Dont Blame Me

Chapter 27

Sensing her indifference, Mark flashes a tight smile. "Well, it's very nice to meet you. Rosie, these are my colleagues. Jack, Robert, and Miller."

We exchange pleasantries, all the while inching up in the line.

"So where is Lola?" Mark asks, peering around me as if a woman well over six feet would be hiding behind me.

"She went to find a bathroom," I lie. I don't know why I do, there's no reason to. But I have a gut feeling that if Mark thinks Ashley and I are here alone, that maybe he'll pull something shady.

"Speaking of Lola," Miller cuts in. "I heard you two are quite the lovebirds. How did you meet?"

My heart drops, and for a moment, I think maybe Mark might've found out about the movie theater incident. But then I remember Lisa assured me the cameras have been wiped when she drove me home.
Miller looks like he needs to be carrying an oxygen tank around with him. Mark is well into his eighties, and I'm sure the other men aren't far off, but Miller in particular seems as if he's defying gravity by standing upright. I spin the same made-up story that Lisa did in Bailey's, hoping that the knives usually in my eyes when dealing with my shadow are replaced with hearts.
Claire asks a few questions of her own, her voice demure. Like how long we've been together, and if we're planning on getting married soon.
Sweat lines my hairline, the lies spilling from my mouth like the fantastical worlds from my fingers when I write. Luckily, it takes only a few more minutes to come up to the front of the line, and we're free of Mark and his creepy friends. Even though we're walking into a stuffy haunted house, it feels lighter in here. The house is adorned in pink, with white wooden floors, frills everywhere, and dead little girls giggling all around. Down the hall, I swear I spot a four-foot doll crossing the hall, her body distorted from the colorful smoke and her face bloody.
She's gone before I can tell for sure.

Ashley and I huddle together, looking left and right-not quite sure which direction to go. A man with a peeling, bloodied face slips out from the shadows before us, and another girl dressed up as a demented doll comes out, a bloody knife in her grip.
It's so sudden, I jerk back. Ashley's screams pierce my ears as they give chase, pushing us towards a living room with a blue couch and a mannequin giving birth to a child.
I don't get the chance to look long enough before another monster is jumping out at us. I laugh through a scream, running away from a mechanical mannequin that resembles a Grim Reaper. Ashley's nails dig into my arm. An assortment of monsters and dolls jump out at us, getting in our faces and scaring the living daylights out of us. One reason that Satan's Affair is so popular is that they carefully pick their actors.
They're too good at their job. Not only do they have the best makeup, but they know exactly what to do to scare the absolute shit out of you. We swing around back to the foyer, but this time, we're chased up the stairs. Ashley trips on one of the steps, and her curses are swallowed up by my cackling.

"Fuck off," she squeals through laughter, her eyes still wide with fright as she continues to fall up the stairs to get away from the monster.

We finally make it to the top, nearly sprawling on the floor as we're overcome with a mixture of laughter and terror. The monster leaves us be as we right ourselves and make our way down the hallway, the flickering strobe lights creating a trippy effect. The smoke is heavier up here, making it harder to see.

At the very end of the hallway is a massive mannequin, its skin burnt so severely that it's bubbled up in boils. An unnaturally wide bloody mouth, and big yellow eyes top off his grotesque features. We veer into the closest room, avoiding that monstrosity. We enter into what looks like a doll's bedroom. More pink and white décor, a twin bed filled with deformed, creepy dolls, and a mirror in the corner of the room that I'm almost sure is going to show something standing behind me.
It looks innocent in here, but the strobe lights flash ominously, while the blue, purple, and pink smoke swirls around us like wicked fingers, and the music in the backdrop creates a dangerous vibe.
And then, out crawls a demented looking doll from under the bed, her body twisted oddly as she comes skittering towards us. Ashley's and my screams pierce the air as we trip over each other to get out of her way. We run towards the other exit door and are led out into another room. It takes all around ten minutes to get through the rest of the house. My adrenaline sinks lower and lower, leaking down in between my legs as monsters chase after me.
It's my favorite aphrodisiac, and something I can never assuage until I'm home alone afterwards.

On the way down the stairs leading towards the exit, I hear a faint screech. It sounds like someone yelled out the name "Jackal" but it's too loud in here to tell.
When we're out of the house, we breathe in deep, fresh air. The chill of the air is a soothing balm to our lungs. The only downside is it does get incredibly stuffy in the houses.
The next several hours are spent running around to all the rides in between haunted houses. It breaks up the constant adrenaline rush with a different kind of thrill.
I'll never get tired of the feeling of flying through the air at a breakneck speed. It's one of the few times where I feel like nothing can get me. Nothing can touch or hurt me.
Nothing can catch me.
It's one of the cheapest thrills I can get nowadays that doesn't cost me my morals and sanity.

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February 25th, 1946

Frank confronted me about the affair. I denied it of course. But he didn't believe me.
He's been such a good friend to John, and he used to be a good friend of mine too.
But not so much anymore. His temper is shorter and sometimes, it seems as if he can hardly look at me, He told me to stop the affair.
Because he said I'm hurting the man that loves me most in the world.
His loyalties are to John, I get that. He doesn't owe me anything at all.
And I don't owe him anything either. Which is why I couldn't tell him that I will never stop seeing Ronaldo. But I don't think I needed to. He saw it in my face.
And for a moment, he almost looked heartbroken. I suppose I would be too if my best friend has become what John has become.
I think I need to get divorced.

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