three

7

Two weeks. The whispers. The dead girl. The blood. Everything was still occuring in my mind every time I laid my eyes on Camila. Camila never called, sent a text, or bothered to check up on me after every thing that happened back in her room.

She barely told me about anything that was happening, why her eyes kept changing its own color, why she knew another language that I have never heard of, and what her problem was with me not knowing her own birthdate. That one night with her changed my perspective of what I saw in her. She was more unsafe than I thought she would have been. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

But why did I lock the door once?

Why did I forget to lock the doors three times?

Why did I forget to close the lights three times?

Why did I forget to close the faucet three times?

Why did I forget all these day-to-day actions?

Why was Camila screaming? Or what was she screaming that morning?

What was so bad that me not knowing her birthday made her angry?

Just why?

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 seconds passed and I looked up at the ceiling. The room was dusky. I was supposed to be asleep eight hours ago but I kept thinking about Camila and the the screaming and scene that were unstably flashing through my eyes whenever Camila was around me.

Then, my thoughts altered.

Were the lights turned off? Did I wash my hands? Were all the doors locked as usual? I can't sleep even after I do these things thrice. I was supposed to do it all in the correct way. The correct way. The correct way. The correct way. What was the correct way of doing these things?

The OCD itself, it wasn't helping me either. Sleepless nights, the OCD, Camila, the blood, the lifeless body lying dead on the tiled floor, the screams of different people coming from every corner of the room—the whisper was the worst of all. The whispers were everywhere and it was not leaving my head by any chance soon. None of these would have happened if Camila didn't kiss me two weeks ago. That I only have knowledge of. It was Camila's fault for all this.

I sat up on the bed. I turned my face to the digital clock beside me, 8 AM. I should have been out of the shower in a daily routine by now. Tristan must have texted me but I gave up, he never looked for me, never messaged me, never called, nothing. What did Camila do? I tried calling him but he never answered with each dial that I've did.

"Y/N." Camila's soft voice filled the room.

I didn't flinch this time and scanned around the place until my tracks stopped at the brown-eyed girl to my right. I was tired. Tired of her games. Tired of her games. Tired of her games.

"What did you do to Tristan?"  I asked as Camila stared at me intently.

She bit her lip before satisfying me with an answer. "I didn't lay a finger on him, I swear."

What if she's lying again?

What if she's lying again?

What if she's lying again?

Her appearance made me feel assured. No one was there unlike her, but I feared her not too long ago, didn't I? I needed a getaway from all her troubles but was she causing any? Did she ever hurt me physically?

No.

No.

No.

"Is there so―" I looked up to not see Camila in the same room anymore and it got me confused. She's already left just like that?

I felt something heavy on my shoulder and trembled as it was Camila laying her head on me, her eyes were lighting up like the hue of the sea. It was in the shade of light blue, her eyes were bright and it was not her natural eye color. Her hand grabbed mine and interwined our fingers, her hand—warm and soft. She ran a thumb on the back of my palm. I didn't push her away, I was too exhausted to utter a sentence to cause an argument.

"You know I won't hurt you, right?" she asked.

Seven words, one question.

"Yeah. I knew that."

I did not.

"Go to sleep then. I'll be here, okay? No one's going to hurt you, baby," she detached her head from my shoulder and swiftly took her hand from mine. I was met with her natural brown eyes, not the blue ones that seemed unreal and artificial. I still remembered it showing slight flashes and unexplainable sounds. No eyes do that. They do not make sounds.

She rested her back on the headboard and patted to the space on her left as I move closer, closer, closer to the Latina. She laid the both of us on the bed and she spooned me. Her warm arms were being wrapped around me.

It felt perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.

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