Carrie
I put on my pajamas and turn the news back on, attempting to drown out my parents at this point.
“Our top story tonight is the brutal killing of several students of the graduating class of Westwick Preparatory Academy, as the last injured girl died overnight in Johnson Memorial Hospital. Only one girl, Carrie Winters, survived, unharmed.” The anchorwoman turns to face the camera before her desk and dives into the story.
Mother was only quiet long enough to hear my name on the news. She does a little excited shake of her fists and turns back to me. “Ava Lang is going to be here in the morning, they wanted to do the interview from your bedroom so it is more personal.” Sitting on the bed, my mother glances around and shakes her head at my bedroom. Despite every touch she’s put into this room, I guess she figures it’ll need an upgrade to be the survivor of a mass murder bedroom she hopes to be on the news. “They don’t normally pay their guests, but we were able to get a large sum in exchange for exclusivity.” Standing now, my mother puts her hand on top of my head and pats. “So sorry about Laurel, I know you just went to her birthday party.”
I say nothing. I didn’t care about Laurel. I visited her and waited to feel something, and yet…nothing. I left. I went home from the hospital last night and she died the next day. Still, I feel nothing about it.
I don’t think I’m in shock. The most shocking part of this whole ordeal is how I can’t seem to manage to feel sorry for any of those wretched kids I went to school with.
“I think we can snag a reality show.” She pulls her hand back and points. “I didn’t take the first agents offer, and instead I let the second agent start a bidding war. We have three TV networks and five internet companies —"
“Stop, Mother, no!” I can’t listen to this anymore. “I am not going to profit from this, I’m not going to take money for interviews or do reality shows and become famous because so many people were murdered.” The words roll out of me with force. I didn’t care about those people, but I don’t feel cold enough to do what my mother is suggesting. That feels disgusting to me.
“You won’t be getting the money, no problem,” my father interjects. He grabs my arm, gripping it so tightly that I know I’m going to have bruises. “You are an ungrateful little brat. I am sick of listening to you shit on your mother’s hard work.” He pulls me up off the bed and shoves me into the wall, still holding my arm so tightly that my eyes are watering. “We pay for the best school, buy you everything so you can fit in, force everyone to include you in their social calendars. You have a car, live in a gorgeous home, and you are just a little whiny bitch.” He pushes my arm back, slamming me against the wall again and then releasing me.
I grab my arm and rub where he squeezed me, feeling the ache. “I never asked for any of this.” I look to my mother, nonplussed by my father’s abuse. “Both of you get out.” My voice is shaking, and I don’t want to cry, but I can’t wait for college.
My father walks back up to me and slaps me. “You’ll do this interview, and finally be useful to this family. Or you better figure out how to pay for college!”
I nod, touching my face where he slapped me. But I don’t want to cry and let them think I’m still sad over the hit Physical abuse hardly feels like much of an escalation after the mental abuse they’ve made me endure for years. At least we all agree that I don’t belong in this family.
My father puts his arm around my mother like she’s been brutalized in some way, and they leave.
I change out of my pajamas, pack a quick bag, and grab all of the cash I have from allowances that my mother pushed on me for the past several forced social engagements my mother has sent me on. Pulling out my phone, I call a car service and I step outside. My parents are drinking and discussing the deals they want to make for telling “our story,” as I hear them refer to this ordeal. They don’t notice me slip outside.
I don’t want to drive the car they bought me. They stopped letting me use it when I quit staying at the parties they wanted to me attend, and I don’t need them to find me. I’ll pay for the car service in cash and stay in a hotel. I’m eighteen and I don’t have to stay in their house or accept anything from them anymore. I can figure it out. Right now, I just want to get away.
I begin thinking about the logistics of where I’ll get a job, where I’ll live when the cash for a hotel isn’t going to work for me anymore. I run my fingers over Jeremy Burke’s coat, one of the only things I wanted to bring with me. I like the way the fabric feels. I stop planning for a moment and imagine seeing him again. Maybe I’ll go back to that hotel bar when I have a job, when I’m free. Maybe I’ll have an apartment and ask him to come back one night.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of rubber wheels on the pavement, the hum of an engine. That car got here fast. I open the door, slipping into the leather seat with a deep breath. I am so grateful to get away from parents.
“I hope you liked your graduation present,” a familiar voice cuts through my thoughts.
Fire curls under my skin and my breathing goes shallow.
Jeremy.
He looks back from the driver’s seat and I see those familiar green eyes from the hotel, from the murders on the beach. It was him. It’s him. My fingers squeeze around his coat, one of the only things I bothered to bring.
The car takes off and I reach for the door anyway, but I let go of the handle before I try it. I should be afraid. I should want to get away.
If he wanted to kill me, wouldn’t he have already done so? Tears well up in my eyes. I’m finally afraid. Jeremy admits to killing my classmates and now he’s taking me.
And I realize he came so fast, it didn’t matter that I called the car service. One way or another, he was going to get me.
So what happens now that I’m his?