Fear

28

"Fear is like fire. If controlled it will help you; if uncontrolled, it will rise up and destroy you."
— John F. Milburn

This is where the Acts started to change.

No longer just the slicing of my arms, the tug of a dull scalpel across my skin — something I could brace for, learn to expect. This was different.

This was psychological. Cruel in a way I wasn't prepared for, and Tyler knew that. He didn't need to hurt me with blades anymore, he'd already drawn enough blood to last a lifetime. Now, he wanted something else.

Full control. Not just of my body, but of my mind. My reactions. My fears. Everything.

He was a puppeteer and I was his puppet.

The rules were changing, and I was already too late to catch up. Because he had found a new way in.

And this time, he didn't need to touch me at all.

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The first thing I noticed was the smell.

Thick. Coppery. Sharp. It clawed up my nose and sat at the back of my throat like rusted metal and rotting carcasses. I gagged before I even opened my eyes.

My skin stuck to the table beneath me, slick with sweat. My arms were restrained again — wrists pulled taut, forearms facing up, legs strapped down, body locked into a chair I didn't remember being placed in.

I was back in the Act Room.

And I knew even without looking up. He was there.

Standing just to my left was Tyler, dressed in a black tuxedo as always, too neat and out of place, his hair pushed back like he'd raked his hand through it a few times. He wore that classic thin smirk that said, "I have you right where I want you."

His eyes swept over me, slow and indulgent.

"Welcome back, princess," he purred, voice husky and deep. "Did you sleep well?"

I didn't answer with words. I couldn't. My mouth was dry, and the dread had already begun to curdle my stomach. I slowly shook my head, the cold sweat on my arms making me shiver involuntarily.

He chuckled and turned his back to me as he fiddled with something at the far wall to my left.

"I hope you're prepared, Emily. I've got something... really special planned for you."

Then I saw the bucket.

Sat at his feet, dented and old, the kind of thing you'd find in a janitor's closet or under a rusted sink. But it wasn't empty.

Even from where I sat, I could see the glint of red — something viscous, gelatinous, and dark.

Tyler crouched beside it, swirling the contents with a gloved finger like it was paint. He brought it up to his nose and inhaled with a theatrical sigh, eyes fluttering shut for half a second in mock ecstasy.

"You always think the worst is behind you," he said, standing and wiping his finger along the side of his trousers. "That's what I love about you, Em. That hopeful little heartbeat of yours."

He turned fully to face me now, and in his other hand, I saw something else, almost worse than the bucket: a mirror. Not a weapon, just a plain, rectangular mirror. It made no sense. And that's exactly why it scared me.

"What...?" My voice came out cracked and small, tears welling up in my eyes.

Tyler's grin widened.