WHEN IT ENDS || Jason McCann Fictional Story||

18.~|Long Night|~

Songs for this chapter:

Flatline
by Justin Bieber

Trampoline
by SHAED×Zayn

Breakeven
by The Script

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Alex.

Is he that much of a household name that everyone fears, and is considered dangerous? What's the worst possible thing he can do to his brother's possible girlfriend?

He killed the girl he slept with

See, being a person who adored herself so much as to being disturbingly violent towards herself and inflicting self-induced pain, I somehow managed to veer away from violence in public eyes. The fact that I'm now living around foul-play and am associated with people who live with savagery and habitual constraint on their opposition, as their pet parakeet on shoulders, does say something about the uncertainty of a person's life. There I was, a month ago, dreading my graduation day and thinking of ways to remotely flatline before the anathematized day, and expire in all my glory with a deranged laughter, and now, here I am, still alive, and breathing the same air as a slew of mafia— not indignantly.

But how do I even know it's true? How am I supposed to know that Jason isn't saying all those just to keep me away from Alex who could actually be a good friend? How is it being fair to the guy, without even listening his side?

You're suspecting Jason over someone you haven't even met

I would meet this 'someone' only if he gives me any chance. I'm not going to jump into conclusions about the guy when I've barely seen him, much less know what he's capable of.

"We're here," Regan announces as she pulls up in front of the mansion, all dark in the depth of a spooky thick vegetation.

The drive here was pretty long since they had to drive through the city and not use the waterway to erase their tracks. All throughout the car ride, I kept looking out— thoughts of Jason hoarding his brother disheveling my rational chain of thoughts— fumbling with my fingers, biting my fingernails, drumming my thighs, drying the drops forming on the pad of my palms from edginess on my thighs— then again, fumbling, biting, drumming and drying my perspiring palms. Music used to be a conventional approach to salve my willies, and block out my unnecessary thoughts and the commotion in the house— I'd dance about, negligent to the customary fuss from neighbours, and let the beats reign my limbic movement. That usually worked better than any other methods I'd taken for distraction— except of course, dousing myself with readables.

However, none of the two in charge, apparently, even bothered to ask me about turning on the radio.

I can expect that from Regan, but why was Danielle being so gloomy and cold?

The music would've really helped, you know. I wasn't sure what to do, other than trying not to think too much about this brother in spotlight. They pronounced his name every time as though the very combination of letters in his name was setting their tongue ablaze and made bile rise up their throat at the same time. Albeit I'm not an expert in biology— God knows how much I fret over my academic records in the subject— but I know this much that if your vomit-slurry is causing inflammation in your buccal cavity, you must've swallowed something really nauseating and rancid for breakfast. And in this case, assumably, Regan and Danielle have seen those nasties happening with this Alex, that the guy arouses such strong loathsome gag reflex in these girls.