Reality Bit Me 🦇 (Novella)

One

My sister's CR-V was midnight black, dulled by layers of pollen and road dust, but mostly intact—except for the brutal scrapes that stretched across both doors like claw marks. They weren't surface scratches. These were deep, jagged gouges, like something had tried to dig its way out while screaming. One headlight flickered with an anxious pulse, casting sharp, twitchy flashes onto the freshly watered pavement. Every few seconds, it caught the edge of a reflective street sign or a low-hanging tree limb, throwing it into eerie relief like something about to leap.

Inside, the car was a different war zone. The leather seats were torn open in uneven, almost surgical gashes, the foam stuffing spilling out like viscera. Something with nails—real ones—had shredded them from the inside out. The air smelled like too many clashing memories: sugary body spray, greasy burger wrappers, and underneath it all—something cold, metallic, and coppery. Blood, maybe. Or just fear, hanging in the air like smoke after a house fire.

I was jammed in the back seat, half-suffocating between Hannah's gym bag, which reeked like socks, mildew, and athletic failure, and a sticky cup holder crusted over with dried orange soda. Flies buzzed near it like they owned the place. I shoved two chicken tenders into my mouth without thinking, chewing like a starving raccoon that had just found a trash can buffet. My braces turned the whole experience into medieval torture—shards of fried batter wedged between wires, stabbing my cheeks with every bite.

Outside, the world passed by in slow, artificial cheer.

It was Spring in the suburbs, which meant everything was blooming and nothing felt real. The houses all looked like they'd been printed out of the same brochure—bright pastel facades, white columns, fake window shutters. Tulips and daffodils exploded from perfectly landscaped yards, petals twitching in the breeze like they were nervous. Porch swings creaked lazily. Wind chimes tinkled just enough to be unsettling. Somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicked and hissed, watering the same patch of grass over and over like a ritual.

We rolled to a stop in front of Jessica Summers' house.

Bright yellow siding, brown shutters, a concrete path that looked scrubbed clean with bleach. The lawn was too perfect—edges trimmed to a military fade, flower beds mulched like they were preparing for a visit from the Pope. The kind of house where something unholy could happen right behind those gauzy curtains, and no one would ever ask questions.

Hannah sat in the front seat, leaned into the visor mirror, her mouth moving with clinical focus. She traced her lips with crimson lipstick like she was drawing a blood seal. Then came the mascara—coated on so thick her lashes looked sharp enough to cut glass.

Hannah was in the front seat, leaning into the mirror, coating her lips in blood-red lipstick with military precision. She glared at me through the reflection like she could peel my skin off with her eyes. Then she went digging in her makeup bag and layered on mascara thick enough to suffocate a small animal. Her lashes looked like knives.

"People can't see me with a four-face," she said flatly, not even looking at me.

"It's 'four eyes,'" I muttered.

She scoffed, tossed her bag into the back seat, and slammed her door without another word. The cold hit instantly. I watched her hips sway up the walkway, already drawing eyes from a few stoned seniors on the porch.

I stayed behind. Pulled off my glasses. Let out a breath. Thought about maybe choking on the next chicken tender and dying right there in the backseat.

Then a loud smack hit my window.

I jumped so hard I bit my own tongue. Blood filled my mouth.

Erin.

That lunatic grinned at me through the glass, his face pressed so hard against it his nose flattened like a pancake. He slid his face up and down, fogging the window with every breath.