#and seeing camp crystal lake in F13 made me want to make one of these bracelets

[8g-soymilk]

Day 14 of @quezify's Eggtober! Egg bracelet for today; pattern below the cut:

[wickedshewolf-blog]

The Dark and Knowing

Characters: Jason Voorhees, Original Character

Genre: Hurt | Angst  | Romance | Horror | Lemon

Summary:  A young woman with a horrid and haunting secret has to face her demons in the form of Jason Voorhees. Destiny, fate - whatever it is, young Catherine falls prisoner to the ancient and dark Crystal Lake. Supernatural powers at work leave our local urban legend questioning everything.

Word Count: Around 6k

Warning: Intended for 18+ various trigger warnings. It’s F13 so you can imagine a lot, hah.

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THE DARK PART

I grew up in New York. No, not the city. I was born and raised upstate. Mountains, great lakes, tall trees, etc. One of those places you don't really miss until you've left it. The harsh winters, were cold and unforgiving. Trees so old they kept dark and wonderful secrets. The lakes so perfect they were on postcards and tacky souvenir gifts. I would give anything to taste that air and feel the cold rush of fresh northern water one more time. I spent my summers exploring the forests with my siblings, preferring the solitude of those ancient trees and silent craggy mountainsides. My childhood consisted of little else, outside of my family. Though in recent years, I lost contact with my mother, who'd turned to alcohol and painkillers to dull her heartache. She was never the same after my father left. I was raised almost entirely by my older brother, Booker. When my father left us, things just sort of, stopped turning. As if the cogs in the intricate workings of our little family had rusted to a halt. Life was, to say the least... uneventful.

I wanted to leave. I had never been out of state before, so when presented with an offer to leave I was more than willing. I had my hesitations, of course, but I wanted to be free of the past pain holding me there. I was, by no means wealthy. I came from a blue-collar family and had nary two pennies to rub together. Booker had tempted me with promises of fun, money and, as the brochure put it "breathtaking scenery". He'd gotten an offer to be a counselor at a new camp. I didn't question how the offer came to be - his luck was impeccable. People just naturally liked him. Everyone was drawn to him, wanted to befriend him, date him. I stood tiny in his immense shadow. There was no sibling rivalry, it was just the way it was. He never held it over me and I never hated him for it. He was the cute jock, I was the odd bird. Life went on and people sucked.

He goaded me into leaving. He could convince me to do just about anything. He'd had always been the social butterfly of the family. I was the black sheep. Lord knows why he didn't get into motivational speaking - the man had a gift, truly. The conversation was as cliche as those old slasher flicks:

"Come on Catherine, it will be fun. You'll have a great time. I mean, you've never even left New York. You mean to tell me, you are perfectly happy right here serving coffee to assholes for another twenty years?"

"No. It's just... it seems a little too perfect." Always the skeptic.

"Not everyone is just out to get you, you know." Always the optimist.

"That's unfair. I don't think everyone is out to get me. It's just... statistics. More often than naught I get the shit end of the stick. Come on, I'm even the middle child. Life just loves to continually chap my ass."

Cue puppy dog eyes. "Please go?"

"Stop that. That is cheating."

He was relentless. In this and in everything about life - it bent to his will like clay in his hands. There were never two people more polar opposite. Booker saw the good in everyone and everything. I saw the worst. But I wanted so dearly to be like him and he always used that to sway me. He helped me pack my bags with, I'll admit, annoying excitement. Not to say I wasn't excited, I just had a bad feeling about the whole affair. To be fair - I tended to be right about these things. I'll skip the boring parts, where I tell you I shared an small, cramped apartment with my brother and worked at a cafe serving caffeinated drinks to young adults who always said I was "weird." Sometimes they would get creative and use words like, "funky," "dark," or my personal favorite, "totally fucked up."

I was by no means cynical. I knew people. Let's just call it intuition for now. A week later I was stuffed in a car with Booker and three of his friends. The cream of the crop when it came to society, really. Booker and I took turns driving and riding shotgun. Neither of us trusted his friends to make the trip. Though more than one was older than me, they were by no means mature nor responsible. They spent most of the trip sleeping in the back, trading phones to look at less than dignified pictures of women (ill gotten pictures, I have no doubt) and listening to music.

As we neared the destination, Hoyt, a tall man with slicked back brown hair and a sickeningly charming smile, laid his hand on my shoulder. "You know where we are going, right Cat?"

I shoved his hand away, repelled, "Please don't call me that," I sighed, annoyed. He snickered and rolled his eyes, pleased with himself. The three of them in back exchanged hushed tones and chuckles. Booker looked at me sideways as if to apologize. I just gave my eyes a roll and smiled through the corner of my mouth. I was used to the whispers and the taunting. It felt like my only human interactions outside of Booker was just that. Whispering voices, taunt stares and pointing fingers. Booker slowed the car as we passed a worn old sign covered mostly by underbrush and mud.

Camp Crystal Lake.

The forest around us seemed daunting. It was different from the familiar tall, ancient trees of the Adirondack I was used to. They were stouter, bushier. But it was something else too. They had seen things. I couldn't put my finger on why it made me feel so uneasy, but it did. As I stared blankly out into the thick forest, I could hear the three men laughing in the back.

"Let's take a selfie," Sam said excitedly from the back seat. All three of them scrambled from the car. Booker stopped a moment, his hand resting on the door handle.

"You can't be serious," I said with a deadpan stare. He shrugged and got out of the vehicle jogging over to the group. They fumbled with their phones, taking turns strangling each other or pretending to hold a knife. Booker motioned for me to get out. I shook my head slowly. He clasped his hands together and mouthed the words "come on." I laughed silently to myself and caved. So easily swayed, I was. Especially when it came to him.

I got out of the car, my hand lingering on the handle for a moment. Hesitantly I shut the car door, the thud of the rubbed on metal echoed forever, it seemed. As I stepped off the old, threadbare asphalt into the grass, I felt an inexplicable stone drop into the pit of my stomach. I swayed momentarily on my feet. I slowed my pace and touched my fingertips to the side of my head. Booker's face went from playful to worried instantaneously. My palms began to sweat, a sudden high-pitched ringing rattled through my head. I could taste something chalky and smoky on my tongue and I realized I was clenching and gritting my teeth so hard it was sending pangs of agony down my jaw and into my neck. I mumbled something not even I could decipher and suddenly everything was black. I was so familiar with the inky blackness that it no longer scared me like it used to. When I was a kid I would scream into that void and no one would answer... usually. This time, as many times before, it was silent. I was silent - swimming in the dark waters. Only I wasn't alone. There was something out there, in the somber, murky waters with me. A sudden and unfathomable panic shot through me. I felt the innate need to run or swim to survive. That fight or flight instinct we all posses was alive and well inside of me. A loud bang erupted above me in the dark skies and it lit up with veins of lighting. For a moment the endless blackness was gray and alight with tendrils of light. It the distance I could see a figure. The light faded and I swam harder, away from the figure. The thunder and lightening clapped again, the blackness alive once more. The figure was impossibly closer now. The panic turned into sheer, carnal fear. Like fear I'd never known before. I screamed, just as something clutched the raw skin of my ankle and yanked me underwater. The warm, black water was suddenly hot as the lightening overhead illuminated the dark waters. I was surrounded by bodies. Hundreds and thousands of corpses, piled into absurd mountains of decay and bone. As water filled my lungs and I felt my pulse slow - I heard something faint and hoarse, as if it were whispering into my ear.

"Run."

When I woke up, I could feel the sweet kiss of grass on my face. My heart was pummeling in my ears, my limbs sore and rigid. As I opened my eyes, columns of sunlight drowned out everything else. Booker's face came into focus. I knew that look on his face; I'd seen it a hundred times before. Concern, embarrassment, fear. His hand was around my arm and he pulled me up into a sitting position. Hoyt, Sam and Charlie were standing dumbfounded behind him. I blinked the tears in my eyes away, dragging the corner of my sleeve along them. "Cathy," Booker whispered, motioning to his nose. I touched my fingertips to my lip and pulled them away. Blood. That had never happened before. He pulled a bandanna out of his back pocket and handed it to me. I dabbed it at my nose shakily.

"Oooooh, Camp Blooood strikes again!" Charlie said in a sing-song voice. I didn't even look at him.

"Shut The fuck up Charlie," Booker hissed and pulled me to my feet. It took me a moment to gather myself. The three men talked among themselves as Booker helped me back to the car. I slid into the passenger seat. Booker squatted next to the car and squeezed my arm. "Did you take your medication this morning?" he whispered, glancing over his shoulder at his friends.

I set my teeth and sighed inwardly, "Yes," I said curtly. Booker cleared his throat, visibly shaken.

"I'm not trying to be a dick, Cathy - but I've never seen you this bad before." I looked down at my hands in my lap and pressed my lips together.

"I know," I said, my voice tiny, defeated. He nodded, repeatedly. "I don't want to be here," I said, looking up, my eyes meeting his.

"Look," he said shifting on his feet and squeezing my arm again, reassuring me. "If you don't feel better by tomorrow, I'll take you home. Okay?" his voice alone was soothing. Booker, my hero. "Okay?" he repeated. I nodded sullenly and he shut the car door. As pathetic as it was, I felt bad. Guilty. Like my being around was wrong. Booker had been defending me, consoling me, taking care of me, my whole life. I couldn't imagine the weight on his shoulders. His sister, the freak, the fuck up, the burden. The remaining few minutes of the car ride were silent. I think Booker had told the guys not to speak.

As we pulled up to our destination, a young kid, no older than eighteen, stepped out from a booth and strode up to the car.

"Names?" he said, official and important like. Booker smiled and rapped out our names. The boy wrote them all down on his clipboard and motioned us onward. The gravel road was bumpy, flinging rocks to and fro. Booker patted his car's dashboard and smiled. I tried to smile back but I think it came back more painful.

"Relax Cathy, we're gonna have fun," he said gently, shaking me by my shoulder. "We're gonna forget all about what happened and we're gonna have a shit ton of fun," he said with a laugh. I nodded and smiled a weak and pitiful smile. We passed under a sign being erected that read Camp Songbird. Lovely.

As we pulled up, the cabins came into view. Brand spanking new, fresh coats of pain, assigned names. All seemed ready to greet the summer latchkey kids. Mom and dad happy to rid them for the summer so they could enjoy their dinner parties, adult barbecues and enriched, cultured lives - kid-free. Yeah, okay, I was a little judgmental. Having never attended a camp myself, I just didn't see the allure. Before we could exit the car, a few people in matching shirts jogged up to us. Booker looked over at me and gave me that toothy grin of his and lightly tapped my shoulder. "Smile," he said like a chastising parent. As we all got out, the group of matching shirts greeted us happily. A man, much older than any of us, strolled up, wearing a polo, whistle and carrying a clipboard. His name tag was embroidered into his shirt "Colin". I still felt a little dizzy, so I stood in Booker's shadow like a little kid.

"Hey ya'll" Colin said too cheerily. "Welcome to Camp Songbird!" He extended his hand to shake my brother's and introduced himself. "Name's Colin. You must be Booker." Booker smiled and reciprocated the handshake.

"Guilty," he replied smiling. "Oh, and this is my sister, Catherine," he said, pushing me front and center. I mustered up my best smile and shook his hand.

"Oh, you'll be heading up our arts and crafts," Colin said, shaking my hand gently. "You'll love it here," his voice was nice. He seemed like the type of person that sent his kids to places like this. I held back a look of skepticism, shooting Booker an "I'm behaving" look.

"It's beautiful," I replied with a soft nod. After all the boring introductions and how-do-you-dos, we were given a tour of the camp. The mess hall was massive, with a state-of-the-art kitchen, lines of tables and cooks already working out menus and recipes. The archery range was stocked and ready, instructors already prepping. There was a beach and docks, those inflatable jumping things - in layman's terms. And in my corner of the camp, the arts and crafts studio. Modest sized, paints, canvases, pencils, easels. Fully stocked and ready to be used. This wasn't you run-of-the-mill summer camp. It was one of those rich kid camps. Parents spent a fortune to send their kids here.

I felt a little overwhelmed after the tour and decided to retire to my cabin - which for ease of access was connected to the arts and crafts studio. By the time it was all done and over, the sun was setting over the lake. Most of the future counselors, instructors and what have you were gathered around a massive fire pit just off the shore of the lake. I didn't want to be near the water. After the incident at the old camp, water seemed like a shadowy figure. Something told me, something deep inside me, that that lake was not one to be trifled with. As I pulled down my bedding, and untied my hair, a sudden knock at the door sent an irrational panic down my spine. I spun around to see Booker waving through the small window. I quickly opened the door and glared at him.

"What?" I said in a less than friendly tone.

"You're not gonna come out here and meet everyone? Come on, I thought we talked about this."

"I just don't feel up to it. Not after... "

"Look, Cath, it was a one time thing. I bet you, it was just the excitement, right? Everything is fine. Besides, we're at least three miles from that place." I looked at him sideways, clasping and unclasping my hands. "Just... give this place, these people a chance. You might just surprise yourself." I rolled my eyes and gave in.

"Fine. Fiiiiine." He did a victory fit pump and draped his arm over my shoulder. "But I swear if people start acting like drunken idiots I am tapping out so fast you won't even know I'm gone."

"Okay deal, if people start enjoying themselves, you are free to leave." I lightly punched his shoulder.

There were eight people around the fire, give or take. Colin, Booker's friends, three girls I'd yet to meet and an older man I had seen at the mess hall earlier in the day. Booker, practically dragging me with him, sat down in a white Adirondack chair and motioned for me to sit next to him. I sat, begrudgingly.

"Everyone, this is Cathy, my little sister. She's an Aries, she likes arts and crafts-" I punched him again, this time harder. "Hey, I was just trying to help you out," he laughed. I weakly waved at the other counselors.

Charlie spoke up, "Denver here was just telling us about the Blood Curse, Cat," he said waggling his eyebrows. I gritted my teeth and looked at the older man from the mess hall. "Please, continue," Charlie said, spreading out his hand and leaning back in his seat.

Denver cleared his throat, "'Course it s'all local myth. Y'know, like the Pope Lick Monster, Jersey Devil, Bigfoot-"

"Cryptozoology," I chimed in. Everyone stared blankly at me, "It's the study of folklore," I said softly, pulling the zipper of my jacket up to my chin.

"Right. Well, like I was sayin', they said there's a blood curse on this place. They don't really know when it started, but it was long before the Camp Crystal Lake murders. Long time before we was here. Maybe Native American times. It's old, older'n time."

"Camp Crystal Lake murders?" a girl on my left said. She leaned forward, intrigued. The radio playing "I Can't Go For That" suddenly fizzled out into white noise. No one seemed to notice.

Denver nodded his head, "I'm sure you all heard of Jason Voorhees," he paused to spit. The only person who nodded was Charlie. "It started almos' thirty years ago. He drowned in this very lake. His mama, Pamela, worked as cook for the camp. She was torn up by his death'n the circumstances, she went on a killing spree. Killed the counselors responsible for his death. Every time they tried to reopen that damn camp, she made sure it didn't happen. Crazy old bat. Fires, murders, water went bad too. Took them years to finally give up. After Pamela was killed, right here on this shore, by the only survivor, the killins' didn't stop. They say Jason saw his mama killed that night. They say he picked up where she left off."

A shiver went down my spine, "But I thought you said he drowned," I said softly.

"We all did. Course, this is just an old camp cook's tale. But there was rumor she wasn't the best mama. Wasn't all there, y'know. He lived but he was too afraid to go back home. Lived in the woods, trappin', fishin' and the like. No, they say he's still alive, livin' in these woods. And anyone who comes 'round is sure to meet the business end of a machete." Denver spit again, "The same machete that killed his mama-"

"Alright! That's a great story Denver," Colin stopped him, "But it's just a story, of course. There's no curse. It's a scary story kids tell each other when they're camping. In fact, this land has been observed and there isn't anything here or anything wrong with it as a matter of fact. I'm going to head to my hotel now, you kids don't stay up too late. Denver, you need a ride home?"

As Colin and Denver trudged away into the darkness, the radio popped and fizzled back on. I shifted uncomfortably, unable to take my eyes off of that murky lake water. Booker chuckled and playfully nudged me. I didn't find it so funny. Not after my blackout at the old camp. Something wasn't right. This land had a dark passenger, I could feel it. I could feel in that dark empty spot.

Charlie exchanged whispers with one of the girls and motioned to me with his head. I swallowed the knot my throat. "Cat is shaking in her boots," he said, putting in elbow in Sam's ribs. Booker shot him such a venomous glare it scared even me.

Sam laughed and covered his eyes with his hands, mocking me. "Run, run," he said in a whisper.

Charlie snickered and joined in. "Jason," he said a faux scared voice. Booker stood up and clenched his fists tightly at his side.

"Shut up Charlie," he seethed. I shot them all a confused look.

"Come on Booker, she was just trying to scare us all," Sam sighed and tipped his head towards me. Booker repeated himself and cast a glance back at me.

"What?" I said incredulously. I clenched the arms of the chair tightly. "What are they talking about?" I said breathlessly. The three men laughed and Charlie dropped to ground, covering his eyes with his hands and pretending to convulse.

"Run, run. Jason," he said. Booker reached down and grabbed him by the collar, yanking him up. He shoved him and he Charlie fell back down. "Hey chill man, we're just teasing her."

"Well it's not funny," my brother snarled, looking at them all as if they were simple, petulant children. "She's not here for your amusement. You don't even know the first thing about her. She has a condition-"

I immediately stood up and started walking, quickly, back to my cabin. I could feel the familiar sting of embarrassment in the pit of me. The sound of footfalls behind me, made me jog now. I knew it was Booker before he even grabbed my arm. I yanked it away.

"Come on Catherine," he said, trying to slow me down by stepping in front of me. "I didn't mean condition. It's not that big of a deal." I stopped dead in my tracks.

"Did I really say that? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, I didn't want to scare you."

"Your friends are assholes."

"You just scared them is all. They think you did it on purpose."

"I didn't even know about that story!"

"Oh come on, you probably Googled it and forgot. The subconscious is a powerful thing."

I made a disgusted sound and shoved past him. "You should know me better than that, Booker. Go back to your buddies. Have a great time." I glanced over my shoulder as he stood there defeated. He slowly turned and walked away, throwing his hands up.

I opened the cabin door harshly, it slammed the wall and knocked down all the toiletries on the shelf. The various bottles skittered across the wooden floor. I slammed the door shut, the white blinds bouncing off the door and swaying back and forth.

"Jerk," I whispered, pushing back the tears in my eyes. I stood there, swimming in the dark of the cabin, wracking my brain. Searching for an explanation, a memory of that name, that story. Nothing. I thought briefly of my vision, my blackout but I couldn't look at it. The fear, the darkness, the bodies. I shivered, slipped into my bed and pulled the covers over my face. I was exhausted from the day, my eyes shuttered closed without effort.

I woke up at the edge of the lake. It was very dark. The moon was barely visible, filtering through heavy clouds. Although I had fallen asleep fully clothed, I was only wearing my underthings. I clutched my hands around my waist and shivered, my breath coming out in small white clouds. Without the slightest warning, the sky lit up with coiling veins of lightening. With a loud clap, it began to pour. The rain hit the lake in a sweeping motion, towards me. When it hit me, it felt like ice, sharp and unrelenting. A shadow out on the dock caught my attention. Someone was swimming. I blinked through the rain and shifted in the now muddy earth. The figure stood on the far end of the dock, just staring. It was featureless, emotionless and inside me, somewhere it said "Run." So I did. As I went to turn on my heel, I slipped into the mud. I struggled to get my footing. Finally, I launched off into a sprint. But I felt as if I was getting no closer to my cabin. To safety. To Booker. I pushed with every ounce of me I had. Everything inside of screamed run harder. But the cabin never came any closer. I lost my footing once more and fell to my stomach. Cold, wet mud sloshed around me as I rolled to my back. There it was. The figure, looking over me. The rain and mud stung my eyes as I struggled to make out who it was - what it was. I could make out that it was human, tall, taller than anyone I'd ever seen. I remembered, briefly, my father taking me to see the Harlem Globe Trotters. One of their actors was tall. My brain was firing away, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Scratching at memories, piecing together shards and tattered husks. No he wasn't quite that tall, but close. He. I said he. The dark place inside of me, the place that all my fear and hate and pain hid away - it said he. All at once, it was a he and it was terrifying. I could feel the warmth that was fear-driven adrenaline shoot into every part of my body. I was agonizingly smaller, slower, weaker. The figure - he - leaned down, his face illuminated by a chance stroke of lightening. White. I blinked back the rain, smearing mud on my face as I pushed soaked locks of hair from view. Again, the lightening crackled, illuminating everything around us. My eyes widened. It was one of those old-school hockey masks. With such ease I couldn't comprehend, he lifted me by my throat. I kicked and tried to scream, but he was crushing my windpipe as if it were nothing to him. Then, without pause, everything was black and I was underwater once more. I could see the surface, far above me. I could hear screams. A fire, induated above me, like a hot tidal wave. I could see the perverse corpses, like I had before. Twisted craggy hills of flesh and bone, agony and hatred. They were miles long, deep into that inky black lake water. I tried to swim for the surface, to soothe my aching lungs with the kiss of air. As I neared the surface a large shadow fell over me. Like a black cloud. It blocked out light from above. Slowly, twisting and twirling as it fell, a hockey mask sank towards me. As I watched it sink into the depths below me, I noticed the mountains of bodies had disappeared. I looked back to the surface, swimming more fervently. As I closed in on safety, I could see bodies floating above me. Familiar faces. Camp counselors - Denver, Charlie, Sam... Booker. I screamed, water filling my mouth, my lungs, sinking me back down into the depths. Deeper than before. Agony. Darkness. Death.

Then that voice. Hoarse, gentle, a whisper of a whisper, "Jason."

I woke up startled, sweating, covered in something wet. The shutter on my window clattered back and forth.

Creak, bang, creak bang.

Slow, soft droplets of water leaked through the roof above my bed, hitting my face and rolling down the angle of my jaw. It was raining. I sat up, the covers flung to the foot of my bed. Dark red streaked my pillowcase where my nose he'd bled again in my sleep. I reached for a tissue on my nightstand. I absently stuffed it up both nostrils and swung my feet to the side of the bed. The cabin floorboards groaned under me as I stood, unsteadily. I wiped the water from my brow and toed across to the front door. The fire was out, chairs were tipped over, rainwater splashing mud onto fresh, white paint.

The lake seemed almost black under the cloud-filled sky. In the distance I could hear the rolling thunder as the storm moved overhead. A whip of lightening lit up the sky, and for a moment it was almost daylight outside. I looked out, instinctively to the dock from my dream, vision, episode, whatever it was. Empty. A sigh of relief fell from me inside the otherwise silent cabin. "Just a story," I whispered to no one in particular. I bit my lip, hard, just to be sure the dream was over. Something told me I need to see my brother. To make sure he was okay. Rationally I shook my head. I was being silly. It wasn't much longer until daylight. I would get breakfast in the mess hall and he would be there with his friends, laughing and being there generally rude and irritating selves.

Go see Booker. My hand faltered on the doorknob. Finally, hesitantly, I turned and opened the door. The wind swung it from my grasp, tearing into the side of the cabin. The wind howled through the trees, whipping across the face of the lake. A broken tree limb blocked the stairs to my cabin, so I jumped to the side, mud splattering up past my ankles. I popped the hood of my jacket up and trekked through the mud to the fire pit. Beer cans littered the grass, the radio was lodged in the mud, dented from the back as if someone had stepped on it. I narrowed my eyes down at it and tilted my head slightly. As I squatted to pick it up, something far off in the treeline moved. I stood immediately to my feet, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my jacket. The voice of reason in me repeated the words Colin had said so confidently earlier that night. "Nothing is wrong with this land. Just a story." The skeptic in me took hold and I rolled my eyes. Wildlife was lush in places like this. Deer, bears, coyotes were not bothered by rain. They carried on as if nothing were amiss. I turned back towards the camp and made out the dark silhouette of Booker and Charlie's cabin. As I strode through the mud and rain, I could hear the far off murmur of music in another cabin. A reassurance that all was right and I was being silly. I had a rich imagination, as my mother said.

The lights in Booker's cabin were flickering. The sound of the generator hummed in the distance. I rapped three times on the door before opening it. It didn't seem rude at the time to burst in unexpectedly. I needed to know he was there. The main room was dark, the light completely out. The bathroom light flickered on and off in the back. I could make out a person in Charlie's bed, who I assumed to be Charlie. Booker's bed was empty. The covers lay slumped to the side, pushed into a haphazard pile. A small coil of worry slithered through me. I toed to Charlie's bed and shook his shoulder lightly. "Charlie," I whispered. Nothing. I shook harder. "Charlie," I said excitedly. Irritated I grabbed the flashlight on his nightstand and clicked the button. It fizzled out. I smacked the head of it a couple of times against my hand and it sprung back to life. The column of white light fell over Charlie's bed, I quickly guided it to where his head should have been. Should have been.

Only there was no head. His neck, bone exposed, torn and sliced away as if he'd stuck it in a guillotine was threadbare and gored. My mouth opened and closed repeatedly, my hands began to shake as I stood rooted in shock. The flashlight fell from hands and rolled under the bed, smacking the baseboard and spinning around. There were no words I could find. I couldn't even scream. Everything was tightened down and muffled as if I were a million miles away from my body. I spun around to see Charlie's head sitting on a chair, the column of light from the flashlight illuminating the corner just enough for me to know. It felt like I was stuck in slow motion as I ran sluggishly and tripped to the door.

I flung it open and ran out into the rain, my hood now down. The rain pelted my face angrily. Not asleep. Not a dream. This was happening. Just then, with no warning, a figure sprinted past the fire pit and slipped in the mud. I didn't speak a word, still stunned. The figure stood back up, glancing over its shoulder and stumbled to my cabin. I reached out a hand, very slightly, trying to muster up the words "Over here," but it came out in a small, pathetic gasp. The figure, looked over its shoulder once more, and there under the flickering haze of the porch light, I could see my brother's own stunned expression. "Booker," I whispered, shivering in the rain. As I took a strangled step forward, the soft, reassuring hum of the generator stopped. Sparks flew from the lights as they died off into a soft orange glow. "Booker," I choked out a bit more loudly now. I stumbled a few steps forward, sliding in the mud. The lights lurched on again, only for a moment.

It only took a moment - there, behind Booker, as if materialized from nowhere, was the figure. The shadow shape I had come to know well. In my dreams, in my visions. Inhumanly tall, strong, malicious. In his hands, gripped with sureness dangled a machete. An extension of himself. Not a tool, but part of his hand. I sucked in whatever air I could muster, "Booker!" I screamed, drawing from the bottoms of my feet, the pit of my stomach, the tips of every last finger. My brother spun around, droplets of mud and rain flecked in every direction. I couldn't save him. Not as he had always saved me. I reached out to him, thinking in some way I could stop it. I could make the dream end and I could wake up and everything would be fine.

I am forever thankful I could not see. But I could hear. I could hear the dull slice of metal on flesh. I could hear the gurgle of blood and that last sigh of life. And it was over as quickly as it had begun. I closed my eyes, I cried, I screamed, I sank to my knees in the mud. The animal in me said get up and run you idiot. The sister in me, alive with hate and anger said kill him for what he did. But I could do neither. The numbness spread through me, the pain was agonizing as it all hit me at once. Booker was gone and I would never see him again. I would never hear his laugh or feel the warmth of his embrace. I would never hold his hand as he worked me through an anxiety attack.

The hardest part of losing someone so close to you isn't the white hot, blinding pain. Or the indescribable sense of loss. It's how from the moment you know until the moment you die, every memory of them is cemented into place like anchors. They consumed me down to the very bone. The times he had consoled me. At school, at home. How he'd make me smile even in the darkest of times. And the zenith of all these memories, the apex forever ground into my brain like a bloody, unforgiving thorn; the last words we shared. It wasn't supposed to be like that. The last time I spoke to him, it was cruel and unfair. Angry, misplaced, ridiculous, childish anger.

As I sat there, slumped over myself, I could feel the presence of my own personal demon. As if he'd lured me here. As if I'd grown up, my whole life, for this very moment. I looked up at him - my end - scornfully. "You bastard," I whispered, shivering into my soaked coat. In retort, he grabbed either side of my jacket and hoisted me up with ease to my feet. I swayed back and forth before him. I said nothing, I just stared blankly into his chest. What could I say? There was nothing that could bring back my brother.

We both stood there, for a moment. He titled his head to side, watching as I just submitted to my impending death without a fight. "What are you waiting for?" I seethed, looking up it through half-lidded eyes. "Do it," I could feel my fingernails digging into the palms of my wet hands. "Do it you asshole," I shouted. Without warning or hesitation his hand was around my throat and he hoisted me easily into the air. That impossibly strong, sure hand, tightening ever tighter. The last memory that slithered into my mind should have been of my family. Some warm, happy farewell thought. But instead, I thought of my first day of second grade. A memory I had long since buried in the recesses of my mind. The kind of memory that's pushed down so deep, you're not even sure it's a memory anymore.

I'm seven years old. I'm swinging across the monkey bars. Abruptly all I can see is blackness. Miles and miles of total blackness. It's all-consuming, empty, void. I scream out for my mother. Nothingness. Not even an echo. I'm not sure I even screamed, because there is nothing. Then, out of nowhere, voices swirl into this infinite blackness. Loud, then soft and distant. Saying things I've never heard before nor never hope to hear again. It goes on what seems like an eternity. Alone with the black void and millions of voices whispering unspeakable things. When I wake up, I m face down in the mulch with a broken arm. My classmates have gathered around me, some petrified, some amused. When I stand cradling my limp arm, its obvious I have wet myself, a patch of darkness on my denim. My eyes dart around, looking desperately for an adult. A girl, in a grade just above me utters a single word - a single insignificant word that sculpts the remainder of my youth, well into my adult life.

"Freak."

The memory faded into blackness as I closed my eyes, my throat burning, closing. I coughed for air, my legs kicking as that last bit of survival in me clawed at the surface. Like a long-awaited embrace, darkness fell, tendrils of warmth and silence engulfed me. Just as I surrendered to that eclipse, the deep, dark voice inside me, the one that I assumed was my subconscious, the one everyone has - reason, doubt, your soul, whispered, "I'm ready."

Something lurking in the black void, answered.

Hoarse, gentle, a whisper of a whisper, "No."

PART TWO