Scream

Reyna Copulas

I don't experience some blank blackness in my faint, or tune in and out of conscientiousness. Instead, I see things I've never seen before. There are visions of Makai and me from when we were little and still lived together. The man who committed suicide is here, too: Giovanni King. Now that I see him up close in this vision or whatever it is, he looks a lot like Enzo. They have the same golden eyes. 

 In my vision, we all play together: me, Makai, and Enzo's uncle. "How long are you staying here?" I ask the man, my voice is high and childish.

 Giovanni's expression turns dark. Knowing what I know now, I'd assume it's because he planned on killing himself. "Until things settle down," is what he said. We tossed a small ball around in the backyard before coming inside. 

 I pursued him with another question. "What do you mean?" I asked, looking up at the man.

Giovanni looked over to Makai, who tripped over his own two feet. That's just like him.
 "It's very important that you stay close with your brother, Reyna," he said. "Family is important. Especially the bond between siblings. My brother and I aren't on good terms. Actually, we're on terrible terms..." Giovanni's face darkened in my vision. "Just always be there to support Makai, okay?" 

I looked back at my pudgy brother and shrugged. "Okay."

Giovanni ruffled my hair. "I hope you never have to learn lessons the way I've had to."

"Why?"

"Not everything turns out how you'd expect," Giovanni King educated. "And somethings turn out horrible. But you have to learn to move on. Deal with the guilt, take responsibility, and move on." 

 "Deal, take it, and move," I echoed him. "Sounds simple." 

 Giovanni smiled down at me, envying my naivety. "I'm glad, little one." 

 The scene changes and I'm in my room, trying to sleep. But I kept having nightmares. I bolted upright in bed, crying. At this point, I think these are memories – not visions – of when I was three years old.

Giovanni crept into my room. "Are you okay, little one?"

 "I can't sleep," I sniffled, sheets tucked around me.

 "Nightmares," Giovanni concluded, sitting at the foot of my bed. "My nephew has them all the time. He's just a few years older than you are, actually. But whenever he sleeps, he gets these bad, bad nightmares. Do you know what helps him sleep?"

 I shook my head. "What?"

Giovanni smiled. "Lay down and close your eyes. Now, imagine you're driving down a long, empty road. You pull over and look around. You see a meadow of wheat, the stalk stall. They blow in the wind and rustle together. You enter that meadow, which curves into a hill. You come to a grand willow tree, the flowers blowing in the breeze. You lay down and clear your head, knowing that there's nothing out there to get you. Nothing in your nightmares can find you. Not here," he promised.

By now, I had fallen asleep. Giovanni pulled my blanket up to my chin and smoothed my hair down. He sighed. "Hopefully you'll never have to go to the willow tree, little one. That's where we go when there's nowhere else left. When you want to escape." Again, he sighed. "Maybe one day you'll cross paths with my nephew, Enzo..."

The scene changes again. I was dreaming and I heard noises. There were strangling and chortling sounds that tricked my brain into thinking it was only a dream. But now, outside of my three-year-old mind, I can tell that the noises were real. But now, they weren't noises. 

They were voices. Not one, but two. There was shuffling and the sound of wood scraping wood. At that moment, I didn't know what was happening. But the next day I would.

The next day, I would find out that Giovanni King had committed suicide through self-strangulation; a belt around his neck connected to the bedframe. That bedframe was the sound of wood on wood. 

Now I know what really happened. Giovanni King wasn't here to finish himself in isolation. He was here to sort his life out. He was here to wait for his brother to calm down over something – presumably the King twin deaths. 

Giovanni King didn't commit suicide. Someone else staged it as such. And that means the killers are much bigger plotters and threats than I originally thought. They've probably watched me since I was three. I'm 18 now. That's 15 years of gathering information, observing my routines, figuring out what makes me tick...that's 15 years of obsessive dedication to bringing me down. 

While Giovanni's murder has been brought to light, I still don't know why I'm involved in this. Why am I the one being targeted? If this is really about me, then why didn't they just kill me then?

Unless this isn't about me.

What if we're all wrong and I'm not the target? Who else would it be? And why?