The Accident
Police survey the scene:
The husband, looking ashen sitting curbside clutching his broken wrist. The wife, lower lip quivering crimson from kissing the dashboard. The car, overturned and twisted with headlights still staring into the distance.
But most chilling, the empty child’s seat in the back-- and the open window.
Indecisive
why shouldn't i kill myself
She typed the words, letter by letter, into the search engine and hit enter. Less than a second later, the results arrived.
There was a hotline; some navel-gazing, faux-inspirational articles; some cheesy, Mom-approved Facebook memes...nothing useful. Nothing persuasive.
Well then, she thought, that's that.
Purple’s Unusual Occupation
I'm sure I'll survive as long as I write. Write it down, Purple. Get it out. Over the past 12 months of my life, my only goal has been to not cause harm to anyone else. I had these tendencies, these moments, where I was cruel and they began to multiply last year. You see, I felt no pain. Physically I felt amazing all the time and emotionally, no, mentally I was in control. It was like a miracle. I wasn't just in control of myself either, I seemed to control everyone around me. I didn't really understand at first, then I looked back at what had changed. I wouldn't put it together until I was out of control, until I had shared it with so many. I'll write it all down. I'll stop it from intoxicating everyone. I'll stop it because it's all my fault.
I stared working at a very interesting place about two years ago. I had been arrested and it made finding a new job imperative to pay court costs and impossible because I was officially a low life on paper. It's right after you get out of court or out of jail that you start to consider which path you're going to go down. Every time things get hard, you get a push down the dark alley where you know things are exciting and a little bit easier. I always liked excitement. I always preferred a little chaos. Most importantly, I'm constantly pulled towards places and people who are no good. So when my parole office told me a maximum security mental institution was working with ex cons to rehabilitate them, I leapt at the job.
"This might not be a good place for you, Purple." she tried to warn me. "Anderson Asylum is not only a dangerous place for a young lady due to the fact that it's literally filed with insane criminals, but they use controversial treatment. The work environment alone changes people. People go missing! People die there! " She cut herself off. It was like an invisible hand pinched her lips shut.
"Then why tell me about it at all?!" I demanded, irritated as hell at the tease. She stared at me while she took three deep breaths. Her breaths were filled with intensity and what seemed to be remorse. I had planned to rant a bit more after her warning, but I was perplexed into a state of silence. What was going on with her?
"Because I literally have to." I didn't understand. I didn't care. I didn't hesitate.
I had almost arrived on my first day of work when the taxi suddenly jolted and stopped. A familiar feeling washed over me. You know when you're about to do something wrong, but you're pretty sure you're going to do it anyways because it's a rush? And there's electricity buzzing around in your stomach and chest? I felt that when the car stopped. We had a flat tire. I checked my watch and realized I only had 15 minutes to my shift.
"Hey, I've got to get in there it being my first day and all. Do you need me to let anyone know you're here so they can help you?" I asked.
"No. Send no one!" the driver insisted. "I will be fine. Follow the road to the left when it forks and the entrance is right there." I nodded to the driver and began up the road. The feeling in my stomach was still there when I hit the fork in the road and it was about to worsen. I heard a faint whisper. I scanned the tree lines on either side of me. I had a small blade up my sleeve. I touched it a few times for reassurance but decided not to pull it out unless someone tried to touch me. I figured there were crazies upon crazies up the road and I was probably just hearing one of them.
I passed the fork in the road and the whispering voice echoed to my left. My pace quickened with my heartbeat. I heard the whisper to my right this time. It was saying something starting with d. It was like an exhale. At this point I decided some psycho was messing with me, grabbed my knife out of my wrist scabbard, and sprinted to the gates. Each whisper became cleared and cleared the closer I got. I was almost to the gate when I felt the air from someone's mouth as they whispered a panicked, "Don't!" into my ear. I swung a closed fist around me, reaching to make contact with the perpetrator. The knife was in my other hand, pulled back and ready to slice whomever was tormenting me as I crouched on the ground. I scanned my surroundings. Nothing and no one was around me. After I pushed my terror and confusion to the side of my mind, I realized I was armed and probably psychotic looking right in front of my new place of employment and a place that could lock me up if they wanted to. I was sunned when I check my watch.
I had five minutes until my shift started. I had not been walking for 10 minutes. Maybe this was a bad idea. I wondered if it was too late to back out. If I did, I'd violate the terms of my parole. The gates were too thick and too high to see inside. They were topped with barbwire and cameras. I wondered what they had seen. I wondered what they thought. What that voice was. A soft bell noise came from the intercom attached to the gate.
"Welcome to Anderson Asylum. Are you checking in?"
"Hello, my name is Ms. Push and I'm here to start work today." I desperately explained, praying I hadn't just lost my freedom. "Please place your court order, your identification, and the knife in the basket under this intercom." Shit, I thought. Maybe it's a good thing I blew it already, I thought. I placed everything where the pleasant voice had asked me to and I waited. I scanned the tree line again. Then the gate began to open.
"We've been expecting you, Ms. Push. Please come in."
Battle Scars
My thoughts keep me awake tonight. Snippets of conversations I had with friends and co-workers ebb and weave their way through my consciousness.
I probably shouldn’t have told my boss about that concert I went to last weekend. She probably thinks I’m all about the sex, drugs, and rock and roll now… Katherine’s birthday cake was so delicious, I wonder how Amber made the icing so fluffy… William definitely needs to leave Jenny – he deserves so much better…
My phone buzzes quietly next to my head from the bedside table. The screen glows faintly. I push myself up onto one arm and reach for my phone, wondering who would be texting me this late. Last time I checked, it was close to midnight. Jake’s name appears on the screen under the words “Text Message Received,” begging to be read. I hesitate for a moment.
It’s late… He will know if I open and read his text… If he really loved me, he would be here right now…
A moment of weakness overtakes me and I unlock my phone.
“Hey!”
Seriously? That’s it? It is 12:22 and all you say is “Hey”?
I run my fingers through my hair, untangling the knots that have already begun to form. I look down at the screen again, wondering if Jake was even worth a response. I lose myself in thought, debating the consequences of responding to the text, absent-mindedly stroking my hair. A soft tingling sensation slowly makes its way up my arm breaking my trance. I am back in my bed, alone in the darkness. I look down at my arm, and in the faint glow of light, a black coin moves towards my hand.
I try to calm myself, rationalizing that I’m just being paranoid. I move my other hand slowly-the hand holding my phone-and open the flashlight app, bathing myself in the blinding white light. It is not a coin on my arm after all. As my blood turns to ice, the pounding in my chest blurs my vision. For a moment I cannot move – I freeze in fear. Then as quickly as the paralysis takes hold of me, it evaporates, leaving me with the energy to furiously flick it off my arm.
Adrenaline kicks in and I sit up straight, eyes darting back and forth, seeking out my attacker. I find him perched on my pillow, and we lock eyes. For a moment neither of us moves. We stare each other down, daring the other to make the first move. He moves - hurtling his body full speed towards me. I jump back horrified. He doesn’t quite reach me, but he does not have the height advantage my pillow provides either. He stops. We both pause, trying to anticipate the other’s next move. Still holding my phone in my right hand, flashlight aimed at him, I slowly reach back and grab a handful of blanket. I swiftly flick my wrist, casting my blankets off the bed and onto the ground. I am not going to allow him the satisfaction of seeking refuge between my sheets. My two eyes never leaving his eight.
He charges again and I jump off the bed, arms raised in defense. The light illuminating from my flashlight app bounces around the bed and he follows. In that moment, it dawns on me that he is hypnotized by the glow, like a cat chasing the little red dot of a laser. From a safe distance, I move the flashlight around, testing my discovery. Sure enough, he follows my lead, every twist and turn. Fear slowly gives way to fascination. Perhaps this monster is not here on an assassination assignment, but rather an explorative expedition.
As the seconds, turn to minutes, my anger and fear returns. As perplexing as this situation is, it didn't change the fact that I am now standing in my underwear in the middle of my bedroom. He is conquering new territory - my bed. Without thinking, I throw my phone onto the bed, distracting him as I run to the bathroom for my glasses. The war has begun.
On my way back, I grab one of my new white and gold sandals. He may have won the opening battle, but I will not let him win this war. I take a deep breath and walk back into my room, sandal poised. He has moved closer to my phone, inspecting the source of the light. I slowly and silently inch my way closer to the bed. Squeezing my eyes shut, I swing my hand down with all my might, a high pitched squeal escaping from my lips. I jump back and open my eyes in time to see that I have missed. He crawls under the sandal, now discarded on my bed. He has won again.
I step back and shake out my trembling hands. This is not how the plan was supposed to go! I glance around the room, searching for anything that I can use as a weapon. I see a plastic blue clothes hanger lying in the corner of my room, sticking out from the jeans and t-shirt I had worn earlier. I pick it up with my left hand. I also pick up one of my black ballet flats in my right hand, desperately wishing I had bought the bottle of Raid like my mother had suggested weeks ago. I clear my head and focus on him again. This time, victory will be mine.
I turn on all the lights. He cannot hide in the shadows anymore. Using the hanger, I coax him out from his hiding place. He doesn't cower. He emerges confidently, ready for the fight. Once again, we lock eyes. His eight beady eyes make my skin crawl and I stifle the scream threatening to take me hostage. I take another deep breath. This time I keep my eyes open as I swing my shoe, never losing sight of my target. I am fast. He is faster. He moves away and bounces off the bed. I retreat hastily, eyes searching everywhere for him. He is gone. He has won the third challenge.
I am ready to admit defeat. Naked, alone, and afraid I slowly back out of the room. I pause at the doorway, looking back –hoping or dreading - to see him one more time. He is wise and does not let me see his victory celebration. I close the door behind me, acknowledging his conquest. Bowing my head in humiliation, I stumble to the couch and curl up under the tiny fleece blanket. I lie motionlessly on the couch, replaying the war in my mind. Body aching, I slowly drift to sleep, waiting for the morning light to rescue me - but morning never comes.
Revenant Rising - Vessel: Chapter One (Partial Chapter Due To Word Count Settings)
On this cold, autumn day in early October, there was a lot of cleaning to be done. The drafty castle’s bewildering warren of quiet, open passages and overgrown, ivy-choked plazas were bustling with courtiers and servants, whispering with excitement and nervousness. Kitchen wenches exchanged significant glances over washing basins under the still-brightening sky as muted exchanges seemed to take place in every passage and terrace of the great, towering metal citadel. Besides the weather as evidence to the contrary, one might have thought it was the first day of Thaw, judging from the air of breathless anticipation. However, the great twisting calendar set into the stonework of Temper Plaza declared a different reason for the bustle altogether: this day was the New Fire Ceremony Festival.
What made New Fire different from all the rest was the actual date—a date not many people actually understood the significance of. All they knew was what was about to happen: Quetzalcoatl was coming to the Coszcatl today. It had been sixteen long years since their godking had set foot in Coszcatl’s drafty halls, and now he was due at high noon. The cleaning girls hadn’t been allowed inside the Sacred before today—a warm, magically lit space on the top floor of the Coszcatl, free from the whistling wind that invaded every nook and cranny of the aging keep. However, with the dawning of light upon the Coszcatl’s glistening spire, the chambermaids descended upon the dust and unpolished surfaces like a whirlwind. Today, the godking would hold Court again, and every inhabitant of the palace bustled with purpose and rumor.
In all actuality, there was at least one resident of Coszcatl that didn’t care so much about the goings-on of godkings and hurried subjects. This solitary, simple girl was sitting cross-legged in a small alcove between the dull, warm copper glow of the bestial gargoyle Meridyn and the wall with missing panels that was open to all the glorious, rushing air, the rays of the newly risen sun giving her just enough light to see the words she burned into the wood block with her etcher.
Liza, named Xoco by the elder sisters of the Order of Chimalma, had never been anywhere except the Castle and the surrounding village of Sharlit. Coszcatl—meaning Jewel in the ancient language of the gods—was the central castle of the area, though legend said that there used to be more than the four that framed the horizon. Coszcatl, from what Liza could gather, used to be the heart of Merricka, a place of great evil that the godking Quetzalcoatl conquered after a sixteen year war. She wasn’t sure on the exact details, because all of the history she knew came from Loko Grayse, the hedgewitch who came to town from her hermitage out in Gas Stone every other month for supplies. The old woman would hobble up the road on legs so unsteady Liza figured it had to be magic that kept her up and going. Her gap-toothed smile was as friendly as could be to the gaggle of youngsters who would gather around the hem of her tattered skirt as she entered town, but the scowl she bandied out to all else could make a man lose his bladder. Liza saw it happen once. It was awesome.
The surrounding buildings were of brick and metal make, though none reached even half the height of Coszcatl. Most of the servants lived in the great expanse of the Groj nearby, pallets and meager personal belongings separated by thick sheets of plastic that might have been white so many years ago, but this gift from the gods now was a light brown that tapered darker the closer it got to the cold concrete floor.
Coszcatl was older than anyone could remember, and only Loko Grayse ever talked about the ’Tants, who inhabited the lands of Merricka before Quetzalcoatl and his brethren came and saved everybody. The remnants of that evil civilization lay decrepit all about them, and though they were said to be of the darkest nature, the godking had declared that it was safe to use those tools which were still of use to his subjects.
Liza never had learned what the ’Tants called Coszcatl before they were wiped out, but in her heart of hearts, she knew it would have been something beautiful. Even though she wished with every fiber of her being that she could go out and have an adventure, exploring the Parishes beyond the Glen, she would always think of Coszcatl as her home.
However, even with her love of the place, it seemed as though she were the only one who hadn’t settled into the niche she had supposedly been born into. The hunters would bring in their game with huge smiles on their faces; the cobblers seemed to be content with making and fixing shoes; the cooks rushed around the kitchen patio, clucking like so many fat chickens. Liza, however, had a different lot in life…
Before she’d even learned to talk, she’d been made to understand the significance of her role in the society here in Sharlit. Indeed—even the whole of Quetzalcoatl's domain. Raised by the Chimalmist priestess’s sect, she was given every advantage in life one could ever hope for in the kingdom of Sharlit—except that one thing she most yearned for, and yet was so out of reach: freedom.
She’d dreamt of going out into the foothills and then beyond the ranges of the Smoked Sierras, having adventures and dashing to and fro, saving the hapless villages stashed away there in the foreign lands from the ravages of the ‘Tants. She, with her trusty sidekick, Zella, would charge off in the company of Sir Xiuhcoatl, Quetzalcoatl’s Right Hand, Head Eagle Knight of Carolina, and defeat the hordes of savages that doubtless lay just within a few day’s ride to the west, learning the bow even as Sir Xiuhcoatl cut down the vile ’Tants with his mighty broadsword, backed by Zella’s spear…
Zella, known in the Sisterhood as Yoatlyotl because of her fierce demeanor and even deadlier skills with the tepoztopilli, could cut down eleven blooded warriors without batting an eye. The blade at the end of her six-and-a-half foot spear was almost a foot long, edged with the traditional obsidian that Quetzalcoatl’s warriors of the ancient past once placed upon their own weapons. The tepoztopilli had been a gift from High Priestess Quetzalxochitl herself, who is without a common name.
Zella… Yoatlyotl had been enlisted to fight the ’Tant threat beyond the western border of Carolina, where the Badlands lay. She’d been gone a fortnight already, and Liza missed her milkmate sorely.
Looking down at the dressings that had been prepared for her by the castle servants, Liza frowned. What was meant to be elegant and stylish draped across her bloated figure like a tent. Any moment now, she expected to see a family of four crawl out from under her robes and head off to the fields to start their day’s work. She hated being fat. She hated what she saw in the polished silver of her room’s mirror when she peered into its reflection: her pudgy, plain face staring back at her in slight distortion, her own glare hateful and accusing. If only she could...
She knew she’d never be anything more than the stupid girl that she was, but she always wished that she could do something else—anything else. As it was, she was stuck in the archives of the basement floor, learning from the multitude of scrolls and reciting the litany of facts to her tutors’ satisfaction. Sometimes she thought that if she had to learn a single thing more, her head would burst! But, alas, it did not, and so she was forced to continue.
What she really enjoyed, however, was scribing. She’d been given an etcher at an early age, and ever since she’d learned the letters and the spelling, she’d been scribing her thoughts and dreams when no one was looking. She’d been careful to burn the long blocks of wood with her beautiful words on them, lest anyone find out her deepest desires… For it was not thought to be right or fit for the Revenant of the Godking to be scribbling nonsense like she most undoubtedly was. No, she was supposed to be second-in-line to be the next High Priestess, should Quetzalxochitl fail in her divine tests. But that would only happen if something happened to Zella, which was impossible. Yoatlyotl was mighty and brave. No ’Tant could cut her down. Liza was safe from the inevitability of the final fate of the High Priestess, but it saddened her heart that Zella was destined for it.
Her thoughts had already started drifting to her stashed block and etcher, and the mean things she had to say about hateful ol’ Quetzalxochitl that no one else would ever read. She hoped. Probably. . . No, no one would ever see her private thoughts and dreams, her aspirations to get out of Coszcatl and travel past the Glen and see what the other Parishes looked like.
“Xoco! What the Haitia are you doing out here?”
Big Jon! She froze, her cold fingers numbly dropped the etcher onto the plated surface of the alcove, the metal-on-metal clatter jarring in the momentary lull of the howling wind. Slowly, she eased herself toward the lip of the alcove, doing her best to keep her block as inconspicuous as possible while trying not to get blown off the edge before she could make it through the hole in the plating.
“Nothing,” she wanted to say, but before she could get even a single syllable out, a strong, calloused hand reached out of the dark depths of the hole in the wall and pulled her in, accidentally scraping her calf against the rough metal surface.
She tried not to wince as she rubbed her scuffed leg with her right hand, careful to keep her eyes lowered and deferential. Big Jon was the Master Huntsman of the godking, who could be nasty when he was upset, and she’d sometimes be cuffed for even looking at him wrong. Every time she’d cried in the past, he would sit her down on his knee and tell her that she was too stupid a girl to know it, but the defiance in her eyes would get her killed someday, even if she was second in line to the High Priestess. She couldn’t really disagree with him about that. She knew she was stupid. Everybody said it.
And she’d learned a couple of years ago she couldn’t get him to show her any sympathy anymore. She’d grown too old to be able to wiggle into his heart with a well-placed sob, and now he would just hit her again, telling her to quit whining like a little shrishraka. She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but she knew it wasn’t nice. A man like Big Jon—a bastard son who’d risen through the ranks of the Huntsman by being the most savage and bloodthirsty hunter of infidels—wasn’t likely to care about being put to death for the slaying of a Revenant. He was already condemned to the higher levels of Haitia for rejecting his Nahuatl title.
“Nothing—“ she tried again, but a blow from out of nowhere connected with her temple and she was suddenly on the floor, interesting colors flashing before her swimming eyes. She didn’t have to ask herself what had happened. She already knew: she’d been stupid again.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been doing nothing, you stupid shrishraka! I know that’s what you’ve been doing! What else would you be doing the exact moment work needed to be done?!” He reached down and pulled Liza to her feet, idly brushing off the dust and debris that was stuck to her pudgy face. She looked up at Big Jon’s looming figure, deciding against reaching out a hand to steady herself against his huge bulk.
The Hunchback Killer
She was being followed.
Neha felt something twist in her stomach as she came to the realization; and the helplessness of her situation dawned. She'd refused her friends' offer to call a cab as she left the party, pointing out that she lived less than a kilometre away and laughing off their concern, but the roads were deserted at this time of the night and there was some kind of a power outage, plunging most of the streets into eerie darkness – her apartment might as well be on the other side of the earth, for all the safety it offered. And, beyond any doubt, a dark shape was slumping along the lane, far behind her.
She plunged an arm into her bag, feeling the handle of her pocket knife, and the feel of solid steel in her hand reassured her somewhat, though she did not slow down.
I should've listened, she thought, berating herself, better safe than sorry, isn't that what her mother had always taught her? And with the Hunchbacked Killer all over the news and still at large – "sorry" was a situation no woman wanted to be caught in. Why hadn't she listened? She'd dismissed everyone's worry, and it had been easy to shrug off the news, thinking that would never happen to her. But that wasn't true, was it? Clearly. It could be her face on the television tomorrow morning.
Neha tightened her grip on the knife and turned as she walked, and, sure enough, the shadowy silhouette was still there, barely visible under the light of the full moon. For one mad moment, she felt like stopping there and confronting whoever it was, brandishing her knife and threatening them to go away. Neha pushed the idea out of her mind as soon as it manifested. It was foolhardy – what if he was innocent? Worse yet, what if he really was the Hunchbacked Killer, and was armed with something worse, like a gun? She quickened her steps. And then a distant rumble reached her ears.
She paused. No, it certainly wasn't her imagination. Definitely an engine, going fast, coming closer.
She turned again, and this time, felt her heart give a leap of relief as a bright headlight cornered around a faraway crossroad. The rumbling grew steadily closer as it approached. The man on foot following her slunk back into the shadows as it went past, and as it came close she held out her hand with the thumb stuck out in the universal hitchhiker's sign.
There was a loud grinding of brakes, and a sleek, red-and-blue motorcycle came to a halt in front of her. Its rider was wearing a t-shirt, jacket and helmet, and he surveyed her through it for a moment before raising the visor.
"Are you all right?"
"Can I get a lift? I live nearby, it's not too far."
"Sure, I guess… what're you doing out here all alone?"
"I was walking home, like I said, I live close by, but…" She approached the bike and looked past him, frowning. He followed her gaze.
"What is it?"
"Someone was there, just a minute ago. They were behind me for a while."
"Someone was following you?" She saw his eyes narrow behind the helmet.
"I don't know. Nobody's there now."
He twisted in his seat to take a good look, but he, too, apparently, could see nothing. "All right," He said eventually, leaning forward and taking hold of the handlebars again, "Wait here a moment." The motorcycle turned on a dime as he pointed it back the way he had come.
"No, wait," she said, getting a sudden vision of him getting murdered and then her getting chased down by a monstrous figure, "Don't… can you just… get me out of here? Please?"
He must have noticed the panic in her voice, because he studied her face for a moment, and said, "All right. Hop on." The bike turned again and she mounted, a little awkwardly because of her skirt.
"I'm Jai." He said, closing his visor with a snap, muffling his voice.
"Neha."
"Well, hold on, Neha."
She could sense his warmth as she put her arms around him, and as the bike took off and the cold night air whipped up her hair, she felt herself calming down. It was difficult to feel afraid of a stupid dark shape when she was seated on a powerful engine, zipping through the streets.
"Where'd you say you lived?" He yelled over the roar of the bike.
"City Central Apartments. Take a left off of M.S. Road," She called back.
"I know that place. Get you there in a flash, don't worry."
As if on cue, the power came back on, and the streets lit up with the buzz of electricity. "Oh, thank God," She breathed. He chuckled, and the bike slowed down in front of a 24-hour diner.
"Coffee?" He asked. "I need one, I'm cold as hell."
She looked behind them apprehensively and he said, "They have a security guard, come on."
This was certainly true, and she sighed and nodded. Jai pulled his helmet off, revealing long hair that came down to his shoulders, and shook his head like a lion shaking its mane. She was relieved to see that he had a kind, handsome face.
The diner was empty except for an old man working on his laptop in a corner table. The waiter came over and they both ordered coffee.
"Not altogether safe, you know." He said as they waited for him to come back, "Walking around like that on your own."
"I know." She smiled apologetically.
"Especially with this Hunchbacked Killer thing going on… didn't that make you hesitate, going out by yourself?"
"A bit. But I've been saying for weeks that the Hunchbacked Killer isn't real. And I didn't want to seem worried in front of my friends."
"That's a silly reason to put yourself at risk."
"I know that now."
"What makes you think he isn't real?"
"I think it's mass hysteria. You realize nobody's actually seen him?"
"But there has been a rash of disappearances in the city. All young women, according to the papers. You should be more careful. Better safe than sorry."
"That's what I was thinking to myself back there. Lesson learned. Thanks for being all manly and protective, though."
His lips twitched, but he managed to refrain from smiling.
The coffee wasn't good, but it was hot, and she sipped it gratefully. Jai, who seemed unconcerned by such trivial things like the boiling heat of the liquid, finished his in a few gulps.
She yawned and stretched as they stepped back outside into the night air. She was sleepy. The rumble of the bike felt comforting, as did the feel of his strong muscles against her as she slipped her arms around his waist. She rested her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes…
When she opened her eyes, it took her a few seconds to be sure that she was even awake. It was pitch dark; she blinked and realized that she was blindfolded.
And bound.
To a cold, metal bed.
She tried to scream, only to find out that her face and lips felt numb; she had been injected with something. Only a feeble noise came out.
"Ah," a voice said, "I had a feeling that would wake you up."
Footsteps. A pair of strong, muscular arms. The blindfold was slipped off.
Jai smiled his kind smile. She looked at him, horror-struck.
"You know, you were right about one thing." He said, explaining things as though he were answering a question about the weather, "Mass hysteria. The whole 'Hunchbacked Killer' headline – I mean, you understand I didn't coin the term, right? The press did. Out of thin air, too; it's not like anyone who meets this side of me ever lives to tell the tale. Do I look like an ugly hunchback to you?"
She could not move her lips to answer.
"I suppose you're wondering what's next. Well, we start with this."
He had taken a seat at a chair next to her and pulled a small coffee table towards him. She saw a plate with a fork and knife, and some kind of pink fruit on it.
"Well," He said again, "It's best to show you."
His hand reached out for something on the side of the bed, and Neha felt herself straightening up. It was a hospital-style bed, which could be elevated according to the patient's needs. As her upper body was pushed up, she came face to face with a mirror. She tried to scream, but no voice came out.
Staring back at her was her own reflection – but if it hadn't been for her outfit, Neha would not have recognized herself. There was a giant hole below her nose. Her lips were missing. They had been expertly carved out of her face and the wound sewn up, leaving her teeth bared in a permanent grin like a ghoul. Somewhere in the back of her head, something dawned, and she turned back to the plate with the pink fruit on it.
Jai picked up the fork and skewered a piece with it, raising his hand and popping it into his mouth.
"Cranberry-flavoured lipstick," He said, chewing thoughtfully. "Delicious. And the rest of you will be too, I'm sure."
