Monster Made (Monster Duet)

Prologue

Quill

Fuck!

I come to with a gasp.

Something is scratching at my left heel. That’s the first thing I’m aware of. A very annoying, tickling sensation that has been worming itself into my subconscious for the past fifteen minutes at least.

Humidity prickles against my skin, against my spine. The smell of dirt pervades my every sense, and my eyes flutter open, just as my feet identify the strange texture that’s been scratching at them.

Brambles, dotted with tiny red and black berries.

I don’t need to look up to know where I am. But my heart sinks with the confirmation that I’m lying on the grass outside a very familiar window. It’s framed with white curtains, and although the light is turned off inside, I can guess at what’s concealed in the darkness.

I’ve watched enough from down here to know.

Somehow she never thinks to close the curtains.

When the light is on, I can see as clear as day the messy room with its overflowing bookshelves, the empty, dirty bowls littering the floor.

Her bed is right beside the window, and I like to watch her as she lies on the mattress on her stomach, inevitably reading a book until far too late, occasionally wriggling her ass to get into a more comfortable position.

Then she removes her glasses, tosses them to the floor, and turns off the light on her bedside table.

Although I can’t see her then, I can picture her closing her eyes, her breathing growing regular and deep.

I can imagine the way she smells, the way she feels, huddled under her blanket.

The only times I don’t want to kill her are when she’s sleeping.

But tonight, I never saw her read or fall asleep.

Tonight, I haven’t seen a thing. I don’t even remember coming here.

My last distinct memory was of leaving school to go to training.

And now, somehow, it’s nighttime, and I’m standing outside the window of the girl I spend every single one of my waking moments trying not to strangle.

But I can’t control myself when I’m asleep. Or when I’m sleepwalking. Or doing whatever it is that has me turning up here in the dead of night with my memory wiped clean.

This is the sixth time this month it’s happened.

How many more? How many more until my hands do the thing my mind has been desperately fighting against?

Panic rises in my throat and my breath comes out in strangled huffs. I’d never forgive myself if I hurt her. I don’t know what it is about her that makes me care so much. I’d smite the life out of anyone else without even batting an eye. The only reason I don’t is because I don’t care enough to.

With her, it’s the opposite. Every cell in my body is desperate to fulfill my urge. But my mind has an iron will, and it forces the rest of me to bend to it.

Still, it feels like with every passing breath, my mind grows weaker.

Cold, incomprehensible dread envelops me. Now that I’m here, I’d like nothing more than to stay sitting on the ground, watching the window, its darkness like a balm to my heart.

It appeases me. Or should. But tonight, everything is different. Everything is wrong.

I have no business being here. Still, it takes everything I have to force myself to turn around and walk slowly away.

_

It’s not until I’m lying down in my own bed that a flash of color draws my eyes down toward the palms resting on the white softness of my sheets.

Only they’re not white anymore.

They’re red.

Blood.

My hands are covered in blood.

Fuck!