I practiced what I was going to say during my entire walk home—in case Razor was already back. But the anxious mumbling and rampant thoughts were no use.
I’ve paced, showered, paced so more, drank two glasses of water, aggressively combed my fingers through my wet hair, and now I’m finishing up my nightly oral care without a peep in the trailer.
There’s, like, this weird sense of desolation with it. You know, I’m used to that and pretty okay with it now. But with everyone still gone… I just, I have this feeling thrumming my skin that, somehow, I’m in the wrong and thatIdid something bad.
Sighing, I get my toothbrush rinsed and dried off, then drop it into the cup with all the others. I often catch myself fantasizing about having my own space, my own bathroom, each room full and decorated with the things I bought myself. But really, the idea of not living with them, not getting to see them every day or say good night face to face, laces dread through each vein and pulls ridiculously tight.
I think that’d be best for them, though.
Me not being around.
I linger on the razor someone left on the bathroom counter this morning, my hand sliding on its own toward it.
It’s an impulse that never makes me regret it afterward. I don’t overthink or feel ashamed. It removes all the heaviness and lets me float.
For a little bit, anyway. I don’t remember ever doing it by itself. I’m usually touching myself beneath the needles of cold water. But that’s not really, uh, that appealing after the events that took place an hour ago.
Taking off with the razor, I adamantly walk over to the shower, prying the curtain back and grabbing the flathead screwdriver we have to use to crank the broken faucet over.
I’m not proud of how fast I’m able to get these open now.
I just want my mind to stop, for this feeling pervading my bones to go away. I guess you could say it’s my own form of drugs here, the way it alters my mind and makes me desperate for it when shitty shit feels exceptionally shitty.
They’re probably talking about you. That guy was probably right.
Whining silently, I set one of the blades on the sink and toss the rest of the pieces in the trash can. Why was I so willing to be brave toward Junior and a literal ghost, but I become this tiny coward with everyone else?
“Oh, my God, he probably really was right,” I whisper-whine, grabbing the rubbing alcohol from the medicine cabinet.
Closing it, I get a good look at myself in the mirror, visually tracing the prominent shadows underneath my stinging eyes. “Stop crying,” I mouth, and shake my head, like the parental disappointment will fuse together what’s broken in my brain.
Safe to say it doesn’t work. One blink and tepid streams are breaking free.
I’m not sure why. My throat isn’t tight, and my chest isn’t clogged. I just feel overly exhausted and needy for a distraction.
Once I get the blade cleaned off, I get everything picked up and hide the sharp edge inside my waistband, then head for my bedroom with my balled up dirty clothes.
It feels weird taking it to my room, rather than bringing itfrommy room. I’m carrying a dirty little secret, and for some reason, the idea of mebeing bad, going against what Razor said, is drying my tears and cracking a slight grin on my face.
I’m a bad girl.
That’s so stupid. But Iamgetting a little tickled over it, so I guess it’s not that lame if it’s inducing dopamine. Right? Or am I going insane?
I must be because I didn’t pee my pants while being cornered by an entity. And I’ve been too quick at forgetting about Carl floating around in what has to be formaldehyde.
Where do you even get that at? And how much would you need to fill an entire fish tank? That’s, like, well over two hundred gallons.
Carl was strangled.ThatI know. So… it’s not a wild guess that Razor had one of his blackouts and, uh… Yeah. I just, I don’t know where he would get chemicals like that. Or when. Or why they’d need those chainsaws in the garage.
The chainsaws.
How’d they get them? For what? How’d I forget about them?
Quietly trilling my lips, I get my bedroom door closed and start to zone out on the darkness, mechanically tossing my clothes into the hamper near the closet.
There’s a heaviness in the air. It’s dragging through my muscles, making me uncomfortable. I try to rotate my shoulders to shake the stiffness, but realization kicks in and the additional presence skates down my spine.
My eyes deglaze, shooting over to the large silhouette waiting on my bed, and a rush of novocaine spreads through me.
