Chapter 5 #2
I’m not a “man-hater” per se (that’s a lie), even though women have every right to hate men.
Most men, I think, aren't deliberately ill-minded and malicious by nature.
But society lets them learn they can get away with a lot of stuff.
It's easy for them to be crappy to other people.
There's a spectrum, of course. Unintentional harm blends into wilful ignorance, which blends into weaponized indifference.
Bad men benefit from bad men and so do the good ones.
I’m not a “man-hater” (sure), but I wouldn’t blame women for never wanting to interact with any man because of the fact that the majority of them are trash.
Like, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Imagine living in a world where all of the power is decided by men.
All of it. Fucking all of it. A woman can get killed just for saying “no” to a man, for defending themselves and their families from the abuse of men, for merely fucking existing.
They feel entitled to land, promotions, women’s bodies, and more because they are taught from a young age that the world is theirs.
They think “no” means “yes” and “get lost” means “I’m all yours.
” They mistake kindness for weakness, respect for submission.
Even men who identify or present as feminine still receive many of the benefits of manhood, even while simultaneously under the threat of violence for bending gender norms. Patriarchy means that men have male privilege.
The same male privilege that gives them the false idea that they are somehow “better” than women.
The same male privilege that perpetuates rape culture on college campuses.
I take a few deep breaths in an effort to contain my rage.
They destroy everything they touch. On the surface, they pretend to be harmless, but in reality, they’re nothing but soulless bastards who drive you insane and then have the audacity to act surprised when you stab them in the throat.
So, I play their game. I smile, bat my eyelashes, let them think I'm putty in their hands.
I flirt, I laugh, I kill. It's my own twisted form of justice, a dance on the edge of their expectations, pirouetting on the precipice of their disappointment. Does that make me a bitch? Maybe. Does it make me cold and frigid? A woman made of ice? Sure, why not. But ice is strong. Unyielding. It’s a mirror reflecting their own distorted self-image.
“Holly?”
I look up to find Cami staring at me.
“Yeah?”
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
Her eyebrows furrow. She always knows when I’m lying. “You’re making that face again.”
“What face?”
“The I-need-to-stab-something face. You’re worried about the texts, aren’t you?”
“Obviously.”
“Have you tried texting back?” she asks.
“Aren’t you supposed to not respond to anonymous messages?” At least that’s what it says online. “I don’t want to encourage this person.”
She presses her lips together and nods.
“What?”
She looks down, shaking her head. “Nothing.”
“Cami.”
She looks back up. “You’re scared of this person.”
A statement, not a question. I scoff. “Absolutely not.”
Cami just stares at me.
“I’m not scared of this person,” I insist. “I just don’t see the upside in texting them back. You’re probably right. If they wanted me behind bars, then I would be there already. But I’m not. Which means it’s probably just some fucked-up prank.”
A breeze coerces my body forward, causing me to jump. I burrow my chin into my chest for extra warmth and there’s a slight pause before Cami speaks again, “It’s okay if you are.”
“If I’m what?”
“Afraid,” she says. “It’s okay to be scared. But don’t ever show it. It’s dangerous to show fear.”
She’s right. Fear is for the weak. I can’t afford to show it. All it’s going to do is signal vulnerability. Showing fear is a confession of weakness, an admission of surrender.
“And besides,” Camille continues. “We’re in this together. Nothing is going to happen to you, Holly. You’re not alone.”
You’re not alone. The words send a ripple of reassurance down my spine.
If this friend group was more of a “group” and less of a “duo,” Cami would be the designated “mom-friend.” The one who is always calm and collected in high-stress situations.
Much like this one. She’s the one who would make sure you washed off your makeup before passing out after having too much to drink (been there, done that).
Or help you dispose of a body on a Saturday night because no friend should have to do that alone (are there, doing that?).
She’s much more than just my best friend.
I nudge her with my shovel. “I love you, you know that, right?”
Smiling, she simply shrugs. “You’d be insane not to.” Then she picks up her shovel and resumes the digging.
By the time we finish burying the body and Cami drives me back to my apartment, it’s almost four in the morning.
I punch in my access code and push the door open. My building has electronically coded locks on all apartment doors for added security, which is good because if tonight has taught me anything it’s that there are some real creeps out there.
I step inside and take off my shoes, sliding off my coat and hanging it on the rack next to the door.
Most days I’m operating at a normal surgeon level of tiredness. Yawns and eyelid twitches I feel to my core. But tonight, I can actually feel each one of my organs ache with exhaustion. My eyes burn and my bones hurt. I’m so glad I don’t have work tomorrow.
I turn on the shower, waiting for the steam to thicken the air, and grab a plastic bag from underneath the sink. I slip out of my jeans and top, leaving just my bra and underwear on.
Shit. I’m still supposed to meet Audrey at Cami’s bar tomorrow evening. I’m gonna have to come up with a stellar apology for not only “ruining” her clothes, but also mysteriously “losing” them.
Setting my bloody scalpel on the sink, I stuff the sweat-soaked clothes inside the bag to discard later, recalling the way Audrey smiled at me at the bar.
There was definitely something odd about her.
Something uncanny. Everything about our interaction seemed a little too convenient to be just a coincidence.
The way she just happened to be in the hospital and then the bar.
The way she just happened to have a “spare outfit” that fit me almost perfectly.
What if she’s the one sending me these messages?
But why? What could she possibly want from me?
I don’t even know who the hell she is. A maelstrom of emotions whips through me when I’m unable to come up with an answer.
My mind is a tangled mess of unanswered questions.
Maybe Cami’s right. Maybe this is nothing. Maybe someone’s just trying to fuck with me. A prank. That’s all this is. A very fucked-up, not-so-funny prank. I need to stop thinking about it. Ignore it out of existence. Repress bad memories. Nothing I haven’t done before.
Drawing in a short breath, I run a hand over my tangled hair and slip one of my bra straps down my shoulder. I hear a noise.
I immediately poke my head out the bathroom door. “Hello?”
Nothing.
“Who’s there?”
Silence.
Quickly retrieving the bloody scalpel from the sink, I nab my phone and step outside, one tippy toe at a time.
Darkness spills from the hallway as I brave through it, slowly making my way towards the kitchen.
Half-naked and armed. My grip around my scalpel tightens as I enter the kitchen.
I set my phone face down on the white granite countertop and comb through the area, before proceeding to the front door to check if it’s locked.
It is.
Clearly, there’s no one here other than me. Which basically means I’m going insane.
I walk back into the kitchen and grab the glass lying on my countertop.
I “stole” that glass from April’s apartment last November.
It was Thanksgiving and Theo and Parker wouldn’t stop calling me “Hollister” for an hour straight.
I don’t remember much from that night due to the many, many glasses of wine, but I do remember thinking to myself that stealing is probably better than murdering my sister’s fiancé.
I fill the glass with water from the fridge dispenser and chug it in four swallows before refilling and emptying it again.
I catch a glimpse of my phone out of my peripheral.
Demon device. If that shit buzzes with another text message or worse, rings with a call, I swear to god, I’m going to lose my shit.
And then because the universe hates me, the damn phone fucking rings.
Every hair on the back of my neck stands.
I set the glass down, debating whether I should just let it go to voicemail or throw it out my window. But when the ringing doesn’t seem to stop, I reach for it and flip it over, and my apprehension immediately turns into barefaced confusion.
The contact ID flashes across the screen — EVIL HAG.
I frown. Why the fuck is Theo calling me at this hour?