Tied

Two.

Chapter Two.
Seduce

     Mr. Scream's House of Horrors blew in like a storm. No one could shut up about that intense haunted house show down in the old amusement park. And wouldn't you know it, they've built it right on top of the old haunted house, because the castle gave it the perfect creepy effect.
     It's a wonder I didn't go insane. When I finally stumbled home that night a few weeks back choking on my own snot and tears, my roommate thought I'd been raped. She kept getting up to call the cops but I'd just pull her back down next to me and shake my head. When I could finally calm down enough, I told her in gasps that it had just been a few asshole kids that played a mean prank, and that they were probably long gone by now. Dejectedly, she gave up and just made me some tea instead. And that was it.
     The next morning I woke up feeling surprisingly fine. The images of what I saw kept playing round and round in my head, but at a low volume so as not to disturb me too much. I hadn't gone crazy, not even in the slightest. I was perfectly okay, and I tucked that experience away as another Halloween mishap to tell to my friends in a couple years.
     I had to deal with Ashton The Cheating Ex the next day, which made it easier. The more familiar the problem, the more on track your life gets. He had called my roommate's phone about a thousand times looking for me, and left about a thousand messages telling me to meet at "our spot," which sounds romantic but it's really just under the tree in front of his frat house. It was "our spot" because that's where we hit our first home run. We were both drunk stupid and had come to tour the college for the first time our senior year of high school, but ended up getting sucked into our first ever frat party in that stupid house.
     So anyways, I went, and he begged for my forgiveness. I told him where he could shove his apology, and he tried to kiss me. I slapped him, then he tried to kiss me again. I let him, then I slapped him again, grabbed my purse, flipped him off, then told him we were never getting back together as long as I lived.
     Oh, how sweet the irony tastes now.
     Everything is ironic, if you look at it broadly enough, but I had had the sort of irony at this specific time of my life that was too specific to be a coincidence. I've always had a theory that some part of me knew that this was where I was headed; this was what fate had in store and it was a cruel joke between life, my body, and my brain. My brain was the odd man out, sadly.
     But I digress. I spent the rest of that week polishing off midterms and slowly forgetting about what was the most terrifying experience of my life. I had always coped well with things that fucked others up to the core. It was linked to my apathy problem, I believe. Whatever it was, I was thankful for it.
     But a few weeks later, news of Mr. Scream's House of Horrors had spread, and I was faced with my nightmare all over again. This was solely because His face had been plastered all over the Internet, and banners with His golden eyes staring into my soul were put up all around town. They weren't even live photos, just detailed drawings - but it didn't matter. It was a hit, and I was bitter. But I ignored it and moved on with my life.
     Until one Sunday.
     My Sundays were very set and standard, because I was a very organized person and I believed in a very organized life. It started with a morning jog, then a visit to my favorite café for coffee and two muffins, followed by a trip to the theatre to watch the latest hit movie and finally, a leisurely evening stroll around the park before I went home. Very simple, very precise, and now, as I realize, very easy to follow.
     The first time I met Cerise was that Sunday morning on my jog. She crashed into me, looking gorgeous and sinful in a red tracksuit that revealed much without being slutty. I was straight, I found this out after experimenting with my bisexual roommate and discovering that I didn't find women appealing whatsoever. But oh my, Cerise made me question such a statement that I used to think was the one solid thing I knew about myself. This was her Talent, as will later be explained.
     Back to this jog, she ran into me and spilled her water all over my white t-shirt. She apologized profusely while letting her hands hover around my upper body. I thought this was odd at the time, because it was obvious she wanted to touch me but was holding herself back. She bit her lip and clenched her fists, looking innocent and alluring at the same time. But she wouldn't look me in the eyes, and just studied my upper body. Not in a perverse way, but more like a measuring way. She took one last look, then took off her sweater and insisted I have it. I didn't even wrap my fingers around it fully before she vanished.
     It was then I realized that my baby-blue bra was on display for everyone to see. I slipped on the sweater and decided to cut my jog short.
     My second encounter with Cerise was at the café. She was a waitress, I was a customer, she spilled coffee on my lap, and the whole hovering-but-not-touching started up all over again. I decided to crack a joke and said, "I admire your self control, but if you want to cop a feel I won't stop you." This was a joke because whereas she was voluptuous and stunning - and the fantasy of every guy that liked girls - I was small, petite, and had little in the way of breasts.
      But still, she had the politeness to look tempted. She never copped a feel, rather she got me towels and offered me a free Sunday paper. I happened to love coupons, so I accepted.