Charlie barely made it through Wednesday's Survey of Gothic Literature session. The urge to bolt out of the room multiplied the longer she sat in the vicinity of her stalker. Cat murderer. Or, as Peter called him: Sick, psychopathic motherfucker.

At least Dr. Ortega finally moved on from The Black Cat. Charlie didn't know why animal abuse had to be part of the syllabus, but the next story was almost worse. When Jonah offered to read out loud, she swore everyone heard the beating of her heart, in true Poe fashion, until the lull of his voice drowned out the sound.

"The Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice," he began, and Charlie flinched, "rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger and approached to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer."

A profound arrogance radiated off him as he read, thinking himself so clever, so coy, as if no one would see through the act. As if he could give them a smile and a sarcastic comeback and they'd worship at his feet.

He showed no trace of remorse for Lilith's murder, and Charlie hated the condescending, self-assured cadence of his words. Most of all, she hated how she found herself impressed by it. She only remembered him at thirteen, fourteen, a week of fifteen—nothing but glares and insults under his breath. He'd stumble over his sentences, nervous whenever presenting something in front of the class.

She'd been stalking him when they talked for the first time. After an hour on a school bus, where preteens chattered and threw paper balls and stuck their heads out the window as the driver scolded them for it, she and Jonah—her in the back and him in the front—were the only ones left. At the last stop, she stepped out of the bus as if she was meant to be there, miles away from home.

Jonah turned. Noticed the girl walking behind him like a shadow. He then stormed up to her, getting closer than she'd ever have the courage to. Would he shove her, push her to the sidewalk? She wouldn't mind scabbed elbows and bloody knees, but he stopped himself. Stared her down in a way that'd make her giddy for days after and demanded, "You. I see you. You think I don't see you? What you want?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper. Then unfolded it to reveal one of the many gruesome images she'd found online, printed out, and had been slipping into his backpack, his desk, the bathroom stall he sat in during lunch—all because she often saw him looking at gore on the library computer and figured that was where his interests lied.

"I thought we could be friends," she said in a hushed breath. "Ever had one of those? Doesn't seem like it. But it's okay. I haven't either."

"Friends?" he asked with this unforgettable chuckle, a slight flutter to his short lashes. It had probably not occurred to him, that her intentions could be so pure. "Why?"

●     ●     ●

More than five years later, Charlie found the courage to do it again. For Lilith. For Peter.

She attempted to follow Jonah home.

Based on what Raquel said, Charlie knew they shared a psychology class on Mondays and Wednesdays—right after Gothic Literature. She skipped Foundations in Biology and waited in a bathroom near said psych class until Jonah stepped out—chin raised, scanning the hallway as if already looking for her.

Charlie crept behind him from a distance. He received more stares in a minute than she had since the semester started, but today, she felt grateful for the power of invisibility. She was the phantom now. Her fear turned inside-out, replaced by the thrill of watching someone when they didn't know she was watching them.

A few art students greeted him, apparently already acquainted. She strained to hear their conversation—"I'd love to invite you to our opening show on Friday; have you seen our gallery yet?"—and another girl: "We heard you're into Poe. Maybe you'll try writing something for poetry night? It's right after the show. And there's an afterparty at Jessica's house if you'd like to come."

Jonah listened, giving them calculated smiles in his attempt to make it look like he cared. "Thanks for the invite," he said. "I'll be there." And then he adjusted his crutches and continued down the hallway, leaving the girls fawning at him as he stepped out through the exit doors.

Charlie could tell them. Tell them the new guy with the blunt, magnetic charm had murdered her cat. But they'd know soon enough. Everyone would.

Outside, she watched him make his way across the parking lot. Getting closer, she ducked behind students' cars and then the bushes lining the sidewalk—a ridiculous sight, but she'd do anything to know if he went somewhere after class and didn't simply vanish into thin air.

Afternoon sun beamed mercilessly upon them. A lizard ran over the toe of her Mary Janes. The bushes were covered in white, trumpet-shaped flowers. And after walking two blocks from campus, Jonah got into the passenger seat of a black car on the side of the road. Charlie didn't see the driver before it sped away, so busy was she scrambling to snap a photo of the license plate.

Friday came, and Jonah would not be getting into that car today.

"You sure he walks home?" Peter asked her. "With his crutches and everything?"

"He walks for a few minutes before someone comes pick him up, I think," Charlie said. She rocked back and forth, again and again—couldn't stop herself. The sky was overcast today, the air wet with a humidity that clung to her clothes. "Where are the others?"

"They said they'd be here."

Across the parking lot, she spotted Jonah talking to someone—Raquel. She was wearing her gray cheerleading outfit, and Charlie wondered if they were speaking in Portuguese until a voice called from behind: "'Sup guys!"

Mateo Figueroa. Quarterback for Sabre College's football team. He wore that warm, goofy smile that charmed her even back in high school. Evan stood at his side, holding a pair of drumsticks. Charlie had him in her Intermediate Photography class, and the near-daily sound of him banging those things against the desk, trying to make a "sick beat", drove her up the wall.

Why had Peter included either of them in this plan? Mateo was, by most accounts, a decent guy—the type who got scolded for petting the detection dogs when the cops came to do drug inspections. Conversely, when Evan made it on the team, Peter said something like, "I don't understand how coach lets that freak play on the field."

Whether "freak" referred to him being an atheist, the school's local pervert, or someone who cut his wrists on the regular, Charlie wasn't sure.

"We're doing this?" Evan asked.

"He murdered her cat, man," Mateo said. "Shit's messed up."

A curious smile found Evan's face. "I heard. But why?"

"He's just this... friend I used to have years ago who's still really mad I rejected him," Charlie explained, cringing at her words. How would that story be enough to convince anyone once word spread around campus? Still, she couldn't back out now. Not when it'd mean Lilith turning in her grave.

"Sounds like he needs to learn to take no for an answer," Mateo said. "And not murder cats. Like, what the fuck? That makes me nauseous."

"Be glad you weren't there to see it," Peter muttered, then motioned for everyone to get into his car. He sat in the front with Evan, and Charlie sat with Mateo in the back. Within seconds, Evan started drumming on the dashboard.

"Cut that out," Mateo groaned. "We have a mission."

"Beat him up to the beat," Evan chuckled. "I should make that a song."

"No one cares about your songs, man."

"Tell that to your boyfriend."

Mateo pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, shaking his head.

After Raquel waved bye to him, Jonah made his way down the sidewalk. Once he got far enough, Peter started the engine and caught up within seconds. Charlie bit her nails while Evan drummed faster and faster, even producing some awful beatboxing sound effects.

Jonah's chest was heaving. The back of his neck glistened with sweat, and she could no longer ignore the effort it took for him to walk, to haul himself forward step by step. His leg with the black brace around it dragged behind him, his arms flexing as he walked three times slower than everyone else.

Peter pulled up next to him and braked.

Jonah paused.

From the back seat, Charlie held her breath.

Evan rolled down the window. "Get in."

Jonah sighed. "Anything I can help you with?"

"I said get in, motherfucker." 

●     ●    ●

a/n: 

!! announcement !! 

the WALKING DISASTERS e-book is now out!! you can find it on amazon, barnes & noble, kobo, apple books, and google play. check the link in my bio (or pico.link/destacia) for direct links to purchase if you wish. this is my first self-published book as an indie author, and your support would truly mean the world to me! 

after six years, i can't believe i'm finally done. it's an immense relief to finally unleash my lil literary frankenstein monster out into the world.