ḾṎᕍ⁅ᖇṈ ℄Ṏv⁅ | The Lost Boys

ᏨᏲᾀᑬt⁅ᖇ tᏔ⁅Ṉtẙ-ᖴḭv⁅

I couldn't run to the bathroom fast enough. The invisible layer of grime which coated me was slowly suffocating me. Hastily, I strip myself of my borrowed clothes. They'd need to be burned. There was no way I could keep them, not with the amount of blood-encrusted in the fabric.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection, and the lump in my throat hardened. I'm translucent—just like I had been when the boys showed me back in the cave. Their reflections were nonexistent, but I was see-through.

Seeing it now only solidified what had happened.

I clamp my hand over my mouth, but it was too late. I ran to the toilet and puked. Nothing came up—I hadn't eaten anything in days, but it didn't matter. I kept heaving until my chest was bruised from hugging the bowl too tightly.

I'd come close to killing someone tonight. Actually killing someone. And—at the moment—I hadn't felt bad about it.

I fell to the side, resting my head against the toilet seat. I didn't want to think about how gross it was. I'd done far worse tonight alone.

How did everything get so twisted?

The boys—Paul, David, Marko, Dwayne—weren't bad guys. They were kind and sweet, and they wanted to care for me.

And they murdered a group of innocents in front of me. They force-fed me blood for three nights straight, clouding my judgment, distracting me with sex. They made me too dumb to think for myself. They made me pliant to their will.

Was any of it real? Had I actually felt something for them? I couldn't tell. The earlier effects of David's blood left me hazy. For all I knew, it was influencing my every decision.

I lifted my head just enough to eye my bracelet. I knew I should take it off—throw it away, flush it, smash it—but I didn't want to. Maybe it was fucked up of me, but I wasn't ready.

I sat on the cold, tile floor for the longest time before working up the courage to shower. I needed to scrub myself clean—of that bloodbath, of the boys.

I turned on the water, waiting until I saw steam before climbing in. I stepped in, directly into the stream, letting it hit me face full-on like the water would somehow clean my mind. And then, I screamed.

Hastily, I jerked the knob towards the cold, waiting for the burn to cease, but it didn't. The water was freezing cold, and yet I felt like I was melting alive.

I leaped from the shower, barely having time to wrap a towel around myself before the door was flung open. Sam and Michael stood there, eyes wide, searching for any sign of danger.

"Why did you scream?"

I look all over myself for any sign of what I felt—some kind of burn or melted skin or something. But there wasn't anything. My skin looked normal.

"The water."

"What about the water?"

"I don't know! It burned me!"

Sam frowned. "Did you have it on really hot?"

"No—I don't think so?"

Michael frowned. He reached into the still-running shower and jerked back, clutching his hand. "Jesus!"

"What?!"

"It's like acid or something."

Sam walks in and throws the shower curtain back.

"Sammy, don't—!"

He sticks his hand in and...

"It's fine," he says. "Maybe a little warm for my tastes but nothing to freak out about, you babies." He reaches in and turns the knob. "Try it now."

You and Michael share a look.

"You do it."

"It's your shower!"

"And your the man."

Michael makes a face. Gotcha. I stick my tongue out.

Reluctantly, he puts his hand under the stream. "Shit!"

He jerks it away, shaking the water off. For a split second, his skin is bright red.

I hold myself a little tighter. "What is it—do you think some kind of acid got into the pipes?"

"Acid that only affects you two?" Sam points out.

"I don't know." Michael shoots me a nasty look. "Just—forget about it and put some damn clothes on."