The Boy Who Wasn't Real

Elisaveta

The Nukekubi's death doesn't scar me like the rest of the monsters'. Actually, I think her death is pretty humane, considering that her head is just going to be floating around aimlessly.

I think that until Eric comes back from the Nukekubi's cell covered in blood and gore, reeking of vomit.

"What did you do?" I ask him, voice rising.

He hands me my knife—Eliminator—and silently sits down, huffing loudly.

I repeat my question, "What did you do?"

Eric takes a breath. "You know how you asked me if I've ever killed anyone?"

Oh no.

"What did you do?" I know the answer, but I ask just to be completely certain.

"I killed her. For good." Eric's eyes are vacant and I realize that's what I look like when the bloody sea of memories takes me in its current.

"Are you... okay?" It's a futile question. Of course he's not okay. No one's ever okay after something like this.

"Yeah."

I look at him to see if he's lying, to see if there's that twitch of his jaw. Nothing.

Is he actually okay?

He pulls off his shirt lazily, understandably disturbed by the blood. What was once navy is now a dark mahogany, almost black. I can't believe he isn't vomiting all the time with this much blood around him.

The planes of his chest are flat and smooth, the small humps where his abs are causing my cheeks to heat.

"Do you think that there's going to be more monsters in the next subsection?" Eric inquires, with no hint of death on his mind. "Since the Nukekubi was so easy to defeat?"

"Probably," I respond, trying not to keep staring at his bare torso—trying and failing.

"What undead creature this time, Damion?" Eric shouts to the ceiling.

The freakshows choose that moment to come down to the Grotto and give us our mandated crackers and water. The burly men pick up the Nukekubi in her pretzeled form and leave what must be a large, bloody mess in her cell from where Eric killed her, whatever that meant.

"Your two hours start now, volunteers," they say in unison. The move to leave.

I stop them by asking, "Do you have any more clues for us this time, freakshows?"

"What is always looking over your shoulder but doesn't grab you until you're bolder? What is feared and red-smeared? What sets you free, but makes you an abductee?"

My mind blanks. "Pardon? Did you just give us a riddle?"

"Yes, volunteers." The freakshows leave without another oddly-in-unison word.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Eric and I spend the next hour dwelling on the riddle that the freakshows gave us, neither of us coming close to a real answer. I guess for all his tech-savvy brain, there isn't a spot for riddle- solving. Too bad, because I don't have a part like that either.

What is always looking over your shoulder, but doesn't grab you until you're bolder?

What is feared and red-smeared?

What sets you free, but makes you an abductee?

"Maybe they were talking about some sort of..." I trail off, already losing my train of thought.