Scream

Oscar Alvarez

Maren and I hung out by the snack table not ruined by the jumper. Pretty soon, we got tired of standing around, so we decided to move to the living room. Adriano has an enormous TV mounted on the wall over a grand fireplace, and earlier it was pretty crowded. But people are moving outside to "light it up" or whatever, so there's probably a seat on the couch.

As we move amongst the sea of people, she grabs my arm and has to yell in my ear to tell me something. "I'm going to get a drink at the bar. Save me a seat on the couch."

"Only if you get me something, too," I coax.

"Sounds like something I can manage," she admits. Maren departs from my side and I continue to the living room. There are three massive leather couches on a dark wooden floor. The fireplace is on high and a DVD player is waiting for a movie to be inserted. I walk up to the entertainment stand. My fingers drum against the spines of cases until a bright yellow sticky note sticks out and catches my eye.

I see it's connected to a movie and pull it out.

My party, my rules, my movies. Enjoy.

Internally, I cringe. On the outside, I can't help but kind of laugh. Ironically, the chosen movie is Scream. "Classic," I sigh to myself, sliding the movie in. 

I watch the film. Drew Barrymore makes popcorn.

 "We're lighting it up!" a kid screams. This apparently makes sense to everyone, as they all rush out the back. Someone even vaults over the couch I'm on. They soar over me and kick me in the head without even saying sorry.

Rubbing the sore spot, I wait for them to leave until I relax again and watch the movie. 

The phone rings in the scene now. The ringtone is old and ancient – the '90s were rough. Drew Barrymore answers the phone, and then the killer asks in an automated voice –

A hand clasps over my mouth and blindfolds me. Something hard connects with the back of my head, and this time it isn't afoot. As I fade out of consciousness, a voice asks, "What's your favourite scary movie?" I feel my body being dragged, but I can't tell where to. I know I'm going fast, and when my leg rubs with too much friction, I get a burn and flinch. "Oh, I'm sorry," the being apologizes with false sympathy. "Did that burn?"

The last thing I hear before losing myself in my consciousness is a burst of maniacal laughter.