Hickory

Max

(A/N): before we begin, I'd like to highlight the fact that the characters in this book, mainly Max, have severe mental distortions that make them different from normal people. Their internal monologue will be fucked up and does not in any way portray my feelings about certain issues, lifestyles, types of people or conditions characters may have. The purpose of this book is not only to write a gripping and thrilling obsessive-horror novel, but also to explore the psyche of those who have an extremely jaded and distorted view of the world and the people living in it.

I see you from across the room. You're beautiful. You're perfect. You look sad. No, no, that's not the right word for it. Pessimistically bored. Psychology isn't your thing, is it Kadence? I mean sure, you're keeping up in the classes, following the lessons. But this isn't your passion. Not like it is mine. I bet you're doing it for that Bailey bitch that keeps following you around. Sure, she's your girlfriend, for now, but she doesn't love you. Not like I do. 

I've seen you in class every day now. You don't talk to people. You don't smile. But you're not like those dumpster fire goths who put on an act for attention. I can tell you believe that nobody here is worth your time, and they aren't. Nobody here but me. You'll see that one day.

I catch a glimpse of something you're sketching in between your notes. It looks like a sort of dragon. So you like fantasy. I never would have guessed. I bet you want to be an art major like that depressed slut you make out with every day. I wish I could know what's going on inside that brain of yours, what you're thinking, what you really want. So I could give it to you. What a great psychology major I'm turning out to be, having to sit and guess how you're feeling right now. With me, you wouldn't have to hide your feelings. You would want to show them to me. 

But right here, right now, you're forcing yourself to deny your artistic cravings, and put yourself through hours and hours of what must be repetitive mind-rot for you. While Bailey gets to be your center of attention, the bipolar sob story you have to live through every day. I can hear her complaining to you about how horrible her teachers are and how angry she is about her assignments, meanwhile you would give anything to put up with those teachers, and do those assignments. It isn't fair to you. And it isn't fair to me, to have to watch you go through that every day, to know the torment you are receiving. 

I think I'll put an end to it. 

Bailey came onto campus today with her hair dyed red and black, as if to scream "depressed edge" to the entire world. Most people would think it stopped there. But you wouldn't be taking psychology if your girlfriend just looked angry all the time, now wouldn't you, Kadence? You're smarter than that. There's a reason Bailey wears long sleeves, even in the summer. It's to hide those thick, ugly scars on her wrists and arms, a result of nights and nights of self harm. I followed her into the girl's bathroom once, watched her pull up those sleeves to wash her hands, just enough so that the bulging, irritated patchwork peeked through. So I know. I know how bad it must feel for you, Kadence, every time you come home just to find her reverting back to old habits, instead of getting help like you want her to.

 You must know that this isn't going to work. Bailey is going to keep falling and falling back, until there's nowhere else to go but hell. I'm simply quickening the process, so that you can follow your dreams. 

The envelope is in my bag. It's been there for a few weeks now. All I have to do is slip it into her locker. I know she'll find it. But you wont be there to rescue her. You stay late, because your classes take longer, and your work is more tedious. All the more time for me to spend with you. 

The bell rings for lunch. You don't get up yet, you want to finish your drawing, I know. But you need to feed that creative mind of yours. When this is over, you won't be starving yourself to do good art. You'll get to do what you want, for once, after I'm through. 

I can sense that you're about to catch me staring. I stand. Head out the door, bag slung over my shoulder as if I'm planning on writing more notes during lunch. I'm not. 

Bailey doesn't come to her locker at this time of day. I have both of your schedules memorized, in case I'd ever need it. Turns out it'll come in handy sooner than I thought. I turn the corner and there it is. Casually, I draw the envelope out of my bag, and slip it through the slits in the metal door. I hear a soft sound, that of gently weighted paper colliding with her stack of books. She'll read it. I know she will. People like her can't look away from this shit, and I know every word will play their tricks on her. Hell, even I began to question my existence while writing it. I'm no poet, but I'll take credit where credit is due. And I know my work is perfect. 

I smile to myself as I continue walking down the halls, having hardly slowed to deliver my message. This is for your own good, Kadence. She doesn't deserve you. She never did. I know it'll be hard, and you'll have damage, everyone does. But this rough patch is a necessary evil, a small, insignificant blip in the radar compared to how ecstatic you will feel when I finally make you mine.