Henrys pov
My name is Henry Vitiello, and I am not a monster.
I would tell myself that every night as a boy. To make me feel better. Like, if i said it enough, i would start believing it.
When I first started finding escapism in books and comics, I had started hurting myself. The way it felt, reading a book and realizing you're not that different from the bad guys in them? To resonate with the misunderstood villain more than the hero of the stroy? To search for books where the villain changes, where they end up resolving their demons, and wishing that I was one of them? That I could one day be understood for my actions?
I realized sooner rather than later that in the real word, here on earth 616, no one cared for your reasoning. No one cared that I was forced, that every kill I had ever made was out of fear. In this world of mine, it's kill or be killed.
And I wasn't allowed to die, so the least I could do was fasten up the process by using vices such as alcohol and nicotine, both I started depending on at a young age. But even now, I am more addicted to the thought of this girl than I am to any other form of vice. And I had a feeling she'd be the most deadly, too.
I would say it's fate that he happened to be there when I went to the valet, but I don't believe in fate. It was an opportunity, one that could and had changed everything. No one was going to see me as misunderstood, and I had long let go of hope of being understood. I was tainted, broken and couldn't be fixed. The damage was already done, so maybe that's why as I stand here carrying Noah Graysons lifeless body that I don't feel bad.
If I can't save my own reputation, I can at the very least try to save hers. Mine might be unsalvageable, but hers isn't. I think I always knew I'd kill for her. This was the first kill that had ever been my choice, but I was already long gone. I've accepted the role as the antagonist in the story, and I felt...fine. Like I was finally playing the role that's been carved out for me.
Janes pov
After Henry leaves, I stare at myself in the mirror. I stare for so long that I realize I don't truly recognize myself. I don't know what, but something has changed. Maybe my eyes look wider? Or my nose pointer? Or maybe its my cheekbones, they look a little sharper. I stare and stare until I realize that one by one, my features are changing. Then my eyes snag onto the scenery, and the room looks tilted. The painting behind me is unfamiliar. I could've sworn the woman wasn't smiling before. I shake my head and take a few deep breaths.
And this time when I look in the bathroom mirror, my reflection smiles at me. Except I'm not smiling at all. I splash water on my face a few times, and look up once more. I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane.
I look up, and this time, it's not even me. Shoulder length black hair replaces where my long brown hair should be. Dante stares back at me. The lights in the bathroom flicker, turning dimmer and dimmer. Dante's reflection smiles at me and I step back, shutting my eyes. My head is pounding. It's okay. My hands shouldn't be shaking.This isn't real. Just like the ouija board isn't real. I'm just stressed. Dante is dead. This is nothing. I saw him die. Why is breathing getting harder? There's no way he's here. I'm okay. I'm just tired. This isn't real. This isnt real this isnt real this isnt real this cant be real.
I grab paper towels and wet them, wetting my face once more. Wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up. Maybe I should start taking my antipsychotics, maybe I should start listening to my therapist. Why do I hesitate to trust her even after all these years?
When I hear laughter on the other side of the door, my eyes shoot open. I look in the mirror, and I see me staring back. No short black hair, no male face, no amber eyes. Jane. I see myself staring back, not a dead boy. My own reflection. The way it should be. But then it smiles a sad smile at me and says, in my voice, "What have you done?"
I almost turn away from my reflection when I spot a streak of red leaving my eyes. Then another. And then another. Until half my face is colored crimson, until I'm trying to wipe it away, to stop all the blood, but a migraine is developing and I cant stop it i cant i cant i cant.
And then I faint.
It seems that ever since the murders have started, nightmares and hallucinations have become my new normal.
—
"Jane." Noah chokes, gasping for air. "Jane." I see gloved hands dragging his barely conscious body. I-no, this cant be me, i refuse to believe this is me-then why is he saying my name?- my hands that aren't my hands drag him to the edge of the balcony. I recognize it, it's the river not so far from this party, just around Makos house. The killer is close. So close. I hope Henry stays safe. I hope I'm not his doom the way I am mine.
"Jane." Noah rasps, louder this time. I feel a sense of out of body experience. As if, I'm not there. I'm not 100% there in the killers head and I'm not 100% in mine, either. "Jane." Noah says again, full blown yelling this time.
"Jane!" I hear once more, except this time, it's not Noah. It's not an American accent that calls out to me but instead an English one. A deep yet smooth British voice that I could recognize anywhere. It's Henry this time.
I pray I'm not hallucinating him. I pray, to whom I don't know, but I pray anyway. And when I feel large strong hands shake me, I wake. And I'm back in my own head, my own body, my own mind. Or at least I hope. "Henry?"
He lets out a breath, examining me. "Are you okay?" He says in a rush, then lifts me up and carefully wipes away any blood I had on me. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm okay." I let out a dry laugh. "I bet today is the most blood you've cleaned in your life, huh?" He doesn't answer. He doesn't laugh at my attempt at a joke. He just cleans me and I eventually tell him what I saw. I tell him I'm glad he wasn't there and he just hums in response. Weird.
"Are you ready to go?" He asks, and when I nod he takes my hand. I try snatching it back but he holds it tighter and explains, "For appearances sake."
"Let's get out of here." I say, and secretly savor the way he holds my hand as we walk out.
—-
"So you knew this whole time?" I frown at my therapist. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought you knew, Jane." She sighs. "I mean if you could heal yourself, wouldn't you be curious about what else you could do?"
She has a point, I never questioned it. "I can't exactly figure that out as easily as I can figure out I can heal myself." I mumble.
"You don't have a record of healing people like how you do with healing yourself. We figured out about your, erm, curse, because of your medical records." She says, " When you were one, you managed to crawl onto the top of the couch and while your nanny wasn't looking, you fell and fractured your hand. When you were two, you played with the oven and burnt your entire arm. At three, you cracked your head open after diving into the pool. That was the last straw, remember? You should've died. You lost so much blood, Jane, blood that a three year old needs desperately to survive and yet when your father arrived at the hospital, you were completely fine."
I nodd. She doesn't add all the other incidents I've had even after learning I would always heal. She doesn't add the times I've purposely almost killed myself just to prove to myself I could bleed, that at least some part of me was human. She would rather not talk about the times I've exercised the contempt of my life.
"So, are you sure he didn't notice?" She asks again for the third time.
"Yes, don't worry." I lied. I don't know when I had started lying to her, but somewhere along the line it just felt easier to give her a different story.
—--
"You've bewitched me, body and soul." Said a scratchy voice from behind me. I don't bother to turn around, I could identify that English accent anywhere.
"Pride and Prejudice." I answer, just as his strides start to match mine as we walk through the hallways. "Next time, quote the book and not the film."
"You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope." He answers. When we both arrive at the headmaster's door, I face him. We're both wearing the same preppy uniform, except his first few buttons were undone and the tie hung loosely around his neck, as mine is perfectly tucked in and done.
When headmaster Dubton calls us in, we walk in together and hand our clipboards at the same time. We might be partners by night, but we were still rivals by day. Years of competition couldn't just end so easily. At the moment, we were both assigned as Mr. Dubtons assistant for the upcoming carnival, since we tied for the title. My list consisted of invitations, brands, funders and people as Henrys consisted of accounting, numbers, making sure everything would arrive on time and in perfect shape. I thought I would be the first to get things done, but as always, he's right there with me.
"Perfect," Mr Dubton says to us. "The carnival will be the entirety of October, and the last day will be Halloween." He takes a deep breath, "I just hope the FBI figure this thing out before the media catches on." He smiles at us, "Thanks to you two, It'll start today just as we planned." He hands us both new lists, "You two will make sure everything stays perfect. I want constant eyes and ears for this, however you are free to do whatever you like there in the meantime." And with that, we leave.
—---
We're a few hours into the opening of Hendrix Academys annual Carnival, and everything is going according to plan. For now, at least. I guess I must have jinxed it because only a few minutes later, a little girl comes up to me and tells me she likes my fake bloody eye makeup. Only that, I'm not wearing any.