Despite having a determined, no-bullshit personality, I’m terrified of death. For me, death is the look in the monster’s eyes when he silenced me forever.
Death is living in the dark for eternity.
I’ve been holding on to life with broken fingernails and desperate, cracked hope, just to assure myself that I’m still alive.
And yet every night, when I’m alone in my room, the rancid breath of death rasps at the back of my neck to announce the presence of the monster. His groans and growls echo from the corner like a trapped animal that’s waiting for me to go to the bathroom so he can ambush me.
It’s why I don’t like being alone for long. One problem, though. I’m not exactly a social person. I don’t get off on nightlife or drunk crowds who are just ‘out to have fun.’ I’m never out to have fun. I’m usually out to survive.
That’s why I visit my brother and cousins, go out with them, or cling to poor Maya like an annoying second skin.
I did all of the above today, but none of it managed to push away the darkness of the night or scare the monster back into its hideous cave.
I ended up performing a thousand routines just so I’d be able to fall asleep peacefully.
It started with meditation and a foot bath to help blood circulation, and then it was playing online chess, followed by finishing my entire school project.
It’s one in the morning, and there’s no sign of drowsiness. Not that my method is bulletproof, but I can only hope that when I do fall asleep, I won’t have a nightmare about his hideous face.
I lie on my back and stare at the artificial stars adorning the ceiling. They’d look better in the dark, but I’d rather lock myself up in an asylum than turn off the lights at night.
My options are to toss and turn all night or go ruin Maya’s beauty sleep again. But considering I’ve been overdoing that the past week, I go with the former.
Flipping to my right, I retrieve my phone, and my finger hovers over Mom’s number, but then I think better of it and shake my head.
She’s still asking me about the real reason I called the last time and if there’s anything she can do to help.
If I do that again, Dad will definitely fly here to ship my ass back to New York.
So I open Instagram and check the comments from my last post.
the.maya.sokolov: Slay, queen.
killian.carson: Superior genes show.
gareth-carson: I’m here for Kill and Niko making fools out of themselves.
nikolai_sokolov: The scary guy in the pic who looks ready to snap some necks is me. Think about that before touching my baby sisters.
I smile to myself. He’s extra as hell and the worst part is that he doesn’t think he is.
I also spot comments from Bran and my recent friend from the Elites, Remi. Despite being a certified clown, he’s fun to talk to. It helps that he turns everything into a joke.
lord-remington-astor: Pretty lady with an even more beautiful personality.
brandon-king: Beautiful.
I like Bran’s comment and hit the little icon of his profile. My stomach clenches in uncomfortable intervals when I see the last picture Bran posted captioned Chelsea, anyone?
It’s a group picture in the Elites’ mansion, where they seem to be watching European football and enjoying some food. I recognize the familiar faces, namely Glyn, Killian’s girlfriend, Cecily, whom I met once when Maya was being unreasonable, and, of course, Bran and Remi.
I’m not familiar with the blonde girl who’s scowling at her food as a tall, dark, and handsome guy stands beside her, smiling at the camera.
The reason for my stomach acting out is none other than Landon, who’s grabbing Remi by the shoulder and pointing at the TV.
I zoom in on the picture to get a better look at him. He’s laughing, seeming to almost match Remi’s enthusiasm.
Almost.
Because where Remi seems genuinely excited, Landon is merely mirroring him. I’ve seen Killian do that often in the past, especially when he was younger. Since emotions don’t come from inside him, he’s perfected the art of emulating those around him, namely Gareth and Nikolai.
Landon is the same.
Maybe it has to do with the fact that I grew up in the presence of someone with antisocial behavior, but I can see the show he’s putting on so clearly.
It might also have to do with the fact that I haven’t been able to purge the asshole out of my thoughts ever since he flung through my walls and touched a part of me that’s been dormant.
I don’t know what came over me that day. I blame it on the haunted gothic vibe of the art studio dedicated to imperfections. But most of all, I blame it on the man himself.