Page 37 of Kiss Slay Replay

He wheezes. He laughs.

I’m not his final girl after all.

I’m not special.

I hear the knife move deeper. I hear a snap. A crack. A squish. A scream that must be mine but it’s above me. No. Behind me. I see nothing. I feel nothing. No. That’s not true. I’m cold. I’m so cold and so cold and

1

I sit up straight in bed.

There are hornets in my lungs. Every breath stings but I’m breathing.

Only…I’m dead. So how can I be breathing?

I reach for my face, for the space between my eyes. It’s slick with sweat but the skin isn’t broken like it should be, because I was stabbed there. Because I was killed. Because I’m dead.

There’s light streaming in through the windows and I’m dead.

Is the afterlife my studio apartment?

Is this hell?

“Archie!” I say, kicking off the covers. “Archimedes!”

I hear him grunting.

I roll off the mattress onto the floor, crawl toward his food bowl, the only thing that will get him to come to me—the promise of food.

He trots out of the closet, and I’m on him. He’s in my arms. He squawks, makes an ungodly sound. He tries to wriggle free, but I’ve got him. He’s how I know that I’m not in hell. Hell would be existing without him. I set him down. “I’m sorry.”

He scampers back to the closet.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat. I yawn, get my legs under me and stand up. “You want a treat? You want…”

A sudden spell of dizziness dissolves the floor beneath me. I cling to the counter but it’s no use and I land hard on my ass.

An eruption inside my skull—this pressure unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. A splitting headache. Literally. I feel like my head is being split open.

It’s excruciating and then it’s gone.

My fingers trace my face, the bridge of my nose, my forehead, my eyes, cheeks, lips. Again. Again. Am I real? Is any of this real?

I scramble for my phone, which is plugged in next to my bed as always. My hands are trembling so badly. It’s 7:13 a.m. It’s morning. I blink. It’s morning. It’s the morning. I’m alive. Why don’t I feel any relief? Why do I not trust it?

Wait. It’s…it’s the morning.

It’s this morning. It’s…

It’s Friday. The twenty-fifth.

It’s the morning of the wedding.

It’s a day I’ve already lived.

I call Cassie.

It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.