Chapter 12 #2
What I’m doing could be considered a suicidal act. I’ve never dwelt on thoughts of ending my life, no matter how lonely and hard life got. Not even when all of Westbrook hated me for standing up for Cerys. So this sensation of courting death feels foreign. But I don’t want my life to end so soon.
I have unfinished business.
I want to watch them go to safety, but Cupid catches my attention.
His knife pierces the pillow between my hands.
A yelp escapes from my lips. Puneta. I don’t have the strength to keep him down, let alone actually asphyxiate him, yet I put all my weight into it.
Every second counts. It means the girls have a better chance of getting away.
The moment is short-lived because Cupid’s knife rips through the pillow.
The wadding spills between us, showering him with white fluff as he pushes his head between the hole of my arms. Shrieking, I leap backward just in time to avoid his knife.
Cupid swings at me again, and I bounce back, startled when the blade misses me by an inch.
I look for the inner final girl I’ve tried to cultivate throughout my horror filmmakering career. It’s not like I’ll be a final girl tonight, but it gives me the motivation to slide a fearless mask over my face. A final girl is motivated by fear and adrenaline.
By their desire to live against all the odds.
And I want to live.
“Come on then, asshole.”
Cupid raises his knife again and I back into a table.
An idea springs into my brain. Grabbing the edge of the table, I push it in front of Cupid and then bolt for the door.
I hear the rattle of things shattering in the room, but I refuse to look back.
The need to put distance between us is bigger than my curiosity to see him struggle.
My chest heaves with every contraction of my lungs. Adrenaline tickles under my skin, buzzing with electricity. I have to keep running. Unsure of which way the girls chose, I run down the hall where Leighton was.
Running has never been my strong suit, yet I don’t stop. My lungs churn and I’m gasping for air. I can’t let him kill me.
Carmen needs me, I chant to myself. I promised.
I keep a hand stretched out to the wall, searching for an opening, an escape. But there’s no place to hide. Not when he’s following me. I glance over my shoulder and notice Cupid has forgotten about Leighton’s body because he slips on her blood again, almost falling.
I don’t want to say I’m glad Leighton’s dead, but her body is helping me escape.
My hand hits the wedge of a doorknob, and I see my way out.
I halt in my tracks, but it’s too sudden.
I miss the door and have to turn back, struggling to get it open before Cupid catches up with me.
His steps get closer. I don’t turn to look at him.
They’re always closer when you turn to look, so I stay focused on opening the door, fidgeting with the knob until I fling it open, slide into the tight space and snag it closed. But it’s a fraction too late.
Cupid swings his knife in the air, wedging it between the frame and the door. The tip of the blade almost caresses the skin between my brows, and I choke back a scream. It’s a close call. I pull the door harder, using my entire body weight to fight against Cupid’s strength.
I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline or a miracle, but Cupid retracts the knife, and it allows me to close the door. I breathe for a moment, feeling the relief of managing to win this round until I realize this door doesn’t have a lock.
I’m still in a vulnerable position here.
Keeping my hold tight on the door handle, I hoist my leg against the wall to form an anchor.
Cupid tries to budge the door open, but I remain strong until he lets go. I stand close to the door, but not near enough for a blade to go through. I’ve watched too many movies where the character tries to listen through the wood, only to get stabbed in the head.
I would rather keep my head intact.
But still I wait and listen for his steps to move away from the door. It takes a minute, maybe more. Or perhaps less. Time has become a foreign thing since the attack happened, and I’ve lost all track of how it moves. It’s possible it’s just been a handful of minutes since Elodie died.
Outside the door, I hear Cupid walking away. I’m tempted to slide it open only a sliver to make sure he’s really gone, but I don’t. I stay put. It’s always when the characters lower their guards that the killer makes a comeback.
I count sheep in my mind as a distraction from what I’ve witnessed.
Every muscle of my body shakes with adrenaline and fear, my senses heightened by the events.
Somehow, I survived this chase. Although it’s possible he never intended to kill me now.
Maybe I’m one of those deaths that occur later in the movie when you’ve already gotten attached to the character, just when you think they’ll make it out alive.
My stomach twists.
I lower my leg to the floor and step backward into the room, meeting its end a moment later.
It has to be a closet of some kind. I pull out my phone, pointing the screen around.
I don’t want to waste the battery when it could be of more use later.
There’s barely any juice left. I’m guessing it won’t be long until I press the on button and it doesn’t spark to life.
I’m distracted by the cleaning products and the mop next to me. It’s a mistake. The gentle creak of the doorknob twisting vibrates in my ears.
I hold my breath and the door swings open.