Page 40 of The Killing Game

The gentle wind coming from the entrance is crisp against my sensitive skin, brushing over each open wound Jason made. Breathing in the chilled night air, I mentally release the demon from deep within. A carnal smile caresses my lips. The lava seeping through my veins soothing every aching part of me, turning numb. The tears stop coming. My breathing evens itself out. My feet ground solid into the earth. I look back to the crumpled body on the floor.

“It’s time to die, Jason. Rest in hell.”

I turn and walk out into my blinding salvation.

EPILOGUE

ASHE

1 YEAR LATER

Ishake the cramp out of my hand as I assess the line in front of me. No matter how much I try to prepare for book signings, my hand always gets cranky halfway in. The throng of people snakes all the way back to the bookstore’s entrance.

It’s release day for my newest novel. This has been the most successful launch since I wrote about our town’s gruesome history. I have since transitioned from self published to signing with a publishing house and an agent. My bonus was almost double the market average with the condition that I produce a new novel once a year after the ink dried. Receiving such a huge bonus from a traditional publishing agency is unheard of for my genre. It still amazes me that so many people, seemingly normal people, share in the same morbid fascination in storytelling as I do.

I take a steadying breath and smile at the reader in front of me.

“Good morning,” I say, mustering as much politeness as I can.

A petite girl with emerald eyes stares back at me. Her smile is sweet, matching her whimsical outfit. Dark auburn curls frame her bronzed face. She reminds me of a fairy living deep in a wooden cottage. Living off the land. Making her own remedies for what ales her. Frolicking in the open fields under the star light. It tugs at something deep inside me.

I throw up a mental wall between that woeful memory and the present task at hand. I don’t have the time or space to think about that now. No one wants to see an author have a mental breakdown on something that should be the happiest day of their life. It’ll have to wait for later.

It’s been a year since the police saved me from my own nightmare. I was on the brink of hysterics, covered in blood and gore when they found me. Slumped over onto the dampened ground in front of the James’ family cabin. According to one of the responding officers, I was mumbling incoherently. My eyes were wild and my reaction to them was violent. It took three of them to drag me from my place on the ground to the warm interior of the ambulance when it arrived.

I spent two days in the ICU and one week in inpatient therapy before they deemed me sane enough to be released. The next month I spent my weekdays in their outpatient program with hours upon hours of therapy, learning coping mechanisms, and writing. The officers assigned to my case didn’t dare question me on what happened the night they found me until I was fully cleared. Doctor’s orders. They said after what they can only imagine that I went through, my mind and body needed the break. Something about reliving old memories could cause a relapse. Jokes on them, though. Some of the things I witnessed that night I will never be able to remove from my memory. They’re scarred into my psyche. My own personal ghosts, forever haunting me day and night. The only way to get a moment’s peace was through writing, and from that writing, came this book. This book helped me get back to my new life. So many truths and secrets hidden within these pages, disguised as macabre curiosities.

Rumors spread that my book shared too many similarities to the horrendous events I endured last fall. Luckily for me, the police dismissed me as a person of interest almost immediately. They were vague on what they found at the scene. A detective with kind eyes and a chiseled jawline informed me they found all the evidence they needed to conclude the rampage was completed by The Senior Slayer and his accomplices. I never told them that one of those accomplices was my friend. My lover.

I internally cringe at myself.

Lover.

What a ridiculous term. We didn’t even get the chance to love. We fucked. The lust burning our souls into an inferno of passion from the pent up years of attraction. All of that energy only for years of trust to be ripped away with the quick slice of betrayal. Everything I knew was reduced into ash at my feet.

“Oh em GEE!” the girl in front of me squeals, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts.

“I’ve been waiting so long to meet you. I love all of your work! Ugh. It just speaks to me.”

I take her book from her hands and fake a smile back at her.

“Aw, thank you, dear. I know my books aren’t traditional, but I hope you love this new one as much as I do.”

She nods enthusiastically at me, tippy tapping on her feet and silently clapping her hands together.

“I plan on binging it the minute I get home!” she gushes.

My lip thin into a shy smile at her enthusiasm, heat in my cheeks blazing ever so slightly. It never ceases to amaze me how words can connect people in this way.

I ask her for her name and sign her book before wishing her a quiet goodbye. The darkness inside of me shoves at the mental barrier. Looking over to my personal assistant, Myra, I signal with my fingers that I need a break. She rushes over, all rainbows and sunshine with her multicolored dress and wild hair. Such a stark difference from the books she promotes.

Clapping her hands, her singsong voice booms over the audience. “Okay, lovelies. We need to take a short break. You can remain where you’re at or get some fresh air. Ms. Nikko will be back to greet all of you in five minutes.”

I squeeze Myra’s shoulder as I stand and slink towards the bathroom.

I count my blessings when I see both stalls are empty upon entering. Locking the door behind me, I spend my time splashing water on my face to obscure the tears streaming down my cheeks and counting to ten. My breathing is ragged and uneven, gasps of air between silent sobs, as I try to calm my nerves. I repeat my new mantra in my head, credited to the outpatient therapy I completed.

“You are worthy. You are strong. You are not your past.”