Page 79 of Primal

Not like this. Not choking on my own spit in some glorified trailer.

The candelabra. Iron. Heavy. Probably bolted down by the same pretentious fuck who thought ‘Cleanse Your Filth’ was a cute theme for a murder shack.

I wrench it free, tendons screaming.

First swing.

The iron glances off the doorframe near the hinges—wrong angle. The jolt up my arms rattles my teeth. My shoulder pops. Pain down my spine. I crash into the sink.

Get up. Get. The. Fuck. Up.

Second swing.

This time, I aim lower—where the lock should be.

crack.

The wood splinters. Something metal pings inside the wall. Door opens a finger’s width—real air—then snaps shut.

Almost.

Liquid down my temple. Sweat. Blood. Water. Doesn’t matter.

Something’s behind me.

Don’t turn around.

But the mirror’s already showing me.

The thing has its snout pressed against the glass, fogging it with each wet exhale. Black beady eyes lock onto mine in the reflection.

“Come play with me,” it whispers.

The words crawl over my neck.

“Don’t you wanna fuck me?”

Third swing.

I pour everything into it—every ounce of rage, every fucking second I’ve spent watching Payton through my screens, every ‘Good morning, neighbor’ I bit back.

The candelabra shrieks through the air—

boom.

One more.

boom.

The door explodes outward. Night air rushes in.

Freedom.

I tumble after it but eat gravel instead, lungs burning like I’ve been breathing knives.

Move. Run. Find her—

Leaves on my cheeks. Smell of earth … gasoline.