few weeks, though.

I figured he was still sick from the gas poisoning on campus.

It wasn't fatal, but it did cause some students to have vivid hallucinations.

“The sun was GONE.” some students claimed, very clearly suffering from poisoning.

Now, I knew these were just delusions, but my gut still twisted into knots.

Notably, Rowan and Imogen were fairly normal again.

They ditched their shades, and no longer had that “aura”.

I decided to jump into Rowan’s body last night.

Stupid idea. I know that now. But just keep reading.

Towards the end of class, I slid into the seat in front of him.

I tried not to notice the entire class keeping their distance from Rowan– and by that, I mean physically moving their desks away.

He didn't seem to mind. In fact, Rowan was the quietest he had ever been.

“Are you free tonight?” I asked, conversationally.

Rowan lifted his head, settling me with a smile.

“Sure!”

No smirk, no amused eyes, not even an eyebrow twitch.

His smile was so genuine, I thought he was mocking me.

Class ended, students making themselves scarce.

I jumped up, only for him to gently pull me back down.

“How about now?” Rowan’s smile widened, his grip tightening on my wrist.

I tried to pull away, but he didn't move, his head dropping onto his shoulder.

“How about we hang out now?”

Before I could open my mouth, he wrenched my hand back, until the tendons were snapping, his smile never faltering.

The pain hit me in waves, sending my body into fight or flight.

“Go ahead.”

Rowan leaned forward, balancing his fist on his chin.

There was something new in his eyes, a hollowness I couldn't understand, like staring into oblivion itself drowning him, a single ignition of light writhing in his pupils.

I started to speak. craaaack.

He kept going, his gaze never leaving mine, the pressure of his hand pushing mine further and further and further, until—

I screamed, slamming my free hand over my mouth.

“I said go ahead!” he said cheerfully, tightening his grip.

Like he knew.

The pain was scorching, but already, fading, as I tightened my grip on him.

I've always seen jumping as grabbing onto a person’ soul, and clinging onto it. But with Rowan, there was nothing to grab onto.

I was aware of his mind, his soul, but it was so cold.

He was so fucking cold.

With others, I was comforted, led by their heartbeat.

By their breaths.

But Rowan didn't have a heartbeat. In its place was a cavernous hole where it had been ripped from him, carving out not just the beating heart, but the soul.

Inside him, I felt and heard, and sensed echoes of a soul–of that boy who argued and debated until he was red in the face.

But something had been severed inside him, hollowing him out.

The man who believed in oblivion, and was living what he wanted to believe.

Life after death.

But Rowan’s body felt slimy and… wrong.

Like the last remnants of him were being puppeteered.

Blood still pumped in his veins without a heart, but it was thicker, coagulating.

Moving closer to his brain, that's where I was violently shoved back.

But I could already see it.

Light.

Bright, polluting light suffocated his thoughts.

It was inside every memory.

Every emotion.

Every feeling.

It entwined around his very being, the spindly legs of a spider wrapped around his skull. I could feel myself moving towards it, towards beautiful, mesmerizing light, before I found my footing inside him.

His joints were wrong, twisted and contorted, like he hadn't used them in a while.

Opening my eyes, I was no longer in my classroom.

I was kneeling on yellow tiles, a kitchen floor, inside Rowan’s body.

There was no light, only the faded orangeade glow from an outside streetlight. The room was filled with shadows. I glimpsed a cooker tucked into a countertop, a refrigerator in front of me.

Rowan’s vision was blurred, I could barely focus.

When I did manage, though, I realized I was staring at a deep dark red ingrained into the refrigerator handle. When I stared down at the floor, I was kneeling in red.

It was old, a rusty color, but plainly blood splatters that tainted each tile.

Slowly, Rowan's vision was returning, getting brighter.

I tipped my head back, feeling his bones crack.

There were symbols on the ceiling, carved by what looked like claws.

Those same symbols were scratched beneath me, written in bloody, rusty red.

His body wouldn't move. It was like being stuck inside a corpse.

I reached out, his bones aching, his entire body in constant agony, like it was giving up, and pulled the refrigerator door open.

The first thing I saw was a long lock of hair.

I hesitated, sliding the veggie drawer open carefully. The sight of a human head had me shuffling backward.

Stuffed inside each drawer, bloody chunks of meat were wrapped up and carefully packaged into storage containers.

There was a whole section for limbs, while others held organs in different containers. Rowan's body didn't scream anymore. His lungs no longer worked.

He didn't panic.

I was wrong about Charlie being the mastermind.

This guy had killed his fucking roommates.

I couldn't run.

I couldn't even move. His body was too heavy, weighing me down.

“I'm sorry, Rowan.”

Something sharp pricked into my –his–neck. "I'm sorry. I'm really fucking sorry, but you don't know how dangerous that thing is," the voice hissed. I felt warm arms wrap around his ice-cold body and drag him. back, a strip of duct tape promptly pressed over our mouth.

I felt warm lips find Rowan's ear, a familiar accent pricking my awareness.

Sam.

Rowan’s friend.

“He's still inside you, but don't worry, okay? I'm going to get him out. Permanently.”

Aware of Rowan’s body shutting down, I tried, once again, to jump back.

But I was stuck.

I was stuck inside cold dead flesh that should have died a long time ago.

That was suspended, cruelly puppeteered, by an impossible light.

I woke up half naked on a surgical table, his wrists strapped down.

When I opened his eyes, invasive light blinded me.

Twisting my head, I was inside a dimly lit room.

Above me, wasn't a light. It was the moon, bleeding through a skylight.

“I brought you down here so you would be more comfortable,” Sam's voice was low, almost gentle.

I felt his fingers stroke through Rowan’s hair. “When you were… you know, not yourself, that's what you used this place as,” Sam hummed. “You brought innocents down here, tortred them to submit, and then sacrificed them.”

His words slammed into me as my gaze found carvings on the walls.

The same ones covering the walls and floors upstairs.

A different language, a twisted devotion to an unseen entity.

“But I'm going to save you,” Sam whispered, his voice shuddering.

When he forced my mouth open, lodging something rubber between my teeth, I tried to open my mouth, to scream I wasn't Rowan, that I was STUCK inside his body.

But when he violently jerked my head to the left, I caught something in the corner of my eye.

Another surgical bed, this one stained crimson, blood still pooling over the edge.

I only had to see the scruff of dark blonde curls poking from a blood drenched blanket, a single limp arm hanging over the edge, to understand what was happening.

“Just like I saved him,” Sam murmured.

In his hands, a sledge hammer, and an ice pick, the edge already stained revealing red. He leaned closer, and I screamed into the rubber thing lodged between my teeth.

“Look, I know it's messed up, and I know it's wrong. But it's the only way,” he said. “If I, you know, fuck up your brain, then surely, he won't be over to take you over.”

Sam leaned closer, a single lock of hair hanging in his eyes.

“I'm doing this to protect the town,” he said. “From you, and that psycho bitch.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, when I felt the prick of the needle inside Rowan’s eye.

I waited for darkness. Waited for agony.

Instead though, Sam let out a sudden shriek.

I didn't see it. But I did hear this thing rip Sam apart.

I heard it take its time, snapping his spine, and then tearing into him, gorging on whatever was left. I heard his blood seeping across the concrete floor, his strangled breaths bleeding into nothing.

Then, I sensed it moved closer to me. Its heavy breath tickling my face.

When I risked opening my eyes, I found myself nose-to-nose with Charlie.

His hollow eyes were empty, lacking humanity, instead, a feral, animalistic glare, seeing me as both a threat, but also wary of me.

His lips curled back, exposing sharp, elongated teeth stained in Sam. A gaping hole split open his skull, an attempt at lobotomizing him. After staring me down, the guy leaned closer, inclining his head.

“Who the fuck… are you?”

I had words in my mouth, but Rowan's mouth wouldn't move.

I managed to wrench his lips apart to speak, before I was being catapulted back.

Which meant only one thing.

Someone had moved my body.

Detaching myself from Rowan’s soul was like pulling myself out of quicksand.

I felt no panic, no pain, no desperation, inside him. He was nothing, a void vessel that was somehow alive. I saw glimpses of memories, a skylight taken over by the moon, cruel rope wrapped around his wrists, and two bodies pressed to him.

I felt exactly what he did... a steel knife slicing his throat open.

And the light above, enveloping him.

I saw his trembling hands full of slithering strands of flesh.

I heard his cries, his screams, his sobbing, the boy’s fragmented soul crying for mercy.

Kill me.

Please, kill me.

Fucking kill me.

Kill me!

His thoughts bled away as fast as they had come.

I felt the familiar prick of pain inside my own body.

My snapped wrist.

I awoke, lying on my back, staring at the dark sky through a thick canopy of trees.

Footsteps.

“So, the stalker is awake.”

Rowan.

He towered over me, lost in the moon’s shadow.

I couldn't take my eyes off the chunk of bone adorning his curls.

Like a crown.

This was exactly what he had hoped for. Life after death.

But did he really want this life?

Rowan dropped something onto my head, and when I could move, I dragged my body to a sitting position, dragging my fingers through my hair. It was a…crown.

This time, made of entangled vine and roses.

“I want to play a game with you,” he murmured.

I was so weak, my body betraying me, blood spluttering from my mouth.

“You run.” he said, his voice teasing, as I forced myself to my feet, biting back a cry.

“and I'll catch you.” Rowan paused, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, sticking one in his mouth, and lighting it up.

He took a drag.

His eyes were both beautiful and horrifying, twin stars of illuminated oblivion. “I'll give you a head start.”

I did start to run, throwing myself into a sprint.

He didn't run after me. Rowan didn't move a muscle.

When I twisted around, he was still standing there.

Watching me.

It's been maybe six hours. I'm still safe, but I don't know how long.

I've been inside his body. I've seen and heard his soul crying out.

But even now, I can sense him breathing down my neck.

He's getting closer.

In the dead of silence, I can already hear his slamming footsteps.

He's already running.

And he's going to fucking catch me.

Attendance to The 2026 Grief Spotting Gala is mandatory. 

Standing in front of the seamstress's mirror, I follow the instructions hammered into me: Do not move or speak. Do not touch the dress. Await further instructions.

It’s shrunk, resized, and cut so tightly that it’s more like a hideous corpse stapled to my breasts. Previously worn by a famous actress who killed herself on the red carpet. I can’t help but squirm.

Her blood is ingrained in the material, twenty two  years old. Like me. I can feel it scratching against my skin, her eternal breaths squeezing the life out of me.

I suck in my imaginary belly fat. 

Evelyn pricks me for the seventh time, and I suppress a hiss, biting my lip. I don’t mean to flinch. It’s visceral, and very out of character. She kneels, nimble fingers threading the hem into the skin of my thigh. Stab. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“You've gained weight, Esme.” Evelyn mumbles, a dress pin between her teeth.

STAB.

A gush of warmth trickles to my ankle.

STAB. 

Tears sting. I bite my tongue.

She moves to my back. 

STAB.

She tusks. “Your liposuction appointment is next week,” she says so confidently, as my skin is falling from my bones. I am a hollow, skeletal piece of plastic wearing a human face. Evelyn spins me around.

Violently. Her nails pinch my shoulders. My hair hangs in clumps in front of extravagantly painted eyes, my lips bright, cherry red. The dress sticks to me in all the right places. 

The only thing ruining it is the giant scarlet stain. 

Evelyn’s lips prick into a rare smile. “Beautiful.” 

Her smile curls. “You have a boyfriend, by the way.”

As a female Doll, I was one of the lucky ones. Girls were advertised, placed in TV shows and movies. 

Dolls. 

We were there to provide male satisfaction. But being a male Doll? I would rather die. Male Dolls weren't just a commodity. 

Before Hollywood began creating their dolls, Alex Moore was the beginning; a celebrity, most notably as a NASCAR driver. His worldwide fan base became obsessed with him, parasocially. He became the face of the industry, the marketable attractive Ken doll plastered on every commercial. 

Then, Alex watched his best friend crash into the stands, live on TV. His reaction immediately went viral.

The face of despair. Eyes glittering with tears, tears that were zoomed in on, edited, made into TikTok duets. Men, their emotions, their fragility, was suddenly attractive. 

“Esme.” Evelyn’s voice hits like ice.

I exhale, and risk bursting the bodice.

A pin slips from my thigh, hitting the floor. 

Evelyn slaps me. Hard. 

I can barely feel the sting of her nails.

“You know Beck, right? HBO’s powerhouse.” 

Evelyn brushes my hair back. “You two are going public tonight.” Evelyn leaves me alone, and I allow myself one brief moment of peace. I count the minutes until showtime. Guards slip inside my dressing room, grab me firmly, and escort me onto the red carpet to waiting cameras. 

Bright flashes paralyze me to the spot. A crowd of shadows scream my name, but I see no faces. 

I am the main event. Pain prickles across my breasts, and I ache to pull the material from my skin. 

“Esme, Darling!” 

Evelyn joins me.

A man is attached to her arm. Barely a man. My age. I recognize his face vaguely. All male dolls hold the exact same expression; a hollow, carnivorous rot eating away at any former personality. 

I am sure, being in this man’s presence for barely a minute, that he's suffered. I heard the rumors. Male Dolls confined to psychiatric units between Grief Spotting Galas for “mental health” reasons. 

Once, a journalist managed to sneak into a ‘mental health facility’, and was mysteriously killed before he could publish his findings. 

Evelyn leans in close, as Beck takes his place at my side. Without a word, he threads his clammy fingers through mine. “Seven Grief Spottings, and counting,” she whispers. “Isn't he a national treasure?”

Statuesque. Dirty-blonde bangs, five-o’clock stubble, and a sculpted chin that made photographers gasp. Definitely scouted purely for his sex appeal. 

But if we are going to sell a relationship, we need to be closer. 

“Esme!” One camera man yells behind a blur of white light.

“ESME, do you think you've GAINED WEIGHT?” 

“Esme, sweetheart, when is your surgery?” Another yells.

I smile wide and continue down the red carpet. My legs threaten to give way. I am not fucking fat.

“Esme,” a younger boy, maybe high school aged, points an iPhone in my face. “Do YOU think you're fat?” 

“Not today,” I say politely, words I've already rehearsed. I laugh, and strike another pose. I am not fucking fat.

“Welcome!” A voice booms. Beck stiffens up next to me.

“To our fifth annual Grief Spotting Gala!” 

The crowd explodes into a cacophony of cheers, and a large screen swings down from the ceiling as my fans scream my name. I watch with a meticulous smile.

I hope it crushes every single one of them. Next to me, Beck’s breaths shudder.

His hand drops from mine, lips splitting into a crazed grin. It's exactly what they want. The sweat that beads down his temples. His wide, unseeing eyes.

I've been pretending, ever since I was selected, that I can push down my emotions and give them nothing.

Until my gaze finds Beck's, his eyes hooked on the screen. The footage is grainy and drained of color, but it's her. It's Cole. 

His eight year old sister sits cross legged on filthy flooring while a masked man plunges a blade through her skull.

I only see blood. I only see the beginning of sobs before it cuts out. Beck's knees buckle, and I catch him before he hits the ground, crushing his lips to mine. His eyes saying what he couldn't.

Grief Spotting.

Place two attractive celebrities together. 

And force them to watch their families slaughtered.

I awoke inside a classroom, hooked up to an IV. Surrounded by bodies.

I yanked at the needle stuck in my wrist.

Nothing. Only sharp pulling pain. 

It took three attempts, a frustrated cry ripping from my lips. The point slid free, and I sat up, clarity bleeding through fog. 

My identity came back first: 

Yuna.

22

I had a boyfriend named Noah, and…

My gaze dropped to my body, to my flat stomach. No.

My trembling hands pressed against my belly.

Where was my... bump?

I already had her name picked out, my baby bag ready by the door. I was so… close. Something feral gritted in my teeth, a low whine slipping from my numb lips.

Did I... lose her? 

The thought slammed into me, a wave of ice water threatening to send me spiralling. If I had… was this why?

Was this punishment?

I twisted my head, a girl’s face blurring into view. 

I jolted back, my body still deconditioned, wrong. The soft, bouncy thing I’d been sleeping against... it was skin. Something slimy crawled up my throat. 

To my right, an unconscious girl, and on my left, a guy. 

I forced myself up, shakily, stumbling across a makeshift bed. 

A sea of bodies lay before me. Hundreds of people jammed together, like sardines. Limp arms connected to IVs. College kids. 

Every single one of them was sleeping. 

Phantom memories came back, barely clinging on. I was driving to the emergency room… I remembered my boyfriend Noah in front of me, his panicked voice.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispered. “It's okay! Just breathe! Breathe with me, all right? Inhale and exhale! Oh, man, I have no idea what I'm doing—”

“Noah, STOP!” My own voice snapped back at him. “Just drive!”  

I blinked back to the present, focusing on the bodies. 

Hundreds of college students stripped of their clothes and identities, involuntarily asleep. 

Including me. 

Scanning each person, my stomach twisted. I checked every face, gently shifting them onto their backs.

Was Noah here?

Making my way to the door, I tripped over one, ripping the IV out of a sleeping guy’s wrist. Fuck. I panicked when the man's body jerked, his eyes flickering open. 

He licked his lips, his breaths shaky. “Hmmmuhhh?” 

He tried again, blinking rapidly. “Whahhht the fuck?” 

I tried to smile. “What's your name?”

“Bodie?” He blinked rapidly. “I… think?” He stretched, cracking his neck, his attention drifting to the bodies. “Wahhit, did you do this?” he mumbled, his words slurred.

“What?” I snapped. “I woke up here too!”

My hand went to my belly as a reflex, and I broke apart all over again.

“I was pregnant,” I whispered, choking on the words before I could swallow them.

My fingers grazed my skin, as if I could still feel my bump.  My baby girl was gone, and my mind was in denial. I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to push past the tears. “Now I'm… not.” 

Bodie pulled a face. “Well, fuhhhhckk.” He mockingly prodded his own belly through his gown. “Was I pregnant, too?”

His narrowed eyes found mine. “I don’t give a fuck about your issues.” He stood up, swaying, eyes briefly rolling back. “What I do know is that you’re the only one awake.” He got close, bumping foreheads with me. “What exactly did you do to us, hmm?”  

I decided not to entertain his bullshit, despite the venom building on my tongue.

What a fucking asshole.

I turned away and marched to the door, and unsurprisingly, he followed. 

But then, I froze. The hallway was full of more sleeping bodies. Women. 

I stepped over each one, my legs threatening to give way. The boy followed me, stumbling. “Hey!” Bodie hissed. “Don’t PRETEND to be shocked— woah.” He almost stamped on a blonde’s head, jerking back at the last second. 

“You did all of this, didn’t you? Holy shit. You lost YOUR baby, so what, you’re using us now?”

“That's impossible.” I hissed back. 

He laughed. “Oh, you WOULD say that. Clearly, you're… you're fucking… you know, using college students to replace your-”

I twisted around to scream at him, and something in me unraveled. 

I didn’t just want to scream at him.

My hands twitched at my sides, and I realized how easy it would be to wrap them around his slender fucking neck and squeeze all of the breath from his lungs. 

Instead, I took a deep breath. “I'm leaving now.”

He rolled his eyes, mimicking me. “Im leaving now.” 

I ignored him, stepping outside the school

I was greeted by rows of bodies stretching across the school yard and piled in the parking lot. Everyone, I thought dizzily. 

Everyone was asleep.

“This is an emergency broadcast,” a voice screeched overhead— and a flash ripped through my brain. I saw myself stroking a knife across my pregnant belly.

“Recorded on 08/16/2025. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention hereby orders all American citizens to sleep.”

”I repeat, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention orders all remaining American citizens to sleep. Consciousness is the mode of transmission. Symptoms include extreme paranoia, and indiscriminate anger. Our only means of surviving this is to sleep.”

The memory was cold, cruel, cutting through me.

Noah's body lay crumpled on the ground, my voice a broken screech. “She's inside me… she's inside me, eating me. She's going to eat me up! I won't let her—”

I could feel my phantom hands, slick and wet with my baby's blood. 

Hear my guttural, hysterical laughter as I wrapped my umbilical cord around her throat.

“Hey.” 

I twisted around to find Bodie standing three inches from my face.

He cocked his head at an unnatural angle, a silver glimmer writhing in his iris. Twisting. Something alive.  Leaning close, Bodie’s breath brushed my ear. 

“You've… got something in your eye.” 

Aspen had been in our family since I was a little kid.

I remember being five years old, grasping the bell jar between my fingers and pressing my face against the glass.

It was never cold. Always warm. Light. Like holding a feather. Aspen was a tiny boy with hair as brown and tangled as mine threaded with flowers and poison ivy. Wings as delicate as paper stretched from his tiny back, always taking my breath away, glistening like raindrops.

I found him sitting in a bell-jar on my mother’s desk.

“What is he?” I whispered excitedly.

“His name is Aspen,” Mom gently took the bell jar from me and placed it back on her desk. The fairy was trying and failing to stand up, falling onto his knees, his wings fluttering. “Do not remove the lid, Isabella.”

Mom’s voice hummed into my hair, fingers comforting as they stroked through my ponytail. I couldn't take my eyes off of the fairy, who gave up, burying his head in his arms. “Do you understand me?”

I pulled away, a lump in my throat. “But why is Aspen in the jar?” I asked.

Mom chuckled, grabbed Aspen and shook the bell jar. Aspen’s mouth parted in a silent O. “See?” Mom smiled, and dumped Aspen in the drawer. “He's singing, Belle. Now, go and play.”

Growing up, I grew more curious about the fairy on my mother’s desk.

When I was ten years old, I was home sick from school. Aspen wasn't on her desk anymore.

I found him shoved in one of her filing cabinets, trapped between dogeared copies of files with names that were too long for me to understand. I grabbed the bell jar and held it up, swiping dust from the glass. Aspen’s face popped into view.

He was older.

My age, but still itty bitty sized.

As usual, his piercing eyes were slitted.

I pretended not to see tears in his eyes and his bloodied fists. “Where were you?” He mouthed, gesturing wildly.

I offered him a smile. “Sorry! Mom gets mad when I talk to you.”

I balanced him on my hand, swiping excess dust from the lid. He'd grown noticeably thinner over the years, his eyes bugging out. I couldn't resist tracing my finger down frosted glass, trailing his long hair now tangled and knotted in his wings.

I wanted to give him a hair cut. I pulled out my Barbie scissors, and the fairy’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “No.”

He stumbled back, and fell straight onto his butt, scrambling backwards.

I laughed, waving the scissors. “Come on! You need a hair cut!”

“Belle.” He mouthed, pointing to his hair, “You wouldn't dare.”

“Aspen,” I couldn’t resist asking as I lay on my mom’s rug, the jar delicately balanced in my hand. The fairy sat cross-legged inside, his chin resting on his fist.

For the first time, I felt comfortable with him. He was even smiling.

“Why does my mom want you in a jar?”

Aspen’s smile withered away. Slowly, he rose to his feet, then traced a single word into the condensation coating the glass.

“PRISONER.”

“Belle?” Moms voice startled me.

I dived to my feet. “I'll get you out!” I promised him, hiding him on the shelf.

“Belle, what are you doing in there?”

Mom caught me crouched, trying to slot Aspen back into the cabinet. She changed the lock code, so I couldn't get back in.

I was seventeen when Mom randomly asked me to grab her laptop, and absently gave me the code.

I never forgot about Aspen.

I was ecstatic, keying in the code and pulling the door open.

“Aspen!” I hissed, grabbing a chair and standing on it, searching her bookcase. Then the filing cabinet. I checked her drawers, then, biting my lip, her closet.

And there it was. The bell jar, stuffed right at the back.

I didn't think twice. I grabbed it, almost dropping it.

It was so… cold.

Thick layers of filth and dust coated the glass.

I could see a grown Aspen, his wings expanding in the jar. There was something wrapped around him, cruel vines pinning him down. Mom had restrained him.

I took a deep breath, wrapped my fingers around the lid, and pulled it off.

I reached inside, pulling the vines apart and freeing his tiny body.

At first, nothing happened. Aspen didn't move.

I peered inside, only for an explosion of loud, fluttering wings. He flew from the jar, disappearing out the door. I followed him, my stomach twisting. “Uhh, Mom?” I yelled, trying to capture him again. But Aspen was fast. “I think I've—”

I stopped when I reached the kitchen. Mom was gone, a pile of shredded clothes and bones on the floor. I stumbled back, already crying out for my brother. “Nick!”

“Belle?” I found Nick in the hallway, staring at me with wide eyes. But then he… melted. His skin began to drip from his bones, his eyes popping from his sockets with a sickening squelching sound. When my brother hit the ground, his skull dissolving into the carpet, I knew what I had to do.

“Aspen!”

Grabbing a fly net, I snatched him from the air, my eyes stinging.

I dropped him onto the ground, ignoring his tiny, buzzing screams.

I stamped on him. Once. His screams exploded into raw cries.

Twice. Blood splattered the concrete.

I raised my shoe, about to finish him, when he startled me with a laugh.

My hands were beginning to fall apart.

My bones, coming apart underneath the skin.

Fuck.

Picking him up, I straightened his wings, swiping at his bloody mouth.

Aspen's grin was wild. Feral. He spat blood in my face.

“Bitch,” he broke into hysterical giggles. “Your Mom's been using me to keep your family alive. Kill me?” His smile widened.

“You die too.”

He folded his arms. Aspen was in charge now.

“So let's play my fucking game.”