Shame and anxiety battle for the throne in the pit of my stomach as I bolt out of his dorm, ignoring the strange looks from a few of the students in the hallway. For half a second, I consider turning back around and putting the letter back where I found it, but I’m unable to convince my legs to obey.
Dread finding out is inevitable. There’s no escaping it.
But there’s delaying it.
When I plunge out into the frigid January air, it feels like a fucking relief—like I can breathe properly for the first time since I arrived at my room last night.
It isn’t until I’m walking down the hallway in my own dorm that I receive suspicious looks from several students going to and from their rooms. I almost forgot many of them watched two men dressed as police officers haul my ass outside in handcuffs last night and then saw the chopped-up dummy in my room. By now, I’m positive they’ve guessed it’s fake, but it doesn’t stop them from sending me sidelong glances, deliberately stepping away from me as I pass.
No one speaks to me, instead choosing to follow in Dread’s footsteps and treat me like a pariah, though none of them dares to bully me themselves, not since the last girl stuck a foot out and tripped me. Imade her eat my fist, and no one bothered me again.
Funnily enough, they probably wouldn’t have minded befriending me if Dread wasn’t here. It wasn’t until I attended this college that people treated me terribly.
Maybe that's why part of me doesn’t entirely mind. It doesn't hurt my feelings that none of them want anything to do with me when it feels deserved, like I’m receiving the treatment I should’ve been getting since the moment Barry arrested my father.
Because Lionelisguilty, and the publicshould’vehated him. The public should’ve hated my mother and me for supporting the monster, too.
So, I ignore their stares and stop before my room. Except, when I reach for the handle, I hesitate. I hadn’t exactly forgotten the dummy was inside, but it was something I didn’t let myself think about too hard.
Now, I have no other choice but to focus on it. Instantly, my heart pumps faster and harder, and a cold sweat blooms across my nape before spreading to my toes. I try to swallow, but it’s as achievable as doing so with a fist gripping my throat and squeezing until it’s crushed into a noodle.
The body is fake.
It’s not real.
It’s not real.
It’s. Not. Real.
Eyes burn into the sides of my face, students scrutinizing and openly staring at the freak show standing outside her door like there’s a dead body inside. Their unwanted attention isn’t enough to curb my rising panic, but it’s enough to get me to grip the handle with a trembling, sweaty hand and rush into the room before slamming it behind me.
I inhale deeply, forcing oxygen into my lungs—though it rushes right back out again when I face the chopped-up dummy on the floor, fake blood pooled beneath it.
The sight is a punch to the gut, and I immediately drop into a crouch, tucking my chin against my chest and threading my fingers over the back of my head.
In my mind, I’m walking myself through the steps on how to breathe. Yet, my body doesn’t comply with my demands. I can’t get a breath in, and my body sways, growing lightheaded.
It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.
Except the chant running on repeat in my head doesn’t keep the panic from rising further, nor does it stop my heart from pounding in my chest hard enough to fucking bruise.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper aloud, my voice cracking. I shake my head, repeating the same words again and again.
I manage to lift my head enough to look around for my phone. At some point, I dropped it—I think when they busted through the door. I never got the chance to grab it again. Otherwise, I would’ve called Sable to rescue me and avoid sleeping naked in Dread’s bed last night.
God, even thinking that sentence is enough to make me feel like I need to be institutionalized.
Through swimming vision, I get on all fours and search around, finally locating it halfway beneath my bed. I unlock it and find several missed calls from Sable.
I always text her to let her know when I’m home, and considering she knew something was going to happen, I'm sure she's been losing her mind. She’s going to lose it even more when she hears what he’s done.
My hands shake as I click on her name and call her.
It doesn’t make it through the second ring before she’s picking up.
“¿Por qué carajo no me has contestado?” she barks through the phone.
I groan and crawl closer to the bed before dropping my forehead onto the mattress.
