Chapter 6 Reverie #2
Luckily, Lionel was very good at selling cars and paid off the house a few years prior to his arrest. He also had a pretty substantial savings that kept us afloat until I turned fifteen and got a job.
I used my meager income to pay the bills so we didn't eat through the rest of the savings.
I'd hoped one day, she'd snap out of it and would have less reason to resent me when she realized she wasn't left with no money.
But that never happened, and she never stopped resenting me. In fact, she hated that I was still alive. She wasn’t a monster for having postpartum psychosis and hurting me, but she became one when Lionel was taken away from her.
And those moments… those are harder to forgive.
However, that morning, she met my stare, a strange glimmer in her dull blue eyes. Then, she wished me a happy birthday and told me she loved me.
It was the first time she said that to me in over a decade. Except it didn’t make me happy. It was deeply unsettling.
I felt off that entire day, despite my friends trying their best to keep me distracted. They planned a party for me that night, and I was supposed to go straight to one of their houses to get ready for it.
But I insisted on going home first, claiming I forgot my birthday outfit.
Returning to an eerily quiet house wasn’t out of the ordinary, but that day, the emptiness was screaming at me.
There was a noticeable shift in the energy, and I knew instantly my mom was gone.
The door leading to the garage was within sight of the front entrance, slightly cracked open, and, like a ship called to a beacon, I walked to it in a trance.
She was long dead when I saw her hanging there, the rope creaking as she swayed ever so slightly. And while I could do nothing more than stare, part of me was relieved.
Even before Lionel went to prison, I don’t know that I’d ever seen such peace on her face. It reminded me of what I felt when she drowned me.
I was happy for her, even a little jealous.
I was definitely relieved.
But it undoubtedly broke me, too.
She was all I had left.
That was four years ago to the very day—January seventeenth.
Happy fucking birthday to me.
Sniffling, I bundle up the rope and toss it into a small trash can before slumping on the edge of my bed and bowing my head into my hands. Dread didn’t hang up the rope to threaten me. He hung it to mock me for my mother’s suicide.
She isn’t exempt from his hatred, even in death. Not only did she not believe Dread, but she happily told the world—in many interviews—about what a liar he was. And when strangers lavished us with gifts and sympathy cards after Lionel’s imprisonment, she lapped it up.
I think it was the only thing that gave her life meaning when she wasn't chained to that recliner.
In some ways, she was nearly as bad as Lionel. She may not have killed Dread's mom with her own hands, but she certainly went out of her way to kill his spirit afterward. She damn near did everything in her power to, in fact.
Yet, knowing all of that doesn’t make this shit hurt any less.
I resented her. I judged her. I pitied her. I hated her a little, too.
But I also loved her, even if she still fucking terrified me most days.
My heart aches as tears stream down my cheeks, but I force my lungs to continue inhaling and exhaling, warring against a panic attack until, eventually, I feel it ebb.
My phone buzzes on the bed beside me, where I carelessly threw it before going to shower. I startle from the unexpected sound, hand over my racing heart as I stare at the lit screen.
It’s probably Sable texting me about making birthday plans again. She’s been harassing me all day, trying to see me, but I couldn’t bring myself to go out. Despite my mother’s eloquent timing, the last birthday I celebrated was before Lionel went to prison.
Today hasn’t been a day of celebration for a long time, and truthfully, I think I prefer it that way now.
Sighing, I pick up the phone and glance at the screen, only to do a double take when I glimpse the number.
I don’t recognize it, and the lock screen indicates the message is an image. My stomach flips with unease.
Warily, I open the message to find a still shot of my naked body with black Sharpie all over it—ink I’ve only just fully scrubbed out of my skin.
My heart sinks, and I feel my face bleach of color.
There’s an address written below the photo, and nothing else.
But I know exactly who it’s from and what he wants.
Dread doesn’t need to put his threat into words. His message is perfectly clear: come, or he releases the video—and I only need one guess that he’s given me the address to Craig’s party.
I close my eyes, attempting to bargain with my insides and keep the vomit down.
He’s going to murder me this time, I’m sure of it.
News has spread across campus about Dread’s odd behavior at his swim meet a couple of days ago, about him having to leave early due to ‘feeling under the weather.’ At least, that’s what all the official reports claim.
But I know better, and I know he knows what I did.
Exhaling a heavy breath, I hang my head, defeated. I knew he was going to get his revenge, and while I’ve grown used to it, it doesn’t make it any less shitty.
Sometimes, I wonder if I should just lie down and take it when he abuses me, stop retaliating. He’d probably leave me alone more often, but it’d be a lot harder to live with myself if I didn’t at least make his life harder, too.
Whatever.
Let’s just get this shit over with, you spiteful bitch.
Maybe I’ll let Victoria know I’ll see her there. If she takes my advice to avoid wearing green, maybe she’ll listen if I tell her to stay away from the tip of Dread’s Sharpie, too.
I don’t belong here, but everyone already knows that.
Especially me.
Craig Matthews was born and raised in Hollow Canyon and is the mayor’s son—which means he doesn’t just stay in a normal condo or apartment off campus, but a huge fucking house.
I’ve always wondered why Dread opted out of staying off campus, too, but it’s never something I cared enough to ask. Not that I’ve had a whole lot of opportunity to between his sadistic pranks and cruel insults.
I know he’s got a full ride and that the college is paying for his housing, but with all of his brand deals, there’s no doubt he can afford to live somewhere just like Craig’s.
The house is modern and currently packed full of students. Not exactly as lavish as I expected for a mayor’s son, but it’s definitely outside of the average American tax bracket.
The entrance leads directly into the living area, with cream walls complemented by a mix of black and oak furniture. The area is massive and provides plenty of seating, allowing for students to crowd inside.
A heavy bass rattles the light wood floor as I hesitantly make my way through the living room, glancing over the sea of different faces and hoping none of them are Dread.
He’s nowhere to be seen, so I head into the equally large kitchen, where liquor bottles, beer cans, and red Solo cups litter every available surface.
On the left is an open concept, a lone counter stretching out and curving into a half circle, allowing me to see beyond it. It's a huge open area with a staircase in the middle, splitting one massive room into two separate areas.
The breakfast table is on the other side of the counter and is currently being used for beer pong, where most of the noise originates from—a mix of loud cheering, groaning, people placing bets, and side conversations about random shit.
And, of course, standing on one end, against the back wall, is Dread.
He leans down toward a short brunette standing next to him and points toward a cup, his mouth moving as he seems to direct her.
She’s facing him, her back to me, so I can only glimpse her side profile when she looks toward the cups, but I think it’s Stacy Clark.
I assume she’s his partner, because she shoots her ball toward the cup he pointed to and promptly misses.
Her shoulders sag in disappointment but quickly perk up when he grins down at her, those crinkles forming beneath his eyes as he says something that looks like “Good try.” Then, he holds up his ball to her lips.
I don’t need to see her face to know she stares up at him with a giddy smile before she leans forward to kiss it. Dread mouths something to her that causes her to giggle, and then he throws the ball.
It’s no surprise he makes it.
People roar their excitement while Dread declares he’s on fire. One guy on the opposing team shouts out a curse and tosses the ball right back to him while his partner shakes his head and removes the cup. There’s only one cup remaining on their side now, while Dread’s only missing four.
I don’t know either of the guys standing on the opposite end, but they’re the standard jock type. Muscular builds, though shorter and stockier than Dread. Both are blond, clean-shaven, and carry themselves like they shit platinum rods—and both are drunk as hell.
While the two of them take several swallows out of their beer bottles, Dread winks at Stacy and likely says something flirty. Her shoulders shake with another giggle while she twists a strand of hair around her forefinger.
I, on the other hand, just want to puke and then leave. In that order.
Only the devil knows why the hell he wants me here and what he has planned, but it doesn’t take an expert to know I’m going to hate him even more by the time the night’s over.
I chew on my bottom lip, tempted to test my luck and see if I can drug him again. One of his friends can take him home, and I can go back to my dorm and fucking sleep.
Ideally, that’d be my best-case scenario, but it’s also incredibly unlikely, especially because his eyes have just slid above Stacy’s head to clash with mine. They instantly turn ice cold and blast me with a chill that has frost gathering on my bones.