Journal entry #106
Stu stopped calling me. Last time I saw him and Billy was almost two weeks ago now. I wonder where they went. I've been close to calling them but stopped myself because—
Because... Because... Because why, exactly? Your hand paused on the paper when you struggled to think of a reason. The most obvious one would be because you were still upset at the notion that Stu lied about Randy being the one behind everything that went wrong in your life, and yeah, that was kind of a big deal.
Begrudgingly, you tore the entry out of the diary, crumbled it between your fingers and tossed it away with a flick of the wrist. You didn't look up, not even until you heard the impact of paper against the plastic of the bin beside you. Your eyes only wandered off to the plate with an untouched croissant beside you, and you decided it was going to stay that way because writing about Billy and Stu had erased what little hunger you had.
Despite the plethora of evidence backing up the claim that Randy could not possibly have been the one to shoot you, a miniscule part of you was now hoping that he had. Not because you actually wanted him to be the one to have done it, but moreso because that would mean everything you knew now was going to stay the same. Nothing would change, and whenever your boys were going to show up again, all would return to relative normality. You wouldn't have to consider the prospect of them hiding something big from you.
Love made blind.
To your right you had your laptop standing on the table, screen turned on with two tabs opened. One being the one you should have been focusing on—your half-finished design for some shampoo company that had reached out to you last week—and the other you had opened more recently showing hundreds of articles about Ghostface.
Most of the links were red instead of blue because most of them, you had already clicked on in your search to gather more information. Unfortunately, the effort proved fruitless, because every time you thought you'd caught a lead, the computer showed this loading screen that went on and on for several minutes until it eventually crashed, each and every time.
Must have been the internet connection people in the bistro were taking advantage of.
And so you were absently letting your finger scroll down on the touch pad, watching the countless hits your search had brought up pass by, until you felt the buzz of your cellphone vibrating in your front pocket.
With a yawn you tried to hide behind your hand, you took it out, thinking it to be Emma or perhaps even Stu, but the last hope was squandered when the name on the screen flashed Jed Olsen.
J: “the environmental enthusiasts aren't going to be happy about that.”
You stopped your scrolling at once, feeling a nervous flutter in your belly when you read the text. Was Jed here? You didn't see him come in, not even when your gaze did a thorough sweep over all of the people inside.
As you were looking for the man, your gaze briefly connected with someone else's. That someone else being the blonde barista, who was frowning at you, her almond shaped face pulling into a sort of narrow flex, and she wiped her hands on the edge of the black apron that was tied around her waist.
"Is there something I can get you?" She took a step closer. Mariette dropped the piece of cloth she had been wiping the tables with, and when you looked back up to her, she looked very much unhappy. About what, you had no idea. You hadn't done anything to her.
Not that this was new. You had visited the bistro every other morning for the past week because you didn't want to sit at home all day long. It felt nice to be with people around you, even when you didn't engage in civil conversation besides the usual nod of the head and a good morning.
This was why you saw Mariette more often than you preferred, and each time without fail, she glared at you every chance she got. You didn't understand why; she had been the one that spilt coffee over you that day and therefore ruining the potential of creating some sort of friendship.
"No thanks." You turned your eyes back to your phone, hoping that she would just leave. To your pleasant surprise, she did, not wanting to be near you just as much as you didn't want to share the same space with her.
You raised an eyebrow when you read Jed's text a second time, and then went on to reply.
You: “what, because I threw away one page?”
The answer came not even two minutes later.
J: “what has that paper done to you? Cut your finger? That is one horrendous crime.”
You hated how your heart thumped pleasantly and how you couldn't help the smile pulling on your face. Despite that, you felt stalked, and you did another check of the bistro to make sure you hadn't just looked over him somehow.
Sure enough, there, sitting near the counter and hidden behind the Roseville Gazette, was Jed himself. You couldn't see much of his face from where you were sitting, but you did catch a glimpse of the side of his mouth ticked up into a small smile, like he could feel your stare on him.
Rolling your eyes, you were about to close the tab showing a picture of the infamous Ghost mask on your computer, until your cell buzzed again, stopping you from doing so.
J: “writers block?”
You pulled your lips to the side, thinking. It wasn't really any of his business, especially when you were writing in a diary: a book specifically designed to write down your most personal thoughts for no one else to see. Not to mention the topic you had been writing about.
You: “oh no. I was just writing about nun."
You alternated between grinning smugly at what you had typed, and watching Jed's arm reach for his cell before replying.
J: “nun?”
You: ”nunofyabusiness”
However childish it was, you gave yourself a mental pat on the back and made quick work of packing up your laptop before throwing a five dollar bill on the table.
As you opened the glass doors to exit the bistro and put one foot outside, you could feel a pair of eyes on you the entire time.
*~*~*
The muggy air moving through the crack of a barely open window left a thin layer of moisture over most of your body. It had taken you half an hour under the shower to finally feel clean.
With a dark, blue bath towel fastened around your torso, you made your way across the hallway, your damp feet making smacking noises and leaving an outline of footprints in your wake.
Once in your bedroom, you pulled on (F/C) shorts and a soft hoodie, keeping a second towel wrapped around your head. You felt refreshed, humming a quiet tune to yourself as you wormed your way into the pants you'd been wearing earlier. The next stop was the living room, where you sat down with more grace than you usually would.
You always thought yourself decent at making small talk. Back when you had a decent social circle, you used it frequently with classmates or family members whenever they tried to socialize with you, asking polite but ultimately empty questions, such as: how was your day?; How did you find the exam?; Do you wanna hang out?
And you always had a polite answer back. Good (lie); hard (truth); gladly (depending on who asked).
However now, upon sitting in the same area as Emma's boyfriend, you couldn't help but feel not much of that had stuck around at all. Or maybe it was just because you felt awkward. Earlier, you asked your friend if she felt like coming over to watch a movie and have a sleepover. She agreed, but brought someone unexpected with her, who just couldn't stop staring at you and made no attempts to hide his appreciation for your figure.
He introduced himself as Arlo. An emo-styled guy that wore thick eyeliner, had piercings on the corner of his mouth and nose, and in your humble opinion, had the brain capacity of a walnut.
Not to mention, his name sounded like one of those protagonists of movie plots, you know, the one with unparallelled knowledge of horror tropes that'd help the rest of his friends escape a crazed murderer?
"Sooo... How old are you?" Arlo prodded after some time of nothing being said.
You were caught off-guard by his sudden bluntness, looking mildly uncomfortable by the question that you answered with a tight-lipped smile. "In my twenties. That's all you gotta know."
There was a beat of silence as you hoped to leave the conversation at that, and your prayers were answered when Enna strud over into the main living room, two glass bowls filled with chips and a plethora of candies in her hands.
"I just threw in whatever I could find for us to eat," she flashed you a smile, and put one of the bowls down on the saloon table next to where you sat, keeping the other one tucked to her chest as she made her way over to the wall farthest away. "Are we ready?" She checked, lost on the conversation from before, and you gave her a nod.
After switching the room's lights off and sitting criss cross on the opposite couch next to Arlo, the blackhaired looked up at him. "Which one did ya pick?"
He looked awfully smug with his answer. "We're going gory. Saw 4."
Emma inhaled so sharply a piece of potato chip in her mouth got lodged in her throat, triggering a coughing fit that she gulped down after a few tries.
"Saw 4?" She then pelted him in the chest with an angry finger. "Are you kidding? You could've picked something less extreme."
Arlo shrugged and draped his arm over her knee. "I just picked from (Y/N)'s collection. It's just a movie, baby. Totally fictional, what's the big deal? It ain't like you're gonna get cut up from watching it."
He was both right and wrong. You didn't own a collection of horror flicks—your boys did. But no, of course watching a film wasn't going to hurt you.
You bit your lip, waiting for something clever to pop into your head, but Emma beat you to it.
"(Y/N) asked us to come over to have a good time, not to get even more spooked than she already is!" She hissed and swatted his arm away.
"Ems, it's fine," you promised her, grateful that she was being so considerate. Gore most definitely wasn't your favourite subgenre, so Saw didn't tick the box with you, but that didn't mean you couldn't at least give it a shot. "We can watch it even when it's disgusting and yuck."
"See? She said it's fine." Arlo winked at you from under his green wavy hair that was cut just a shade too long, strands curling at the nape of his neck in what could be considered a mullet.
"I wouldn't hit on her if I were you~" sung Emma, before biting into another chip that produced a delicious crunching noise. "Her boos have cams installed all over the crib and if they see you getting all cozy with her... I wouldn't wanna be in your shoes."
Arlo only scoffed, pretending to be the big guy you were sure he was trying to convince himself he was.
"Anyway, I share the same sentiment with (Y/N). It so fucking is disgusting. I hate that torture porn shit."
"I like Jigsaw. He kills people very creatively."
Damn, you weren't the type to go off on first impressions, but Emma really could have done better.
"But you don't give a shit who dies. There's zilch character development. Just body parts ripping and blood spewing. Blaaah!" Realizing what she had said, Emma slapped a hand on her mouth, mumbling a quiet, "TMI. sorry, (Y/N)."
You shrugged. "Don't worry about it."
You were relieved when Arlo hit on play, and eerie music began to blare loudly from the television across from you.
As expected, the movie left little to imagination. Limbs were torn and twisted, blood sprayed around like fountains and you already knew this was one franchise that Billy and Stu had binged a hundred times over and then some more.
To your complete surprise, you weren't feeling as sick to your stomach as you initially thought you would be. There were the typical shots of the main characters getting horifically slaughtered for the sins they had committed in the past, the traps and the stupid ideas to escape them that would, in one way or another, fail.
Perhaps it was because of Jed's words that rang in the back of your mind, soothing you with how over-the-top and ridiculous some flicks were. The more you paid attention, the more you had to agree with him, and the more you could actually enjoy it for what it was.
This ultimately lead you to where you were now, which was the part where a rapist got dismembered.
Served him right.
While some could argue that Jigsaw was some kind of anti-hero that took the ropes in his own hands by eleminating those that deserved it because of something bad they'd done, killing was still killing, and you thought his motives were just a lame excuse to live out his most vile fantasies.
Over one hour into the gore fest, you peeked over your shoulder at the couple that was sitting in a tangled mess at the foot of the sofa, before Emma nudged his side.
"It's a good thing you're here. That way if someone comes for us (Y/N) and me can sacrifice you first."
"I'd like to see you try," teased Arlo, and you made fake gagging noises when he began attacking the side of her neck by peppering kisses everywhere.
"You know the ones that have sex always get merked first?" You were about to add another lame joke to that statement when everything tilted alarmingly around you, or maybe you were the one tilting. Your vision greyed around the edges, blurring, and your ears suddenly felt like they'd been stuffed with cotton.
"There are certain rules that one must abide by in order to successfully survive a horror movie." It was Randy Meeks who spoke, pulling the rest of the party goers around you in with his theatrical antics.
You blinked rapidly to try to get the image out of your head, but to your frustration, it didn't work this time.
"Rule number one: you can never have sex. The minute you get a little nookie–you're as good as dead. Sex always equals death."
"(Y/N)?" You vaguely heard a female voice bring you back to earth. The living area returned just as abruptly as it had disappeared, one moment gone and the next there again.
Emma was now bent over in front of you, her gaze a worried one as she shook your shoulders lightly.
You breathed in through your nose, and out through your mouth. "Y–yeah?"
"This is the third time I've called out to you," she let out a gusty sigh of relief. "Everything's okay?"
No, everything was far from okay. How could a person as bright as Randy commit crimes, let alone murder? It didn't feel right. Like a piece of the jigsaw puzzle was missing. Pun intended.
"Yes." You lied convincingly enough, and rubbed your forehead with your hands, feeling yourself growing increasingly tired. You pushed yourself off the one-person couch and smoothed the fabric of your yellow, mid-thigh length dress. "I'm going to bed, I think. I don't feel so well."
Emma nodded and took your hand in her own small one to drag you into the direction of the stairs. She took the initiative to guide you through your the house, undoubtedly because she was concerned and wanted to get you away from Arlo.
Once arriving at your bedroom door, Emma put her fingers to her chin and looked you over. "You gonna be alright for ten mins while I tell Arlo to f off?"
"Sure will be," you told her.
"I'll give you one of those cow bells in case you need anything," she wrapped her arms around your neck to pull you in for a tight embrace. "If you have one of those. Now shoo, off to bed! You're gonna need rest for tomorrow."
You slowly let go off her, tilting your head in question. "Tomorrow is Saturday. What do you have planned?"
But the blackhaired said nothing, zipping her mouth shut with her fingers before throwing the invisible key away and speedwalking down the hall.
Oookaayy... There was little point in wondering what that meant. Right now, your bed was calling out to you, but you weren't going to sleep just yet.
No, you went to spend another unknown amount of time on your computer.
The second you pushed the lid up, a recommended message popped up on the screen. It piqued your interest enough. It was a news article.
'According to police there have been multiple murder cases all throughout Roseville. Within a year time, several families have been attacked with no victims alive to speak of. Sheriff Rorke claims to have the situation under control..."
The article continued to read on about all of the victims found so far, and you could only shake your head. Seven deaths seemed perfectly under control...
'But rest assured,' the Sheriff went on to say. 'We are working day and night to apprehend the culprit. This is a very confusing time for all of us. Do make sure to lock your doors, close your blinds, and most of all–stay safe," he finalized.
You threw the blanket over your head, frustrated. Where were you even going to start your search?
What would Jed do in this situation? Definitely not sit around. He was a reporter.
Think like a reporter, (Y/N). What do reporters do?
Gather intel. But for that, you needed a source. A reliable source that wouldn't feed you bullshit. For now, there was no person alive fitting that description, and you found yourself at a dead end.