Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Only…sometimes this life of mine doesn’t feel worth it. Living, to me, is pointless if there’s no one to share life with. There’s always my best friend Faye who’s there whenever I want to hang out, but there’s still an emptiness inside me.
I miss my brother and my past life with him, laughing, joking, and grabbing chocolate brownie milkshakes on Sundays. I miss him telling me about the dumb girls he hung out with who he never understood or felt a proper connection with. Warren was always looking for love, always wanting someone to nurture and care for him. Someone who looked deeper than just looks and material things.
“Girls these days, Willow,” Warren said one night over milkshakes. “They’re weird, man. None of them talk like regular people. And what the hell is with them always saying something is giving?” He gestured to his milkshake, fluttering his fingers toward it. “This brownie and ice cream shake is giving! Let me put this on the gram for errbody to see, honey!” he said in a high-pitched voice, and I laughed so hard a chunk of brownie slipped out of my mouth. He couldn’t help laughing either as I cupped my mouth, trying to contain the laughter. “Like, what does any of that shit even mean?”
I laugh at the memory, then take another swig of tequila while carrying my gaze over to the nightstand. I put my focus on the orange prescription bottle with the white label. I pop a pill out and shove it into my mouth, downing it with the tequila.
“You shouldn’t take antidepressants with alcohol, Willow,” Faye would say. She hates when I do it, but at least I’m taking them at all.
I lie back on the bed, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. The wood beams appear closer, the room spinning, and I close my eyes, breathing in and out.
What happens if I go missing too? Who would miss me? Like really, really miss me?
It’s a thought so fast, so fleeting, that it terrifies me. My eyes pop open and I stare at the ceiling, but there’s something different about it now. A purple streak of light is spread across it, waves bouncing on it like rippling water.
I narrow my eyes as I stare at it, and the purple streak forms into an oblong circle. It wobbles, the waves fading, as if someone is shaking a light onto the ceiling, and I sit up to look out my window. A projection or a person with a flashlight, I assume, but there’s no one out there—no purple lights or flashing objects pointed my way. Not even security is nearby. I look up at the ceiling again, where the purple light still stretches.
I believe it’s time for you to stop wallowing and pull your shit together.
I gasp when I hear a man’s voice and shoot off my bed, peering around my apartment.
“Who the hell is that?” I shout. My pulse thumps in my ears like the foot of a rabbit. There are no corners to hide behind in my studio. It’s an open floor plan and I can see everything, even the bathroom door, which is ajar, but there is the closet, and my eyes land right on the closed door of it.
I make my way to the kitchen, pulling out the biggest knife
and holding it in front of me, then grab my phone from the counter.
“I’ll call the police right now if you don’t come out!” I move closer to the closet door, the knife shaking in my hand. I try steadying it, but with the tequila swimming through me and my nerves fried, it feels damn near impossible. It’s not odd to think there’s someone camping out in my apartment. After all, I’m hardly home and there are plenty of squatters looking for a warm place to crash.
I wipe my forehead with the back of the hand that’s holding my phone and stand in front of the closet.
The police? Is that some kind of authoritative figure? If so, fuck them.
“Oh my God.” I breathe out the words and build up the courage to grip the doorknob and open the closet door, ready to stab whoever is behind it, but I only end up stabbing air.
There’s nothing inside but clothes and various shoe boxes stacked on the top rack. I turn on a light, shuffle through the line of clothing frantically, but it’s empty. Completely empty.
A deep chuckle erupts, filling every hollow corner of my brain, and I whisper, “Who the hell are you?” before dropping the knife to the floor. I look for the purple light again, but it’s gone now.
I don’t hear the voice again for the rest of the night.
Four
WILLOW
It’s the same dream again. I’m looking down at blood on my hands, blood smeared on clothes. My hands tremble as I try to decipher whose blood it is, but I can’t. It’s as if I have no memory—no recollection of who I am or where I’ve been—yet what I’m going through feels awfully familiar.