"Hello... Yep. Who is this? No, you can't. Yeah, right..." You thought you heard a brass and sassy female voice answering the phone.
You were somewhere between a dream and the real world; that place where you still felt warm and cozy under a mound of soft blankets and pillows, like your insides were melting toffee— sticky and pliable but you were awake enough to understand the fleeting nature of the moment.
Your half-asleep reaction was to grumble while rolling ungracefully out of bed, your hair falling away and slipping out of your face.
The two past years have brought you maturity. Your face possessed a survivor's edge, making you appear stronger. Your hair had grown longer and the rest of you more defined.
You were inside of your typical girl college dorm room. Pink and messy with posters all over the walls and furniture scattered literally everywhere the eye could see.
"I got it," you groaned in a hoarse voice and stretched, standing up to sleepily move over to Hallie, your roommate and friend.
She was an attractive dark skinned girl, twenty at most. Brazen, fun and full of life.
Basically, the exact opposite of you on your worst days. Sometimes even on your best.
She handed it over to you. "Hello?"
"(Y/N)."
You didn't flinch, just blinked tiredly while your foot tapped impatiently on the milky white carpet. "Yes?"
"What's your favourite scary movie?"
"Who is this?"
"You tell me."
Still unaffected, you grabbed a small device hooked to the phone and stole a glimpse at the display, cocking your head slightly. "Gory Gillis. 442-8730."
*Click*
The phone went dead. You pulled up your shoulders indifferently. "Enjoy the movie."
Hallie heaved out a resigned sigh. "Time to change numbers again?"
"Nah." You rolled your lips into your mouth. "I think it'll die off. It's opening weekend after all."
You grabbed your fluffy (F/C) robe, listening to various morning news programs as Hallie flicked through the different TV channels.
"... The two victims, Maureen Evans and Phil Stevens..."
She switched the channel and you heard a guy some years older than you being interviewed. You turned to face the TV, instantly recognizing the man displayed on the screen.
Cotton Weary.
"He sure gives a lot of interviews for someone who wants to be left alone," Hallie commented offhandedly, hitting the remote. The guy's image disappeared as the TV went off.
"Get your ass in gear, (Y/N). You're late. Don't forget we've got rush at the Deltas tonight. Don't wear anything you don't want trashed. (Y/N)? (Y/N)?"
You spun on your heels, pressing your lips together with a tight smile. "I can't believe I let you talk me into going Greek..."
Then you moved over to the door and throw it open. "Pumps. Nice handbag. Whaddya think?"
You kept surprisingly cool and exited out the door, leaving Hallie standing by herself.
Once you stepped outside of the dorm, the warm morning sun hit your face as you breathe in the fresh air, taking in the day just as fifty news reporters swarmed you all at once.
"(Y/N), did you know the victims?" One older man asked.
"Do you feel responsible for the murders?" A blonde woman pressured, not intending on giving you any space.
Her question stopped you cold.
You gave the crowd an apprehensive look. "What murders?"
Microphones were shoved in your face as you were sieged upon by tons of journalists and TV cameras, the flashing of the lights giving you a mild headache. "Do you think there will be more murders?"
You pushed and shoved but there was no escape, none of them budged. The questions came at you like lightning.
You wanted to squirm through the sea of people until one reporter, a flashy woman with thick sunglasses, moved directly in your way.
"Did you kill them last night, (Y/N)? Has it gotten to you? Have you finally snapped?"
Your eyes flared as you were beyond done with the bombardment of ridiculous questions that felt more like an interrogation.
There was an inexplainable surge of anger brewing just underneath your skin. It was so sudden and fierce it scared you— you never were a violent person before but you had the urge to push that woman into a chipper.
You'd been angry in the past like any normal person, but not this angry.
Just as you clenched your hand to give the bitch the Gale Weathers treatment, someone else beat you to it.
A fist flew out from the crowd, connecting with the flashy woman's face who harshly smacked down to the stone ground.
You turned around to find Gale Weathers herself standing there. She met your eyes and gave you a short, genuine smile and for the first time, you were happy to see her.
But still the onslaught continued.
Cameras were flashing, and reporters were shoving to catch a glimpse of you. Gale moved in front of you, holding the crowd at bay. "Quick (Y/N), get outta here."
You were completely bewildered by their behaviour. "What is going on?"
"Just go," she shoo'd you. "I'll find you later."
She didn't need to tell you twice and you wasted no time in taking off, running around the side of the large building.
You stopped to catch your breath but the reporters were still on your tail. When you glanced upwards, you saw a small campus security vehicle.
It moved towards you and slowed down. "Hop on, (Y/N)."
You went for it as two calloused hands reached out to help you. One smooth move and you were in the arms of none other than Dewey Riley.
You looked at him with a face full of questions and concern. "What's going on, Dewey? What happened? No one is telling me anything."
He gave you a safe, warm smile. "It'll be alright, (Y/N)."
-
The security cart trotted along, passing students coming and going.
Dressed smartly in a campus security outfit, Dewey maneuvered the cart across the campus grounds with you listening horrified to what he was telling you, trying to decipher the words that rolled out his mouth.
"Three hundred people watched? And nobody... Did anything?" You summed up, looking at Dewey for answers as you threaded your fingers in your hair.
"They thought it was a publicity stunt," Dewey explained, managing to sound sad but keeping an annoyed undertone at the same time.
Your arms dropled by your sides as your body involuntarily shivered at the grim news. "Jesus. How could that happen?"
"They don't know. It was carefully planned. Earlier in the day the victims recieved anonymous passes to the movie."
Your brain scrambled to come up with a reasonable possibility, although it was the last thing you hoped it to be.
"Could it be... A copycat killer?" You spoke out the last word as if it burned on your tongue. As if speaking it out loud reopened old wounds.
Which it did.
The cart came to a stop in front of one of the buildings. "As of now, they don't see any relation. But they're checking it out. The State, Special Task Force, FBI... They're all here. They'll find the guy."
You chewed on the inside of your cheek, struggling to believe that. "Yeah, right."
"Nothing will happen to you, (Y/N)," Dewey assured you, seemingly knowing exactly what you were thinking about. "I promise. C'mon, I'll walk you to class."
Your felt your tough demeanor corrode and took a deep breath as you were starting to feel more and more on edge.
You didn't like this. Not one bit.
Dewey got off the vehicle and not for the first time, you saw him walk with a severe limp as his left leg dragged behind him. "You can go, Dewey. I'll be okay."
Before he could make any protest, you stood up to your tippy toes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
After Tatum's death, Dewey was totally devastated and took it upon himself to watch over you instead. So now, you practically saw him as the older brother you never had.
He simply stared after you until you disappear inside, only then letting his eyebrows drop into a frown.
-
Despite being late, you moved down the hallway in a snail pace with the constant feeling of dread building up in your stomach.
This wasn't your typical school building. Through open doorways you could see film equipment, editing bays and the like.
You were in the Film Department, heading to the class you usually look forward to the most but for obvious reasons, today you didn't.
You came across an open door and peered inside, slipping inside the large classroom quietly as the class was already in process, and took a seat all the way back at the room.
It was pretty ironic, you thought. Taking movie class when your own life felt like one.
A handful of film students were lounging around on the torn what-used-to-be black couches, deep in discussion.
You remained unnoticed as you watched the whirlwind debate unfold.
A snotty guy, James was his name, was trying to pontificate a point. "Sequels are too handicapped. By definition alone, they're inferior films."
Your roommate was sitting on a couch next to Mickey, her boyfriend.
Mickey was in his 20s, fairly attractive, athletic, cool and rowdy as well as a huge film nerd, maybe even moreso than Randy.
"Bullshit generalization," Mickey smiled to himself, relaxing against the couch. "Many sequels have surpassed their original."
"Name one," James challenged him from in his seat.
"Aliens. Far better than the original," Mickey said like it was an obvious fact.
"Subjective," a blond guy dressed in a green shirt and torn jeans meddled in.
The conversation overlapped and everyone began arguing, stating their opinions about Alien VS. Alien almost as if it was a political debate.
"No way," Hallie interjected, huffing a small laugh out of her nose. "Aliens rocked. 'Stay away from her, you bitch!"
"I'll give you that one," James conceded amusedly, the corners of his mouth lifting. "Name another."
"T2," Mickey mused, just now spotting you in the back, and it seemed like his attention to the subject dwindled a bit.
You were too lost in your own little world to pay any attention to him or the current conversation whatsoever, inwardly cussing at yourself for not just skipping this hour.
You loved movies, which was the whole reason you were taking this class in the first place, but after Dewey gave you insight about the recent events, you felt your insides tighten painfully hard.
"A bigger budget does not make a better movie," James pointed out, snapping you out of your dark and nostalgic thoughts. "Terminator 1 is historical."
"Fine then," Mickey let his bright eyes wander across the room, giving the rest of the class one of his bright, charismatic smiles. "The Godfather, part 2."
Everyone ooh'd in agreement.
"I got it," Hallie snapped her fingers, leaning forward on her arm. "Friday the 13th, part 20."
"Case in point," James sounded like his mind was totally made up. "The entire horror genre was destroyed by sequels."
The teacher, a young and artsy man, spoke up with interest after finishing his paper work. "Really? And why do you think that is?"
"Oh please. Sequels suck. Hello? They're more about making money nowadays and no one is interested in quality anymore."
"It's more than that," Derek, a handsome and smart guy, smoothly jumped into the conversation. "Horror films are only as good as their villains. How can Freddie and Jason possibly be scary after they've been diluted through five or six sequels?"
"So what is the solution?" The teacher questioned, addressing all of his students. "If you were making a sequel today, what would you do differently?"
The entire class stewed on this and for some time, nothing else was said except for the occasional few whispers here and there.
Derek turned around in his seat. You gave him a small wave and followed him out as he excused himself.
Almost straight away, he threw his arms around you protectively. "How are you? You weren't in class. I called as soon as I heard..."
You inhaled his scent. Like always, Derek smelled really nice and it had a calming effect on you. It reminded you of someone.
"I skipped. Too many people... You know..." Your voice trailed off at the end.
"I'm sorry, baby. What can I do?" He grasped your jaw to make you look at him, his eyes worried as they glanced over your tight face.
"Don't ask what you can do. You know I don't like coddling," you responded with a breathy laugh.
Derek looked at you with bedroom eyes and gave you a smile that could light up a whole city. "I can do that. And I can also do this."
He moved on you, wrapping you in his arms and kissing you passionately.
You broke away, laughing. "Really, Derek? PDA?"
But it was a failed objection. He kissed you again and you kissed him back like you just couldn't contain yourself and soon, you were devouring each other like two people madly in love, right in the middle of the hallway.