Filed To Story: Pretty Poisoned Novel by Elle Mitchell
“Am I allowed to miss him?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says. “Your feelings are your own. It’s okay to miss what you thought was real as long as you know the difference now and remain rooted in reality.”
I shake my head. “I miss Luca. He loved me. He was the first person who ever took care of me, and he always smiled. He wanted to get married, and he wasn’t lying. And he couldn’t sleep alone. Sometimes, I think about thatI wonder what Declan did with his body, and I hope he was cremated because if he wasn’t, then that means he’s in the ground somewhere eternally sleeping alone. It makes me want to find the hole and crawl inside. I don’t want him to be alone like me.”
“I find it interesting you say he’s the first person who ever took care of you. What about your family?” Dr. Miller asks.
I shrug. “How long have you known me? I said what I said.”
“And you acknowledged that Luca is dead on your own. From what I understand, that’s been hard for you; that’s a big step.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, he would never leave me. He’s dead.”
“Okay, well, our time is up. But I am looking forward to hearing about how your job search is going during our next session; hopefully, you’ll have good news for me. And Teagan, I’m going to ask you to do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Find things you enjoyconstructive ways you can fill your timethen do those things, and report back.”
Sad naps and pho?
I superficially agree before disconnecting the call.
Then, I go downstairs, make some popcorn, and start streaming The Omen movies just as the sky darkens and the ever-rare SoCal summer rainstorm rolls in. It’s exactly the kind of day I used to enjoy back when I enjoyed things.
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It’s been a while since I’ve been alone in an old house like this in the dark, at night. That’s all it is. That, and I’m losing my mind.
Every creak, every phantom footstep has my hair standing on end. For the tenth time, I pause the television and scan the first floor.
Get your shit together, Teagan. I’m pretty sure there’s a word for what’s happening to me, and it’s not one I want to say aloud.
I go to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of wine, and grab a butcher knife from the counter. Just in case.
When I sink back into the couch and press play, I see it: a glint of gold, a sliver of a mask, a mostly obscured figure standing in the dark hallway. A chill runs up my spine as I turn in that direction. But there’s nothing.
Frustrated, I push play again. And again, I hear footsteps coming from that back hallway. I grab the remote and turn up the volume, refusing to look again. But then the scene on the screen shifts from day to night, and there it isthe mask reflecting off the lower left corner. It’s almost like the hallucination sees me see it, too, because as I watch, he cocks his head to the side, slowly emerging from behind the doorframe.
I squeeze my eyes shut and will him away just like I did at Rancho San Flores. It always worked, but it doesn’t this time.
Seething, I grab the knife and stomp toward the hallway. “You want something, mother fucker? Bring any kiwi this time?”
But when I turn the corner, no one is there. I tear apart that back hallway, flipping on all the lights, throwing back the shower curtain in the bathroom and even turning out the drawers in the guest room, as if there could be an actual human in there. The windows are all locked, which can only be done from the inside. No one slipped through them.
No one is here.
“Fuck!” I scream. I stab the guest room pillow over and over, sending feathers flying through the air. In my mind, I’m in a bathroom in Dallas, and it isn’t feathersit’s blood splattering against my face, and I want more. More blood pooling on and around the body. More heat pooling between my legs.
I sink onto the floor beside the bed, drop my head in my hands, and scream again. “Fuck you! Fuck you, Declan De Rossi! Fuck you for breaking my fucking brain.”
I stay like that for a while before I realize I’ll need to clean this up and get rid of the evidence. I grab the vacuum and suck up all the feathers, and then dump its contents and the remains of the pillow into the garbage can at the end of the driveway.
And when I get back into the house, there it is again: half of a gold skull face watching me from that darkened hallway.
“Why don’t you just come out here and watch the movie?” I ask the delusion. “I’m getting bored with this now.”
When he doesn’t budge and refuses to dissipate, I turn my attention back to the television, choosing to ignore it. But every time the screen darkens between scenes, I see that mask in the reflection.
This shit’s getting old.
I check the time and then open a dating website on my phone, surprised I still remember my password. And twenty minutes later, I’ve got some guy on the way to my parents’ house. It’s against the rules, but I only have these hallucinations when I’m alone, and it’s not like I have a friend I can call. Besides, I’m drunk and horny and technically, my therapist only advised me against anonymous sex.
My first name is on the profile. I don’t see the issue.
I waste no time once Max, 25, a surfer-looking guy from Huntington Beach gets to the door. I mean, what am I going to do? Tell him about myself?
I don’t fucking think so.
I pull him into the dark room by the waistband of his jeans and guide him over to the sofa. I climb on top of him, straddling his waist, and bring my mouth to his. He’s overeager, messy. There’s too much tongue and saliva, but his chest is hard and so is his cock, and it’s been far too long since I’ve rode one, too long since I’ve felt someone else’s hands on my body. I roll my hips over the hard ridge beneath me and shudder with pleasure.
Yeah, it’s been too long.
Max grabs the hemline of my shirt, and, after he pulls it over my head, my eyes dart to the darkened television screen. No mask in its reflection, no silhouette of a man partially obscured in the hallway.
It worked.
I shrug off my bra and free his cock from his jeans. He’s already leaking precum when I pump it in my hands. Tossing my hair over my shoulders, I prepare to take him in my mouth.
“Holy shit,” he says, grabbing me by my shoulder to stop me.
“What?”
God, please don’t tell me this one is going to come already. He better at least get me off.
“You’re that freak, aren’t you?”
My heart sinks. “What?”
“That fucking groupie freak,” he says. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his cell phone, and I realize what he’s doinghe’s trying to take a picture of my chest so he can tell everyone he hooked up with that freak.
I grab the phone from his hand before he gets the chance and throw it hard against the wall. “Get out!” I scream, scrambling for my shirt. “Get the fuck out of my house!”
“What the fuck?” Crossing the room, he picks his phone up from the floor. “You broke my phone, you psycho bitch!”
“What’d you just call me?” I ask calmly. On the inside, I’m not calm at all. I grab the butcher knife from the side table and clutch it in my fist. He sees it but calls my bluff.
“I said you’re a fucking psychopath Frankenstein-looking bitch. And you’re going to pay for my fucking phone.”
I smile, turning the knife over in my hand. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
I cross the room in three strides, kicking the door shut as soon as he pulls it open and grabbing him by his hair. I hold the knife just under his chin.
“I just wanted to get fucked, Max, but you know what? This is going to be so much more satisfying.” I get off a little bit on the paradox of it, thinking of how many women worry about scenarios exactly like this anytime they go home with a man they don’t know. But men like Max never walk into the home of a girl like me and worry it might be the last thing they do. I lean in, pressing my lips to his ear. “I like the sound it makes when the knife goes in,” I whisper. “It’s been too long.”
Max elbows me in the stomach hard enough to get free of my grip, and the knife slices the base of his throat in the process. It’s superficial, nothing deep or detrimental, but it bleeds, pooling at the collar of his t-shirt. He brings his hand to his throat, covering it.
Now between him and the door, when I lunge for him again, he runs through the back of the house, looking for another exit. I turn the corner, chasing him down that back hallway, but I’m stopped by strong hands tightening around my wrists and pinning me against the wall. He slams my right hand against the wall until I finally release the knife, and it falls to the ground.
“Stupid fucking girl,” Bone Saw grumbles.
“Get off of me!” I shout.
He’s not real, I remind myself. But my wrists hurt, and the knuckles on my right hand burn from where they scraped against the plaster, and now I’m not so sure. I squeeze my eyes shut, attempting to force the hallucination back into whatever dark corner of my mind he crawled out of.
New Book: Returned To Make Them Pay
On her wedding anniversary, Alicia is drugged and stumbles into the wrong room—straight into the arms of the powerful Caden Ward, a man rumored never to touch women. Their night of passion shocks even him, especially when he discovers she’s still a virgin after two years of marriage to Joshua Yates.