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“Louis and Gabe will make sure you follow through this time. Get dressed,” he barks, then strolls out of the room, pushing past the two bodyguards.
Andrew moves to the door with a deliberation that feels like a countdown to my doom, closing it on Louis and Gabe’s unsuspecting faces.
What the hell was that?
That is how you create a monster: years and years of abuse.
Is it wrong a part of me feels bad for him? Can I feel pity but also loathing?
Andrew stands motionless, his hands bracing against the walls as if holding himself up. Time stretches, and I’m acutely aware of everything—the pain that lingers between my thighs, the palpable fear threading through my heart, and the grim realization that my brother's warnings about Andrew’s family weren't just paranoia; they were prophetic.
Andrew's father just commanded his son to commit murder. The horror of that reality sinks in. This wasn't the first time either; it was too easily ordered.
The steam from the hot shower fills the air, and the tiles beneath my feet become treacherously slick from the humidity. Andrew turns, his movements heavy with a dark purpose, and starts toward me. My heart races with each step he takes, and the sliver of space beneath the door seems to widen with my growing panic.
He stops short by the knife, his gaze lifting to find mine through the crack in the door, "Get in the fucking shower, Poppy," he finally says in a venomous whisper. He runs a hand through his hair as I retreat, moving toward the shower without entering.
I see my life flash before my eyes, not my past but my future. If I listen, I’ll slowly be chipped away. The scene that just unfolded before my eyes will be repeated to my children. The cycle won’t stop. My survival instincts kick in. The delay in my actions disgusts me, but I shove aside self-loathing for later—escape is the only thing that matters now.
Carefully, I pull on my shirt, then my skirt, my fingers shaking from fear and the urgent need to flee. My eyes lock on the window's black latch. It looks so simple to open and escape from; it's almost mocking me. I reach the latch, my fingers trembling as they grasp the cold metal. It resists at first, mocking my desperation. My palms grow sweaty, and I fumble, my breath quickening in panic.
Why won't it open? What if I'm caught?The thoughts spiral in my mind, each one more frantic than the last. I try again, more forcefully this time, but it still refuses to budge. A wave of dread washes over me, and I glance over my shoulder, imagining shadows moving closer.
Please, please, I can't get caught now.
With a final, desperate effort, I twist the latch. It relents with a click, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the tense silence. Relief floods me, but it's fleeting. I hold my breath, straining to hear Andrew has noticed, my heart pounding in my ears.
Did they he that?
I hold my breath, half expecting Andrew to burst in, knife in hand, his twisted control escalating to a lethal end. But the room remains silent save for the distant thump of the party's bass, the high-pressure spray of the shower, and my labored breathing.
With the window open, I hoist myself up and crawl through, my bare feet scraping against the harsh shingles of the roof. His room, perched on the second floor, overlooks the pool house in the far distance. It is alive with the sounds of oblivious college kids, unaware of the darkness that permeates the walls of the mansion.
Paralyzed with fear, I force myself to focus on the drop below. It's not far, but the risk of injury is real. Gripping the edge of the roof, I brace myself, the sharp edges of the shingles biting into my palms.
With a deep breath, I count, "One, two, three," and let go, my body coils to absorb the impact. I hit the ground, tuck, and roll, an awkward imitation of cinematic grace, but it's enough to keep me from serious injury. I'm on my feet in an instant, running from the house, but then I stop, so suddenly I fall, cutting my knees on the rough ground.
Henry. My brother is at the party.
I pivot my body towards the party, ready to spring forward and run to him, but then reality crashes in. Henry acts first and thinks later. He’s going to see me in my broken state. Henry will see red, and he’s in no position of power to challenge Andrew or his father. Panic and adrenaline compete as I stop, trying to steady my shaking body. I can't just run; I need a plan.
Peter. He's always been the level-headed one, capable of fury but also of thought. Unlike Henry, Peter will listen, process, and plan. Peter will know who to turn to for help.
Then I remember what Andrew’s father said:"I've collected all the ammunition I need to control them. Hackers ready to manipulate the vote, judges, commissioners, congressmen, and even the president are in my pocket." My hand covers my trembling lips. Who can we turn to if he’s got all those people in his pocket?
“Poppy!” I hear Andrew scream in the distance; looking over my shoulder, I see him peering out from his window. The phone in my pocket rings; I pull it out to see Andrew’s name on it. I hang up and call my brother Peter because I don’t know what else to do. I just need Peter. I need someone to hold me, to tell me it’s going to be ok even if it isn’t.
The night air, thick with the remnants of spring, carries the distant laughter from the party, a cruel reminder of how quickly joy can turn to terror. A fact I know all too well. The phone begins to ring, and I look towards the pool house. Henry is safe there, surrounded by people, at least until Peter gets here.
“Don’t tell me you drank too much, and Henry won’t let you in his car to come home. Poppy, I’m not going to clean up your vomit again,” Peter begins. As soon as I hear his voice, a dam breaks within me. I crumble and cry, words incoherent but laden with despair. Through the sobs, Peter manages to make out one sentence I say, "You were right; his family is dangerous."
The call doesn’t end. Peter insists I stay on the phone, offering a lifeline in the darkness. All the while, I hide behind a bush next to the pool pumps, allowing the tears and the truth of what happened to spill out. I tell him everything. Everything. I just can’t stop. When he tells me he is close, a flicker of hope ignites within me, prompting me to run towards the entrance of the community, leaving the echoes of the party—and my nightmare—behind.
That's when I hear it, both through the phone and in the short distance—a symphony of screeching tires, shouts, and the unmistakable sound of metal crunching.
Death.
The line goes dead. That’s when I know. The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow. One phone call to my brother, my would-be savior, has just woven my fate into the same dark tapestry as Andrew's. A killer. I'm responsible for killing my brother.
