ASSHOLES | scream au

11. halloween attack

Amber shifted uncomfortably in her seat, rubbing her hands together more anxiously. The sterile smell of the room, the faint hum of the air conditioner, and the ticking clock on the wall all felt suffocating. A full year had passed since everything went down at the Macher house, and yet, the memories clung to her like a second skin. Her parents, hesitant but ultimately relieved, allowed her to move to New York with the Carpenters. She and Tara had always dreamed of attending Blackmore University together, and with Amber now old enough to live on her own, the timing felt right. But things weren't as easy as she'd hoped.

Sam had been insistent about therapy. Amber had resisted at first—she didn't need someone prying into her head—but Sam didn't back down. And Amber knew, deep down, that the nightmares weren't going away on their own.

Ms. Howard crossed her legs and leaned forward slightly, her expression calm and encouraging. "Sam mentioned the nightmares have been frequent," the therapist said softly. "How vivid are they? Can you walk me through what you experience?"

Amber exhaled sharply through her nose, glancing down at her hands again. The scar on her palm from that night was still visible, a constant reminder. "They're... pretty vivid," she admitted. "Like, I can feel things. Smell things. The blood... it's always fresh. It's like I'm back there, in the Macher house, and I can't get out. Sometimes it's Wes coming after me again, other times it's Liv on fire, screaming." She clenched her hands into fists. "I wake up, and for a second, I still smell the smoke. I still hear them."

Ms. Howard nodded, jotting down a few notes on her pad. "It sounds like these nightmares are recreations of the trauma you experienced. You're not just dreaming about what happened—you're reliving it. Have these nightmares been affecting your relationships? Maybe with Tara or Sam?"

Amber shrugged, but the tightness in her chest said more than her words ever could. "Tara tries to help. She holds me when I wake up, but... I can tell it's hard for her too. It's like I'm dragging her back there with me every time I have one of these dreams. And Sam... well, you know Sam. She thinks therapy fixes everything. Like I'm some fucking broken toy she's trying to glue back together."

"Do you feel like you're broken, Amber?" Ms. Howard asked gently.

Amber went quiet for a moment, staring at a crack in the plaster wall. "I feel like I don't know who I am anymore. After everything, it's like... I'm not just Amber. I'm the girl who stabbed someone 34 times." She laughed bitterly. "You know, not exactly 'college material.'"

Ms. Howard gave her a soft, understanding smile. "You're here because you want to move forward, even if it doesn't feel like that yet. Trauma doesn't define who you are, Amber. It's a part of your story, but it doesn't have to be the whole story."

Amber slouched back in the chair, tapping away on her phone with quick, irritated movements. "This is what people are saying," she muttered, holding it up for Ms. Howard to see. On the screen was a barrage of tweets under the hashtag #WoodsboroTruther. There were thousands of posts, some filled with conspiracy theories, others with crude jokes—and even fan art depicting her as Ghostface, blood dripping from a cartoon mask she was supposedly wearing.

Ms. Howard leaned forward to read some of the posts, her expression shifting from neutral curiosity to quiet horror.

"'Amber Freeman was the real mastermind.' 'She just pinned it on Wes.' 'Classic bait-and-switch. Look at her—total psychopath vibes.'" Amber recited from memory, voice heavy with sarcasm. "And look at this one—'It's giving Jill Roberts energy.' These fucking people."

Ms. Howard's throat bobbed as she swallowed, unable to mask the unease flickering in her eyes. "But you... you didn't," she said, her voice quieter than before.