Page 76 of Primal

The real psycho—the one with a flair for goddamn stagecraft—just turned Payton against me. The only person who could keep her alive.

I pocket the phone. Options?

Flush my fucking eyeballs out. Find Payton before she becomes a human shish kebab.

First—the mask. My last shred of dignity. Or camouflage. Somehow, it ended up smack-dab underneath Vanessa.

I scoop it up. Wipe the leaves and what’s hopefully mud off the chin. The right eye slit’s cracked—courtesy of the brat across the street.

Next time you try to save her life, bring a gas mask. At least make sure her hands and legs are bound first.

I zigzag toward the treeline, blinking through the acid eating my corneas. Smeared edges. Looming shadows. And a root somewhere waiting to turn my face into road pizza.

I lurch past a mirage of porta-potties. Stagger into a clearing.

Black trailer. Gothic script scrawled across its side: cleanse your filth.

The door hangs open. Inviting as a bear trap. Bergamot and bleach slap me in the face, undercut by something sweetly rancid beneath. Still, I’ll take it over Eau de Outhouse. Or the dead girl’s stench still clinging to my fingers.

I stumble inside.

First, eyeballs. Second, Payton. Third? Murder whoever designed this gothic fuckery.

The faucet coughs out water. Clear at first, then searing pink as it hits my palms.

The soap dispenser oozes something thick. The color of raw meat.

I scrub anyway. Better her blood than mine.

The first lens peels free with a burn so sharp I swear my vision whites out. The second one clings like it wants to fuse there forever. After a fucking eternity, I manage to drag the damn thing loose, blinking against the sting.

I dunk my head under the faucet and gulp mouthfuls of the stream—cool and sweet enough to fool me into thinking, just for one second, I’m not totally fucked.

What I wouldn’t give for a swig of that ‘holy water’ I shoved down Trevor’s throat. Hopefully, it’s working. Someone other than the fuckface playing god should get a win tonight.

My hands shake as I scrape at the filth. Chemical burn eating my nerve endings. Probably.

I straighten, water sluicing down my neck. Blink at the mirror.

I look like roadkill in a rainstorm. Bloodshot eyes. Busted pride. A five o’clock shadow fit for a mugshot.

I fish a fresh pair of lenses from the case in my pocket. Dumb move, maybe, but I can’t hunt half-blind. The first one slides in with a motherfucking sting. The second one? Glass in an open wound. My eyes water, blur, then sharpen around the neon above me.

YOUR REFLECTION LIES.

“So does everyone else.” I wipe my face with a towel. Smells like eucalyptus. And arson.

Now what?

Hunt down the girl—penance for her defiance. Make her regret every smirk, every stunt, every damn thing she did to taunt and tease and needle you into some pitiful semblance of life.

Put that smart mouth to better use. Paint her thighs with the bruises she earned.

Fuck her into repentance. Then leave her bare and shaking. A warning. A masterpiece.

I shake my head. The fuck? No. Get her out.

Something shifts in the glass. Behind me.