Fatum

Chapter 1

TW: GORE

I've come to the conclusion that it was my college finals that killed me—and not my stupidity.

       Sure, since I was a child, I was taught not to talk to strangers—especially strange white men. But I would not have been walking in below-freezing weather through the Boston Commons if it weren't for my stupid and ridiculous Philosophy 101 final. I would not have run into that crazy old man on my way to buy some much-needed sushi. I would not have found myself being sacrificed to some daemon lords if my Philosophy professor decided to drop my essay—a fifteen-page essay, to be exact.

    So, ultimately, it's Dr. Charles' fault and not mine.

    Fuck you, Daniel Charles.

. . .

A Few Hours Earlier

I slam my computer shut.

    The blank Word doc was taunting me for the past forty minutes. If continued to stare at the white iridescent screen, my Mac would fly across the room.

    I cradle my head as curses spew from my mouth.

    "Stupid freakin' Daniel Charles! What absolute idiot would want students to talk about Kant for fifteen pages?"

    I stand and pace in a circle.

    "I can describe Kant in two words: a misogynistic asshole!"

    "You know that's three words."

    My head snaps to my roommate Jessica sitting on her bed and painting her nails bright pink. I can describe her with two words as well: selfish bitch. I've been her roommate for almost four months, and—as a kind and patient person—I've never wanted to strangle someone more. Boys are over constantly, and I walked on her "private excursions" twice. I swore to myself that if I saw her in MY bed with a boy one more time, I would lock her out—and I meant it; I wouldn't wuss out this time.

    That's not even the worst thing about her: Jessica snores—like my dad after he eats some ice cream. Like a lion on steroids—if that makes any sense.

My sanity is slipping through my fingers.

    "What?" I whisper.

    Jessica rolls her blue eyes—oh, and yes, she is a fake blonde too. "You described Dr. Charles with three words, Orella. 'A' counts as a word."

    I can't bring myself to respond.

    She chuckles. "I thought you were an English major. Maybe I should switch majors," she genuinely thought for a moment, "I always wanted to write a memoir. Maybe you could edit it. You seem to suck at grammar, though."

    Jessica has changed her major four times—a feat in and of itself.

    "Whatever," I sighed. I walk over to my wooden closet and open it. "I'm going to Sushi Time," I say as I grab my massive winter coat. Boston in December is a hellscape. "You want anything?"

    "Nah, I'm trying to shed a few pounds. Something you could try," she adds.

    I ignore her—it's not the first time Jessica has commented on my body. I remind myself of what my therapist says:

Jessica only says those things because she's jealous.

I don't believe it, but I say it anyway.

"Thanks for the advice, again," I smile at her.

Jessica rolls her eyes in disgust.

I couldn't care less.

I walk toward the door; as I open it, I wave goodbye to my roommate.

I could literally hear her eyes rolling.

       Funny that's the last thing she ever did to me.

. . .

When I stepped out of my dorm, Boston's frigid wind greeted me. It is unusually cold and windy this Sunday night—a Nor'easter is expected to hit soon. Great.

It was your choice to go to school in Boston, I scold myself.

I walk through a labyrinth of cobblestone streets. My cheeks sting from windburn; tears freeze against my face.

Only a handful of people dared to venture outside, so the city of Boston seemed like a ghost town.

I should have noticed the signs.

The grand gates of the Boston Commons finally come into view. I race across the street and enter a familiar sanctuary. Before arriving in Boston, I lived in a rural town enveloped by woods. Nature was my second home and something I took for granted until I found myself surrounded by honking cars and tall glass buildings. Thankfully, my college is a quick walk away from the Commons, and my sanity has remained—somewhat—intact because of the park.

A smile spreads across my face as I see the bright green, red, and white light shine in countless trees. Christmas time in Boston is movie-like. Buildings don garlands and festive wreaths. Beautiful stars hang above the traffic-crammed streets. I truly feel like I'm in a Hallmark movie while roaming the city.

I terribly miss the feeling.

The further I venture into the Commons, the fewer streetlights illuminate the path. I don't worry: it's too cold out for robbers and weirdos to go lurking about. I also have my handy dandy pepper spray.

I'm perfectly safe.

I hear a rustle of leaves to my left.

I turn to the sound and see a doubled-over figure. The faint light of a faraway streetlamp reveals long, white, and dirty hair. Ripped and worn clothes wrapped around the emaciated body. I can hear ragged breaths emanating from the figure.

Now, I could have walked away, bought my sushi, and come face to face with my Philosophy essay. I could have returned to Jessica hooking up with another boy—on, guess it, my bed—and kicked her out of the room. I could have done a lot of things that would have allowed me to live a longer life on Earth.

        Instead, I walk toward the figure with altruistic intent.

"Excuse me," I say gently, "are you ok? Do you need any help?"

Silence responds to my questions.

I should have turned back then and walked away.

I didn't.

I inched closer.

"I can take you to Mass General. They can take care of you. Give you some warm clothes and some fresh food."

The figure struggled to their feet. Their head slowly turned to face me.

Three things happened at once.

I saw the figure's—a man—eyes, or the ghost them. Dark holes pierced where his eyes should have been, and blood dripped down his pallid skin.

I screamed out loud and went to grab my pepper spray—though, now thinking about it, I doubt it would have helped.

The man smiled and swung a wooden bat. It crashed against my skull, and all I knew became a black void of nothingness.

Then, I woke up to find myself—bound with rope—in the middle of a pentagram.

Damn you, Daniel Charles, and your stupid essay.

A/N: HERE'S THE FIRST CHAPTER! YAY! I hope y'all liked it! Please let me know where I can improve! ;3