Shoot

Chapter 3: Dreams.

Throughout the night I have this sickening reoccurring nightmare. I'm in a dark room. No windows. No door. No light. Only his hands all over my body at once. It's not scary that he's touching me, it's scary that I like it. And somehow, I know it's him. It's Jack. Don't ask me how that could possibly be true, or why, but I know it's him. I've never felt the dragging of his hands along every curve of my body, and when I'm conscious, I don't want to. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I do.

Every time the dream ends, I wake up in a gasp, looking around. I'm not sure if it's because he was with me, or that he's currently not. Both are equally terrifying.

Whatever, I won't have to see that crazy man ever again as long as I hold up my end of the deal, which I assume I will have no problem doing.

I find a sheet of paper and a pen, and write a note explaining why I'm sneaking out of her house before she's waking up.

Sorry for leaving you. I just didn't want to wake you up. Last night was pretty rough so I'm probably just going to go home and lay in bed for a while. Text me. I'll explain more about what happened some other time. It's too soon. Kate.

I try to be quiet as I walk up the squeaky stairs, but it doesn't work out all that well. Somehow, nobody wakes up and I let myself out of the front door without anyone knowing. As I step down onto the first stair, I land on something soft. When I look down, I see my clothes that I left at the party when I was trying to run for my life. My underwear and my tank-top, classy.

Good job, Kate. You're an awesome person. Way to go. Good idea deciding to bang some guy at some random party while you're shitfaced. Good decision making. You're going to go so far in life.

I bend down to pick up the clothes, and see a receipt with something written on the back.

Guess it's a good thing I showed up.

I hate this kid so much. I want to hunt him down and shoot him. Jack you fucking asshole. That was my decision to make, not yours.

His handwriting is sloppy like mine, but somehow more-so which is something I rarely see. Mine is pretty damn bad. His looks like he was digging the pen into the paper as hard as he possibly could.

I pick up the note and shove it into my pocket, then pick up my clothes and walk to my car. I put my clothes on the passenger seat and look around the car, slightly paranoid that he's hiding. Nothing. Thank God. I turn the car on and drive the recently short drive back to my own house, and walk inside.

The first thing I see when I get inside is the clock. 8:22. Wow, that's pretty early for me. I'm probably still drunk. I sit in the kitchen for a while, drinking a tall glass of water and staring at the hands on the clock move.

"I didn't expect you to be back so early."

I turn around and my mom is standing there in her pajamas and robe over.

"I didn't feel well," I lie. But is that a lie? I'm not sick, but I'm not well either.

"I told you to stop with the drinking, Katelyn." She scolds, and I roll my eyes at her.

"I am, look into my eyes. I'm fine, mom." I says, and she takes my face in her hands and kisses my cheek.

"I love you, I don't want anything to happen to my baby girl." She looks at my with sincerity in her eyes.

A little bit of back story on my family.

It's just my mother and I. My father was apparently quite the heavy drinker although he never admitted to alcoholism. He died in a car crash when I was about four-years-old, so I've been fatherless ever since I can remember.