[Warning: This chapter contains disturbing thoughts and implied violence. Peter’s mind is not a safe place. Proceed accordingly.]

  October 31, 2016

  6 years later

  Age 17

  “Do you know why… Amy? Do you know why you’re in this position?”

  Amy is my girlfriend.

  “You’re in this situation because you hurt me. You hurt my feelings, Amy.”

  I started dating Amy a month ago. She reminded me of my mother. Same eyes. Same way they flicker when they’re scared.

  “No no no, don’t cry, baby. I can’t see those beautiful eyes.”

  I caught Amy eyeing her next-door neighbor. I need to remind her who she belongs to. I grab my forceps from the bed where she’s strapped down.

  “Don’t worry, they’re sanitized.”

  One hand holds her still. The other moves with precision. I don’t need to see what I’m doing—I’ve rehearsed this in my head a hundred times. The pressure builds. Her cries hit that perfect pitch, the one that makes my skin prickle with joy.

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  There’s a moment—just a moment—where everything goes quiet. Then a sound. A wet, delicate snap.

  I hold it in my hand. Still warm. Still hers. Still looking at me like she used to.

  “Finally. Now I have what I want. Thank you, Amy.”

  I kiss her forehead. She’s gone quiet. Maybe she passed out. The echo of that sound still rings in my ears. God, I love her.

  What do I do with her now? Maybe hang her upside down and drain her. Mom would be so proud. Following her story’s character.

  I walk over to a mason jar filled with solution and drop my prize in. Now we’ll be together forever, Amy.

  I live in a warehouse. In a nice secluded area. Far enough where screams won’t reach.

  ---

  Being 17 means I get to go to high school.

  My girlfriend—currently resting in my bunker—would be so proud. I found the place while burying her dog. I may or might of hit it. Accident or not… I’m not heartless. A dog deserves a proper burial.

  Her parents were kind enough to help me enroll after I told them about the tragic car crash that took my own parents. People are so generous when you give them the right story.

  Now I get to be around so many new people. Friends, they call them. What even are friends? What do you do with friends?

  ---

  Today I have math with Ms. Kathy. She’s blonde. Pretty. Long hair like a curtain. I wonder what she’d look like if I painted the walls with her.

  I imagine it: the pencil in my hand, sliding into her ear like a key into a lock. Or maybe the protractor—sharp enough if you angle it right. Her golden hair would look divine streaked with red.

  Maybe I’d do it in front of everyone. A performance piece. My introduction. They’d remember me. They’d clap.

  “Peter?”

  “Yes, Ms. Kathy.”

  I want to hurt her.

  “Come up to the board and solve this equation.”

  Perfect. I can get close. See the pulse in her neck.

  I walk up, take the chalk from her hand. Our fingers brush.

  I could snap them. One by one.

  “Peter…”

  I love the way she says my name. Like it’s normal. Like I’m normal.

  I want her to scream it. Not in fear—no, in disbelief. In betrayal.

  “Peter!”

  I blink. The classroom returns.

  “Are you okay? Your name’s being called. You need to go to the office.”

  Buzz. Killed.