Final Room

01 | laurie strode

          I'm a Final Girl now.

          I was the only one to survive a summer camp massacre that killed all my friends and my boyfriend, and, somehow, the media circus around me expects me to wear it like a badge of honor like a girl scout. I'm supposed to be glad that ninety-eight percent of the people in my life I care about are dead and that I'm left behind to pick up the pieces.

          A whole month has passed since The Incident, as my mom calls it, and I still can't condition my body to stop waking me up like this—the shortness of breath, the feeling of imminent danger, my heart being about to explode out of my chest. Sleeping by myself is something I need to get used to, as there won't ever be another sleepover with Emma or Cecelia, there won't ever be another opportunity to sneak out to see Zach when his parents are out of town.

          It's July now. It's warmer. I still need to sleep with multiple blankets like they could possibly protect me from any harm that awaits outside of my bedroom. The only thing that has ever protected me has been myself and the baseball bat I found tucked under one of the beds, and that might as well have saved my life. It wasn't my strength or my wit or divine intervention; it was sheer luck and the stupid bat.

          All I did that night was run and hide. I only fought back when I absolutely had to, when I knew for sure I would die if I didn't do it, and it was certainly more time to react and come up with some semblance of a plan than what my friends had been given. I survived because I ran, but that's all I've been doing ever since.

          I don't know how long I'll have to keep running. I wonder which room will be the last one I enter.

          My heart is beating so fast, so hard against my sternum it has left me nauseous. I push away the covers and roll out of bed with legs that can barely hold my body weight, and disappointment doesn't begin to cover my feelings for myself. This is my nightly routine now—screaming myself out of my nightmares, ensuring my bedroom windows are locked, tiptoeing across the hallway and waiting until I hear the muffled sound of my dad snoring in the distance, checking all the doors and the windows downstairs. I double-check the doors and windows this time, as it's a windy night and something could have broken without me noticing a thing.

          It's the way fear creeps up on you. Most of the time, you never see it coming—most of my friends didn't—but Emma knew. After she was gone, once it was just me, I knew.

          I don't allow myself to rest until I've walked past every window downstairs at least three times. It's exhausting and I've tried so many times to get myself to stop, lying in bed as still as a corpse, but I can never fight the urge to give in to these compulsions. It usually ends with me being tired enough to sleep soundly through the rest of the night, but my brain is still on high alert, still scanning my surroundings. It's suffocating to have to live like this and the effects of continuous sleep deprivation are taking their toll on me, but this keeps me alive.

          On nights like these—windy, but still hot—I sit in the dark kitchen, impossibly alone, staring blankly ahead like I'm waiting for something—or someone—to come and snatch me.

          My parents got divorced two years ago and I can still feel my mom's presence in the house even after all this time. It's easy to expect to see her marching down the stairs or vacuuming the living room, but, no matter how hard I wish for it to be real, no matter how hard I close my eyes and click my heels, she's not coming back home. No one ever comes back—I'm the only one who does.

          I run.

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          When morning comes, I wake up downstairs.