Blood like Cherry Coke

Chapter 1

The flickering credits of "I Know What You Did Last Summer" danced across the reflection of your glasses in the dark room that smelled distinctly of popcorn. Randy's excitement drowned out the noise of the soundtrack as he was already launching into a post-mortem analysis, his hands animated as he dissected the killer's motivations and the final girl's strategic brilliance.

Nestled in your corner of his cluttered living room, you offered quiet nods and the occasional comment, a comfortable rhythm that had been perfected over years of cinematic dissections.

"See, the minute they all agreed to the cover-up, the killer was obvious! It's always the guilt that gets them! And that fisherman hook? Come on, that's just ridiculous," Randy snorted, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair.

You offered a soft, dry laugh. "You say that, Randy, but if a giant fisherman was chasing you right now, you'd probably forget all your horror movie rules."

He beamed at your comment, the small, quiet jokes being your primary mode of communication. "Point taken, but in a life or death situation—"

"Like getting chased by a crazed fisherman."

He continued with a playful shove to your shoulder, ignoring your interruption, "—I could totally pull it together. I would absolutely be the one to make it out of there alive."

The credits had disappeared into the top corner and the screen blackened briefly before turning to static, casting a dim glow around the room as you rolled your eyes and grinned.

"Yeah, you're a regular scream queen, Randy." Gathering your well-worn jacket off the arm of the sofa, you stood to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow at school—"

"And work."

You gave an over-exaggerated mock wince, "Ugh, I forgot. Cover for me?"

"We work the same shift. Unless you got the body snatchers' cloning and replacement figured out, you're out of luck."

You shook your head with a laugh, making your way to the door. "If I ever find out that there's a clone of myself out there, you'll be the first to know."

"You got it," he said with a mock salute, walking you to the door and opening it wide for you.

A few doors down, the familiar pumpkin orange color of the porch light indicated where exactly your house was. It was intended as an April's Fools Prank that had ended up staying up even as the months had yawned into October. Your parents had decided that the neighborhood could use a little more festive spirit and you couldn't really argue with that—mainly because you knew if you complained, you'd have to be the one to replace it. The leaves had started to crinkle into shades of similar warmth to the porch light. The warm light was a comfort and like a lighthouse as you waved goodbye to Randy and started walking down the path.

As you passed the final driveway before your own, you felt a slight prickle on the back of your neck. You glanced back quickly. Nothing. Just Brett Camber's old dog, passed out and making grumbling noises. You shook off the momentary paranoia; it was probably just the lingering effect of the movie.

The inside of your house pitched by darkness, all the lights had been turned out and silent except for the faint sound of murmurs and snoring from your parents bedroom which you passed on the way to your own.

Closing the door, you sighed, and dropped the jacket and bag on the floor, letting the bed swallow you.

The next morning dawned with an unsettling stillness. The usual chirping of birds seemed muted, the air thick with an unspoken tension. Jolting awake by an unusual amount of movement and commotion downstairs. You got dressed quickly, barely looking at what you were grabbing, though tentatively aware that you were wearing the same jacket from last night. The warmth of it sinking in like a comfortable blanket. Despite that, everything still felt on edge as you crept downstairs.

Hearing the sound of your mother's voice, usually calm, now tight with fear. Trying not to think too much of it, you focused on getting some breakfast. Margarine toast and an egg, and took the plate to the living room, settling into the scratchy carpet in front of the coffee table. The faint voice of your mother called out,
"Honey, I think you need... just turn on the news. Something... something terrible has happened."

Groggily, you fumbled for the remote and flicked on the television. The local news anchor's face was grim, the banner at the bottom of the screen flashing in stark red: WOODSBORO SHOCKED BY BRUTAL MURDER.

The details were sparse but horrifying. Casey Becker, a girl you only knew from school, had been found murdered. The news report spoke almost clinically about the entire thing, a fresh wave of nausea washed away any bit of hunger you had. This wasn't a movie. This was real.