Delusions

by Amy Crandall

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then what were you doing when you left me the night Mike died?”

  Damien’s countenance hardened. “We don’t have time to discuss this right now, Abigale. We have a bus to catch.”

  A bus?

  “I’m not going anywhere with you, Damien.”

  “Oh, yes you are,” he growled. Grabbing a pair of side cutters from the bedside table that was too far for Abigale to reach on her own, Damien cut the zip ties around her legs. She was too weak to try and kick him as he worked on the ones around her wrists. Once both were snipped, his iron grip slammed down on her left wrist, sending shooting pains up her arm.

  She was hauled to her feet, yelling obscenities, and even tried to scratch him with her other hand, but he was too fast. His fingers latched onto her other wrist and squeezed so tightly that blood stopped pulsing to her fingertips. Abigale cried in pain as the force of his grip caused her to bleed even more.

  “I gave you a choice,” he hissed. “You chose the hard way.”

  Abigale was jerked forward, losing her balance. Her legs buckled, and she landed on her knees on the hard floor. She yelled again as pain shot up from her kneecaps all the way up to her shoulders. “Damien, stop! You’re hurting me!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said menacingly, yanking her up by her bleeding wrists. His grip tightened, and the dull throb in her wrists turned to an acid-like pain. “Does this hurt you?”

  She screamed in pain, which only encouraged Damien to squeeze harder. “Do you finally feel the pain I did for the past six months when you repeatedly rejected me?” His eyes reflected the same look that serial killers like Ted Bundy did in their mugshots.

  Tears cascaded down Abigale’s cheeks. “Please, stop!” she cried.

  He pulled her closer, his grip still tight on her wrists. “Do you have any idea how painful it was to see you with that Michael kid? I had to sit there and watch you kiss him, and it was like you didn’t even care that you were driving a knife through my chest every time you did.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Damien!” Abigale gasped. “I swear!”

  “Liar!”

  The wind was knocked out of her lungs when she was thrown to the floor without warning. Her tailbone screamed from the trauma of hitting the hard surface, but she pulled herself up into a semi-recumbent position. She stared up at Damien through terrified eyes. She knew if she said anything off color to him again that he would kill her.

  As she steadied herself using her palms, her fingers touched something cold and thin. With a start, she remembered the side cutters he’d used to free her from the chair. She furtively tucked the cutters behind her back and out of Damien’s line of sight.

  “Damien,” she said, her voice wavering at the murderous glint in his deep blue eyes, “please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I swear I won’t.”

  “Do you think I’m that stupid?” he said, kneeling down to her. His hand rested on her thigh, his fingers slowly squeezing her flesh. “I’ve waited this long to have you, and I’m not willing to let you go. Ever.”

  Abigale nodded. Her grip around the side cutters tightened. “I figured you’d say that.”

  With a defiant yell, she whipped around, shoving the side cutters into his eye.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  When he screamed, Abigale knew it was time to leave. Her movements were sluggish, and she fought the urge to vomit at the sight of the cutters sticking out of Damien’s eye. She managed to pull herself to her feet, dodging his bloodstained hand in the process, and raced out of the room. Pain shot up and down her body as she ran through the house. When she reached the kitchen, heavy footsteps thumped in the direction she’d come from. Whirling around, she searched for a place to hide.

  A block of knives by the stove caught her eye as she desperately scanned the area for somewhere to flee. She threw herself at the countertop, grabbed the sharpest knife she could find from the block, and raced to the next room.

  “You bitch!” Damien screamed from a few feet away. She cowered behind the loveseat in the living room as the footsteps grew louder. “I’m going to kill you!”

  A whimper emitted from her lips, and she slapped a hand over her mouth to block any other sounds from escaping. She saw his shadow from where she was lying, and she was worried that the thud of her pounding heart would give her away. The knife grew slippery from the sweat gathering on her palms.

  “You want to play hide-and-seek?” Damien said. “You want to play hide-and-seek?”

  A horrifying laugh echoed through the house. Abigale trembled as the shadow extended in height. He was getting closer. Perhaps he already knew where she was, and he was just stalling.

  “Come out, come out wherever you are,” he mocked menacingly.

  She sucked in a breath when she caught sight of his sock-covered foot. Speckles of blood stained the white fabric. Abigale wasn’t sure if the blood was hers, her mother’s, or Damien’s himself. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to find out.

  After stalling for what seemed like forever, Damien moved on, his footsteps receding to the other side of the room.

  Then Damien disappeared.

  Her grip on the knife tightened as complete silence echoed through the house. Part of her wanted to tell herself that he was gone and that she was safe, but she knew better. Damien had seen her.

  The pit in her stomach deepened when a hand latched onto her foot, dragging her out of her hiding spot.

  “Gotcha!”

  Abigale let out the scream she’d been holding and wildly swiped her knife across the open air. “Get away from me!”

  She was abruptly flipped on her back. Damien climbed on top of her, pinning her to the floor with his weight. A horrified scream tore through her throat at the sight of him. One hand held his eye. Blood leaked through the spaces in his fingers, splashing onto her pale skin. When she lifted the knife to stab him, the hand holding his eye shot out as swift as a viper. He grabbed her wrist and slammed it on the floor above her head. The knife went limp in her palm.

  “I gave you everything, Abigale,” he growled. “I covered up Michael’s murder for you. I slipped that note for your mother under your door, so she knew the real you right before she died. I listened as you cried about your problems for months, and this is how you repay me?” The hand that had been resting on her hip lifted to point at his eye. “By stabbing me in the fucking eye?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” Abigale yelled. “I didn’t!”

  The weight of Damien’s body pushed her down, crushing her insides like she was nothing. The eye that wasn’t a complete mess stared down at her with disgust.

  “You did kill Michael.” He leaned over her, the blood from his eye dripping on her cheek. She tried not to gag. “You killed Michael, and you killed that bitch Julia.”

  Abigale shook her head vigorously, tears rolling down her bloodstained cheeks. “No, I didn’t!”

  “I followed you that night,” he continued, his voice low and malicious. “You were muttering something to yourself as you stumbled along. As I got closer to you, I realized you had a knife. I followed you all the way to the school, where Mike was. In his drunken stupor, he approached you. I tried to call out, but it was too late.” Damien chuckled. “You stabbed him until he hit the ground. Even after that, you kept stabbing him. Eventually, it got so pathetic that I walked over and ripped the knife out of your hand. I drove you home and tucked you into bed. You were still talking to yourself when I closed your bedroom door.”

  Abigale shivered. “W-What was I saying?”

  Damien pulled away from her ear, flashing her the most sadistic smirk she’d ever seen. It was as horrifying as when she’d seen herself in the church bathroom at Jules’ funeral. “That he deserved it.”

  Abigale’s windpipe constricted.

  There’s no way he’s telling the truth, right?

  “Now, are you going to be a good little—”

  Ab
igale shoved the knife into his stomach. She let the blade twist, and it made a satisfying crunching noise.

  Damien screamed. His weight on her body ceased, and she pushed him off of her when he went limp. Her adrenaline was so high she felt like she was going to have a heart attack. She didn’t turn back to see if she had killed him. He was a liar, and she didn’t care if he had died.

  Just as she was about to race to the front door, long fingers latched around her ankle. Losing her balance, she fell to the floor. She tried to kick Damien’s hand away, but he was too strong. With horror, she saw he had removed the knife from his stomach and was now holding it above her back.

  “No, Damien, please!” Abigale cried, thrashing as he straddled her again.

  “Shut up!” Damien yelled.

  Something hot and wet dripped down her back. She prayed it was Damien’s blood and not her own.

  “Please, Damien. You don’t want to do this!” she pleaded, begging for her life.

  What if this is it? She thought to herself.

  He leaned down, his breath hot on her neck. He placed a single kiss on the sensitive spot of her neck before moving up to her ear. “If I can’t have you,” he whispered, “nobody can.”

  The knife entered her back. Abigale’s screams filled the empty house as her insides twisted to get away from the foreign object that had entered her body.

  “Damien!” she cried.

  “I’m sorry, my love,” Damien murmured. “It had to be this way.”

  A metallic taste filled Abigale’s mouth and she retched on the floor in front of her. “No,” she rasped. “It doesn’t.”

  The blinding pain dulled to a weak throb that she pushed into the back of her mind.

  Above her, Damien whispered, “What have I done?”

  Yes, Abigale thought. What have you done?

  Her energy was sapping away from her bit by bit. Spots danced across her vision, swirling around her like they were evading capture. Memories of her childhood flashed through her mind. Of her father and mother laughing. Of her best friend, Tiffany Tuckerman, the one she’d been through so much with. Of her grandparents, both of whom had died when Abigale was only seven. Then came her more recent memories. The ones filled with Mike and Jules and the rest of the gang. Of Damien, pre-psychopathic. Her body shut down, her mind following. She was done with this life. She’d had enough of it all. She was ready to see her family again.

  And so, she let her hand fall limp in front of her, and with one last shudder, went still.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-NINE

  Death wasn’t like anything Abigale thought it would be. It was cold and it was dark. She felt like she was dying the same horrible death on a loop. Over and over again, the knife twisted inside of her flesh, turning her organs in knots. She couldn’t scream, no matter how much her throat burned or how much her eyes streamed with tears. It was like her mouth was sewn shut with invisible thread.

  Then a warmth spread across her, as warm as the sun at its highest peak. The pain dissipated. The wound in her back healed, and for one moment, she felt happy. Content. If she were given the choice to go back to Earth or stay in that warm place, Abigale would have chosen the warmth. It was much safer than the horrible cold that awaited her.

  It was a shame she didn’t have a choice.

  When her eyes opened, a blinding white awaited her. It took five deep breaths for her vision to clear, and for her mind to process her surroundings. She was lying in a familiar place, a place she’d been only a few days prior. Abigale stretched her aching fingers, wincing at a sharp pain that shot up her arm. When she looked down at the back of her hand, she saw the intravenous drip hooked into her vein. A distant beeping noise came from the left side of the room. That was when she noticed the tabs and wires sticking to her chest, recording every beat of her pulse and every breath she took. Beside her sat Detective Collins, the man she’d been interrogated by after she attacked Jules’ ex-boyfriend.

  The thought made her shudder.

  “Ms. Fern,” the detective said, a wide smile lighting up his face. “I’m so relieved you’re awake. You gave us quite the scare.”

  Abigale furrowed her eyebrows. “What are you talking about? Why am I here? Where’s my mom?”

  Detective Collins shifted in his seat. “I…uh…we aren’t sure yet. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the incident. Is that okay?”

  Gazing at him warily, she nodded.

  The detective opened a spiral notebook and pulled a pen from the rings. He glanced at her once before returning to the paper. “Do you remember who took you on the night of June twenty-second?”

  In her mind, she was back in the house—his house. She still felt his crushing weight, his hot breath by her ear, whispering words as he plunged a knife deep into her back.

  “Ms. Fern?” There was an edge of panic to Detective Collins’ tone, but Abigale couldn’t seem to snap back into reality. Her entire body trembled with fright as she was transported to a different vision. Her mother stood feet away from her, pleading for her life like a pathetic damsel. His cold laugh echoed through the air as a shot was fired. She screamed when her mother collapsed for the second time. Something hot oozed underneath her toes, and she fought the urge to vomit when she realized what it was.

  “Abigale?” the voice sounded far away, and it was too feminine to be his.

  She screamed when his hand circled her forearm. She barely saw him through the darkness, but her throbbing arm was enough to announce his presence. Hot breath blew against her ear, raising goosebumps on her neck. “If I can’t have you, nobody can.”

  “Damien!” Abigale shrieked. The vision dissipated, and she was back in the hospital room. A nurse stood over her, her fingers splayed over Abigale’s shoulders. She assumed that the nurse had been trying to snap her out of the flashback.

  Despite his dark complexion, Detective Collins was pale. He was standing; Abigale figured he’d left to find a nurse when she blanked out.

  “Abigale?” Her attention was drawn back to the nurse, who removed her hands from her shoulders. “You’re safe now, honey. Is there anything I can get you? Water, perhaps?”

  Her gaze drifted to the lacerations on her wrists. “Yeah,” she croaked. “That’d be great.”

  Her eyes full of pity, the nurse surveyed Abigale like she was a broken doll before leaving the room.

  She isn’t far off, Abigale thought.

  “Should I come back later?” asked Detective Collins.

  Abigale’s eyes, which were trained on the door that the nurse had just walked through, met the detective’s gaze. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips as she thought about his question.

  “No,” Abigale determined, her voice quiet. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  Detective Collins nodded. “Of course,” he said. “You mentioned someone’s name. Damien. Is he the person who did this to you?”

  Abigale tried shifting in the bed, but the pain that followed made her want to scream again.

  The detective shot forward. “Careful! You don’t want to rip your stitches out.”

  She swallowed hard at the mention of stitches. “Thanks for the tip.” She tried to sound humorous but failed.

  The pair fell into utter silence. Abigale examined the lacerations on her wrists. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel herself tied to that chair, terrified of what awaited her. Luckily, the detective spoke before Abigale could slip back into another vision,

  “I’m going to tell you something that’s rather upsetting, Abigale,” Collins said, glancing up from his notebook.

  Abigale swallowed hard. “What is it?”

  Pursing his lips together, he glanced over her, as if he was deciding whether he should tell her or not. With a defeated sigh he said, “We didn’t find you at the house of Neil Thackston by chance. His nephew, Damien, called nine-one-one.”

  Abigale went cold. “What?”

  “When we got to the house, you were lying on th
e living room floor behind the couch. Paramedics had to revive you.” When he finished, Detective Collins took an overwhelming interest in his untied shoelace.

  “That’s not everything. You’re hiding something from me.”

  Collins shook his head. “We can talk about it later, Abigale. You need sleep.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I want to know what you found.”

  The detective sighed and flipped his notebook closed with a dull snap. “When we tried to search for Damien and his uncle, well, we came across something rather gruesome.”

  “Tell me,” Abigale said, her throat tightening. “I want to know.”

  “Neil Thackston and Damien Thackston…they’re dead, Abigale.”

  THE INTERROGATION

  PART NINE

  June 26, 2015, 9:56 A.M.

  Case No. 20150625-04

  When Detective Collins and Agent Ross entered the interrogation room two hours later, Abigale knew something was wrong. She could tell by the grim looks on their faces and the way Collins averted his gaze. Panic lodged inside her throat. She felt like she was choking on nothingness.

  “W-What happened?” she managed to get out.

  Agent Ross carried another manila folder in his hand, which he tossed onto the table in front of her once he reached the table. “Do you mind if we take a seat, Abigale? There’s something we need to tell you. Two things, actually.”

  She nodded, but inside, she was screaming for them to leave. She knew what they were about to tell her was horrible, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it.

  Once the two were seated across from her, Collins finally focused on her. A glint of pity flashed in his eyes, which wasn’t a good sign. Her stomach turned when Agent Ross opened the folder.

  “We found your father,” he said. His voice was quiet, unlike the other instances he’d seen her, when he’d been accusing her of murder.