Before the Ghostface killings and the fear that gripped Woodsboro, there was a friendship that could have changed everything. Mo and Billy were inseparable as kids-exploring the woods, sharing secrets, and bonding over a love for horror movies. But...
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The next day, I was back in the whirl of the modeling world. The studio buzzed with activity as models prepped for their turns on the runway. I was lost in the routine, adjusting my makeup and smoothing out my outfit, trying to focus on the work at hand.
Jessica, leaned in as I was getting ready and sneered, "You're really going to wear that? I thought models had standards."
I bit my tongue, refusing to let her words get under my skin. I had dealt with worse, and Jessica's petty comments weren't worth my energy. But as she strutted away, I felt a familiar knot of frustration tighten in my chest. I excused myself from the main area and slipped into the dressing room to escape the prying eyes and sharp tongues.
The dressing room was quiet, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound. I let out a deep breath, trying to center myself. As I turned around, I froze. Billy was standing in the corner, looking more mature than I remembered. His once-boyish face was now adorned with a subtle mustache, and his presence felt heavier, more intense.
His eyes locked onto mine, and a chilling familiarity washed over me. "Is she bothering you?" he asked, his voice low and thick with an unnerving edge. His wide eyes seemed to devour every detail, revealing an obsessive intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my composure. "Billy," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. "What are you doing here?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he took a step closer, his gaze never wavering. "I heard about the way some people treat you here," he said, a hint of something dark in his voice. "I thought I'd come and see for myself."
There was a strange mix of concern and menace in his tone, and it unsettled me. His obsession was palpable, his eyes flicking over me as if assessing every inch, every detail. It was as if he was trying to piece together a puzzle, one that included me at its center.
I took a step back, my heart racing. "I don't need your help, Billy," I said, trying to assert some control over the situation. "I can handle it."
Billy's expression shifted slightly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "You know," he said, taking another step toward me, "I've been watching you for a while. I see the way you deal with things, how you push through."
The way he spoke made my skin crawl, the old memories of fear and violence crashing into my present. I tried to remind myself that he was just another person in this chaotic world, but the darkness that lingered in his gaze made that hard to believe.
"Billy, why are you really here?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts. "What do you want?"
He looked almost hurt by the question, his eyes widening with a feigned innocence. "I just wanted to see if you were okay," he said softly, but there was an edge to his voice that hinted at something far more sinister.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. The room felt suddenly too small, the air thick with tension. I had to remind myself that I was stronger now, that I could face this twisted version of the past without falling apart.
Before I could respond, Billy's phone buzzed, and he glanced at it, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "Seems like I'm needed elsewhere," he said, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer. "But remember, if you need anything, just let me know."
With that, he turned and left the dressing room, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts. I slumped against the wall, trying to shake off the lingering unease. Billy's presence had been a stark reminder of the danger that still lurked in the shadows of my life, a ghost of the past that refused to stay buried.
The runway lights blazed, a spotlight illuminating my every step as I emerged from the backstage area. The crowd's applause was a distant roar, a background noise to the tight coil of tension in my chest. I walked with purpose, the echo of my heels resonating in the cavernous space. My head was high, but my mind was racing with the remnants of yesterday's chaos and the confrontation with Billy.
As I reached the end of the runway, I took a moment to pivot and watch Jessica. She was preparing to make her entrance, her demeanor as poised and self-assured as ever. I could see the confidence in her stride, the way she carried herself with that all-too-familiar air of superiority. The very sight of her sent a surge of irritation through me, a reminder of the bitter exchange we'd had earlier.
Jessica started her walk, emerging from the backstage area with a practiced elegance. Her movements were fluid, almost mocking in their grace. She didn't notice me, her attention fixed ahead, her focus on the crowd. I saw my opportunity.
I took a deep breath and turned around to face the runway. My pace slowed as I waited for the right moment. When Jessica was within a few steps of me, I turned my head slightly, catching her eye with a smirk. The brief eye contact was enough to know she had seen me, and with that, I prepared for my act.
As Jessica walked past, I took deliberate, slow steps back towards the center of the runway. My shoulder angled just so, I bumped into hers with a forceful nudge. It was intentional, a jolt meant to disrupt her perfect composure. The contact sent her stumbling, her elegant stride faltering as she lost her balance.
The gasp from the audience was almost deafening, the cameras flashing rapidly as they captured the moment. Jessica's fall was almost graceful in its execution, a slow-motion tumble that drew a mixture of sympathy and surprise from the crowd. She landed hard, the sound of her body hitting the runway echoed through the room.
I stood over her, the satisfaction of the moment mingling with a tight knot of guilt. I watched as she scrambled to regain her footing, her face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and anger. Her eyes locked onto mine, a flash of defiance mingling with hurt.
Without giving her a second glance, I turned back around and resumed my walk down the runway. The crowd's reaction was a blur, the applause and cheers blending into a single, chaotic noise. Each step felt like a triumph and a release, a way to channel all the frustration that had built up inside me.
The remainder of my walk was a blur of flashing lights and clapping hands. My movements were deliberate and controlled, each step a reminder of my own strength and resilience. I held my head high, pushing through the swirl of emotions that had accompanied the confrontation with Jessica.
As I reached the end of the runway and made my way backstage, I could hear the murmurs and whispers of the crowd, their reaction still echoing in my ears. The runway had been my battleground, and in that moment, I had reclaimed a small piece of power that had been slipping through my fingers.
The backstage area was a whirlwind of activity as the show continued, but my mind was elsewhere. I had made a statement, and as I peeled off my runway outfit and prepared for the next phase of the show, I couldn't shake the feeling that the confrontation with Jessica was only a small part of the larger battle I was fighting within myself.
