❝It's alright to scream

I'm screaming too

Why'd you think I do these things I do?❞

➼ the hoosiers, "killer"

Instead of waiting for Peter to finish practice, Charlie walked home alone under an overcast sky and a breeze to spare her from the humidity. She was glaring at the ground and doing breathing exercises to calm down—until her ringtone sounded. A call from her parents' outdated landline. She did a double take. Did something happen? Were they checking to make sure she was alright? Were they canceling their trip altogether?

"Mom?" she asked into the speaker. "Dad?"

She was greeted only by a sinister laugh. "Sorry to disappoint."

Her hold on the phone faltered. The sound of his voice crept deep into the recesses of her brain. 

"Jonah," she spat.

"God, I kind of love it when you say my name like that."

"This is—" her heart beat like machine gun rapid-fire "—this is my home phone; are you at my house?"

"What kind of stalker would I be if I wasn't?"

She'd been forcing herself to stay calm for hours. Count to ten, deep breaths—forget it. "No... no. Get out of there. Get. Out." She thought he was done with the break-ins, but what if he wasn't? What if he'd gotten through the alarm and had been staying over uninvited? She'd never know it except for the chills on the back of her neck—but he gave her that feeling no matter where he was at.

Jonah sighed. His breath made a harsh static sound through the receiver, and she flinched. "I saw the grave in your backyard, by the way. Next time, I'll bring flowers."

"How did you get in? There's an alarm now—how did you get in?"

"You had an alarm installed for me? That's cute."

Charlie scurried faster down the sidewalk. Two miles left. Could she keep Jonah on the phone until she got there? What would she do then—pull her pocket knife to his neck? She could hang up and call the police. That'd be the sensible option, but instead...

"Where are my parents?" she demanded. "What did you do with them?"

"What I did with them? Nothing, Reyes."

She wanted to rid the mention of her name from her system—it was too personal, too close to a home, a family she never knew. And to think she'd only started using it as her last name—instead of Rosehart—after getting to know him all those years ago.

"Why did you call me?" she asked.

"It's been a while," he said, with an excruciating smugness that almost made her snap. "I wanted to hear your voice." A few moments later, she heard shuffling and a rhythmic clack... clack... clack... as he made his way into what she assumed was her bedroom. Then the familiar swing of her closet door. The rustling of her box of knives.

"I'm surprised you kept them," he said.

Her ribs almost cracked as her heart pounded rapidly against them. "Not for you."

"Even my black one." Metal scraped against the plastic sheath as he pulled it out.

"Put it down."

"I'm walking to your bed."

"Stop."

"I'm tangled in your covers, hand down my pants—"

Heat shot up her chest, to her neck, to her cheeks. "Jonah! What in the—"

He cut her off with his usual laugh. "Kidding."

"You are so lucky," she breathed, "you are so lucky you're not here with me."

"What would you do if I was?" he asked, and she heard the creak of her bed as he laid down. "Murder me?"

"Get off my bed."

"I like how you have the same Hello Kitty sheets. Same knives. You want to move on, but everything's the same."

"Get. Out."

"I should get you a new knife for your birthday. Something serrated to really make me feel the—"

"Birthday?"

"October 14th, 24 days before mine?"

She hadn't remembered her birthday was this Friday. No one else had, either. Not that it mattered. With no birth certificate, she only knew she was born sometime in October. She'd picked the 14th solely because Jonah wanted a specific date they could celebrate, and it stuck. They'd even attempted to bake a cake together—emphasis on attempted. 

"But anyway," Jonah—this Jonah, this almost nineteen-years-old, sarcasm dripping from every word Jonah—continued. "Tell me. How did it go with the ex-boyfriend?"

"Sorry to disappoint," she mocked, "but he's not my ex."

Jonah went dead silent. She'd finally, finally broken his winning streak, and it intoxicated her more than any calm her lame breathing exercises could give. 

"Did he not read the diary?" he asked.

"Oh, he read the diary." Her voice was venom—this she could use; this she could taunt him with. "He forgave me, and we're still dating. He still loves me."

Jonah scoffed loudly. "Give me one reason why he wouldn't dump you on the spot."

"Aw, are you sad your plan didn't work out? Was that your next step, Jonah, your goal for the week? Que tragedia."

She said that last part slowly. She knew the words were similar enough in Portuguese he'd understand: What a tragedy.

His breaths shallowed. "I'll rip out every picture of him from your walls." 

"Is that what this is about?" she asked. "Do you want me to be single before you kill me? I hope you know how hard that makes it to take you seriously."

Silence. Charlie imagined Lilith chortling beside her.

"You're jealous," she laughed, and her smile, gummy with her small teeth, broke through her cheeks, so wide it hurt. "I get it now; you're actually jealous."

"Why would I be jealous," he finally said, low and biting, "when I'm the only one you've ever wanted anyway?"

Charlie burst into a fit of laughter just like his—uninhibited, maniacal, and then, something he'd also understand: "Eres ridículo." She paused. "And does that go both ways? Haven't you been in a relationship in the last few years?"

He scoffed as if he'd been insulted. "Do I look like the boyfriend type to you? Did I ever?"

"So you're telling me you haven't been with anyone else."

"That's not what I said, but anyway. How about this, then. Next time you talk to your novio—" he said the the word as if it was cursed "—ask him what happened in the swamp."

"Um, what?"

"Do it," Jonah said, and then he hung up.

Strange, but okay. Her smile stretched wider. She was giddy at the idea of him in her bedroom, tearing the pictures of Peter from her fairy-lit wall—the one thing he hadn't taken away.

● ● ●

By the time Charlie arrived at her front door, she found it unlocked.
Inside, the new security panel on the wall blinked with a little red light, which meant the alarm was disabled. Had her parents forgotten to activate it before leaving? She'd reminded them at least a dozen times.

Jonah had left nothing but silence, her box of knives turned over with blades scattered over her sheets, which were rumpled from him laying on them. The pictures on her wall had remained intact, but the curved, black knife was missing from the rest.

She walked into her closet and found a photograph on the ground.
The one she could never bring herself to burn.

Fifteen-year-old Charlie and Jonah. They'd been laying in her backyard—this backyard—and she was capturing all the beautiful things she saw, most of them him. It didn't feel like they were planning on dying the next day. They were at their peak in the comforting warmth of the sun, Jonah's hand skimming the surface of the pool.
She'd turned the camera toward them—their heads enveloped by green, a flower behind her ear—and took the picture. It instantly became her favorite. Charlie, brown-haired and freckle-faced, staring into the camera. And Jonah, staring at her—with a rare softness she always thought she was imagining when catching glimpses of it before.

That photograph was going to be her suicide note. Her parents would see her happier than ever while her cold, broken body laid in some morgue. The thought had brought her a sliver of satisfaction at the time, awful as it was. But she had to embrace it in order to uphold her promise. She had to embrace everything hopeless to send her over the edge.

And now, instead of nostalgia or even grief, the photograph only stirred that red-hot flame in her gut.

He'd terrorized her with the stalking. He'd murdered her cat. Manipulated her friends. Exposed her intimate secrets to her boyfriend. And now he was toying with her, making perverted jokes, flirting with the prey. What was wrong with him? What did he have to gain from that? Nothing. He was sadistic. Always had been, but lovestruck, ninth grade Charlie didn't think they'd live long enough for him to direct it at her. The flame crackled and surged, the shock of his threats quickly fading now that she'd seen his ridiculous, childish jealousy.

Let's face it—you're weak. I'm just speeding up natural selection here.

Natural selection. Did he think murdering Lilith was natural selection? He didn't deserve Charlie's empathy. He didn't deserve all the times she told him she loved him in vain.

The memories she'd been obsessing over soured, and she reached for a lighter. Flicked the wheel. And then she dragged the flame over the edge of the photograph, walking to her open window.

Before it disappeared forever, she held up her phone and took a video of her and Jonah smiling as they burned. Once the flame reached her fingertips, she let go of what was left and watched the embers flutter to the backyard.

Then the final step: she pulled up his number and attached the video to a text.

Remember this?

● ● ●

old a/n:

A/N: I'd just like to say thanks for all the support so far on this! It makes me quite happy that so many are enjoying this morbid little story of mine (it actually reached #12 in Mystery/Thriller the other day !!), and I really hope you liked this chapter (and if you did, vote if you want) c: Has this changed your perceptions on the characters at all? What are you most curious to find out about Jonah? His past, where he's from, his feelings about Charlie?

Song for this part of the story (and Jonah's character in general) is Killer by The Hoosiers, give it a listen!

Dedicated to PandaLover_11 for the super insightful comment on the last chapter ^-^