Page 259 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer
“I hate you,” I sob.
He steps back, hand covering the mark.
I throw myself inside the car.
“Poppy, please.”
His voice breaks but I can’t look at him.
Can barely see.
I peel away in a scream of tires and dust, leaving him in the dark?—
Mask dangling from his hand like he just watched the only part of him that mattered disappear.
And maybe he did.
By the time I pull into my driveway, it’s like the ground beneath me isn’t even real anymore.
I don't remember the drive. Or breathing.
Only the sound of my own heartbeat—frantic, fractured—ricocheting through my chest.
I leave the keys in the ignition.
It takes everything I have just to get out of the car, to stumble up the steps, to shove open the door like the house might disappear if I don’t reach it fast enough.
Dexter barks once in the distance, but it’s just white noise in a world that’s gone quiet in all the wrong ways.
I rip the burner phone off the counter and snap it in two.
The plastic cracks sharply in my hands. I toss the pieces into the trash like they might start burning if I keep them close.
After Dexter visits his favorite potty bush, I scoop him up and head inside.
I engage every lock I installed back when I believed protection meant something.
If my head even hit the pillow, I don’t know—but somehow I made it to my room.
Slept in my clothes. Woke up wanting to burn them.
Maybe it was hours. Maybe days.
But the car is gone.
Disappeared like it was never there.
Like it could’ve just been a bad dream.
Instead, three origami cranes sit on my bedside table.
Tears burn my eyes as I fist them, Crumple them into a ball and throw them on the floor.
I should cry or scream, or punch something just to feel the pain.
But all I feel is . . . hollow.
Like whatever was left of me rotted away in the rain.
