PARA - ARCHIVES

Table of Contents

Act One

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Something lurks out there. Can you feel it calling?

Lexi is a troubled girl, riddled with a rot no pills or institutions can cure, struggling to cope after a traumatic event nearly claimed her life.

Nia is Lexi’s best friend, and is perfect in comparison. But even she has her flaws, her secrets, things that ruin her from the inside. She just hides them better.

Dark things are called to the rotten and ruined.

cw: slight gore, suicidal ideation, verbal abuse

This is ACT 1, CHAPTER TWO of my creepypasta OC origin!

Fog descended upon Twisp that afternoon, heavy and low by the time Lexi hopped off the school bus and began her venture up the hill. Apart from the kids who lived beyond the town's perimeter and had to get dropped off at the welcome sign, Lexi was always the last off. Not that she minded—most of the more rural kids had been bullied so badly they had come together to form one unit, therefore moved as a hive mind, which had decided Lexi was a bus decoration rather than a person. Which she was thankful for, considering she was fairly certain most of them brought their hunting knives with them to school—sometimes even their guns—a fact that made her wonder why their classmates felt so safe harassing them. Then again, she would remind herself, she wasn't sure anyone at her school was very intelligent to begin with. 

This far from the centre of town, where the forest was denser, was never pretty. The road was narrow, so potholed it was more dirt than asphalt, with grass as long as Lexi's legs sticking from the cracks in the sidewalk. Up ahead, where the road stopped, was Lexi's house. Tucked away into the treeline, embraced by towering pines and thick oaks, the property line was hinted at by the erratic and broken wood fence, lined with moss and separated by a modest, squeaky gate. To the left of it, the mailbox, once a handmade beauty, now eaten by rust and termites. Lexi could recall when it was made—12 years ago, before her father left, he had brought some spare wood back from his bottom-of-the-barrel timber job. They had made it together. Now, Lexi left it to rot. 

Glancing to her right, Lexi looked at the large break in the fence, where a parking spot—riddled with pine needles and dead leaves—was overshadowed by the evergreen. In it, quiet and cold, rested a rickety Austin Montego. Her stepfather said it was gold; her mother said it was tuscan. It was neither. It was the ugliest shade of khaki Lexi had ever seen in her life. But its presence, while aesthetically heinous, was also ugly because it meant her stepfather was home. Weight settled in Lexi's gut, heavy and immovable, and she began nibbling on the edge of her nailbed as she turned her attention to the house, which now loomed over her ominously.

Despite not enjoying her house, Lexi had always thought it was beautiful, even though it was small. A two-story on a wooden foundation, with horizontal panelling painted a flaking, dusty blue, modest dark wood windows and a mossy, grey roof. On the left, one side of the house jutted out in a turret fashion, the face hexagonal, each level featuring ornate windows that reached floor to ceiling. The porch was humble, small, with unassuming, wooden guardrails. The front door, however, was anything but. Lexi's father had made it himself—dark oak with elaborate stained glass encircling it, finished with a vintage brass door handle and a dragonfly door knocker. How strange that the entrance to such a place of misery was so beautiful.

Making no effort to be silent—it never mattered, nor worked—Lexi pushed through the gate, the ear-grating squealing of hinges making her grimace, before she clomped up the porch steps and pushed through the front door. Silence met her, and she felt her fate seal. Unlike herself, Lexi's mother was a bright spirit who lived each day as if it were her last—not recklessly, but happily, refusing to let anything dampen her mood. When she got home, she would skip into the living room, choose a record, and play it until she retreated to bed. Always some 80s pop that you were somehow born knowing the words to, or 1970s state-sanctioned Russian hits—quite the contrast.

The house was eerily silent.

Normally, Lexi would camp in her bedroom until she heard the music start, and only then would she descend the stairs. But that car—that hideous, khaki car—had gotten here first. From the top of the stairs, a small 'mrrph!' greeted her, followed by the thump of soft paws on wood. A cat—a black smoke medium-hair tabby—came rushing to greet her, bonking his head between her ankles. 

"Hey, Grimm," Lexi reached down, raking her nails gently down his back, just the way he liked it.

After her attack at the lake, Lexi's father had come to visit her. It was the only time since the divorce he had set foot in Washington, besides picking her up for the summer, before she refused to keep going once she turned 13. When she had woken up, he was there. The weight of his large, life-worn hand in her own had been sickeningly familiar. Once she was fit to return home, he was there too, handing her a kitten with a black bow around its neck. Gifting her Grimm was the only good thing Lexi's father had ever done—but she refused to give him credit for it, nor think about it. Thinking about him always gave her a tight stomach. 

As she reached the stairs, still gnawing on her finger, a voice sliced through the silence. 

"Lexi?" 

Blood spurted into her mouth as Lexi's jaw seized. It coated her tongue, sharp and metallic, and oozed down her finger, soaking into the frayed sleeve of her sweater. Muttering a curse, she sucked on her nailbed, hoping to slow the bleeding.

"Lexi, I'm talking to you."

Saving her finger would have to wait, she thought as she begrudgingly turned around and stared into the living room. Another thing Lexi liked about her home was the layout—Lexi's front door and staircase were in a narrow hallway that, further down, led to the laundry room and back door. To either side of her were large, wide archways, one leading to the kitchen, the other to the living room. So, when in predicaments such as her current one, she could remain on the stairs, in the mouth of safety—a conditioned, even necessary, observation, rather than a purposeful one.

In the living room, craned around to stare at her, sat her stepfather, Randall. While she had been hoping he was upstairs, where she could evade him, she was thoroughly unsurprised to find him, beer in hand, on the couch. Not doing whatever it was that fathers did, like preparing dinner or picking her up from school. Not that it mattered—they were both in agreement that Randall was anything but Lexi's father. It was the only thing they ever could agree on. A fact she was glad for—not agreeing with him, but his status—as while she was not the vain type, she was extremely thankful that her genes were not tainted by his. In other words, both emotionally and physically, Randall was ugly. There was no simpler way to put it, despite how simple he himself was in appearance—with his boring features, sagging face and balding head. 

"Yeah?" Lexi replied blandly.

For a beat, his blue eyes scalded her, as if he was weighing whether or not he should yell at her for her attitude—or lack thereof. Either was an issue for him, depending on his mood. But, instead, he said, "It's bound to rain. Make sure you bring the washing in."

"Alright."

"Scrape the leaves out of the pond and put the cover on the car, too. And remember to shut the damn windows, or you'll drench the kitchen again."

That had been him last time, but Lexi kept that to herself, along with the question as to why he hadn't done any of this himself. Based on the condensation of his beer can and the knowledge that his first stop was always the fridge, Lexi estimated he had been home about an hour. Enough time to shut the windows, at least. With a purse of her lips, Lexi turned on her heels and descended, turning left into the kitchen. It was a pretty room—cottage-style, everything painted olive green, with a vintage refrigerator and a copper sink, paired with a dinner table that seated six. Beautiful, but false. The refrigerator was as pretty as it was faulty and empty, the copper sink was always stained, and the table never housed more than three. Pretty and pointless, much like many things. 

Reaching across the counter, Lexi peered out the window for a moment at the rolling clouds. Static fizzled in the air, the distant thunder barely reaching her ears as it rumbled through the weary house. Thunder was always felt before heard. Pine needles and oak leaves rustled as wind whisked through the open mouth of the window, carrying the woody, damp scent of the impending storm. Lexi paused to take it in, inhaling it deep, until her lungs felt ready to burst, as if the pureness of it could cleanse her rotten insides. Then, as a bead of rain kissed her forehead, she pulled the window shut. 

Once she had ensured the windows were secure—lest the storm ruin Randall's perfect renovations—and the plastic cover had been pulled over that eyesore of a car, Lexi trudged across the garden, to the left of the house. Despite the residence's cramped nature, the property was quite large, though the rundown fence mostly implied its size. It was overrun by towering pines, hungry moss and thick grass—and flowers, in the warmer months, which Randall insisted were weeds. As the trees grew closer to the house, they became sparser, and within their embrace lay a small pond. Green, bordering on sludgy, but a pond nonetheless—home to frogs of all maturity, dragonflies, fish and a single wood duck. A beautiful creature, with scalding red eyes and an iridescent plumage. He had lived on Lexi's property since she was 10, but she had never named him—naming an animal implied ownership, and she was not willing to take away his freedom.

Passing by the lake, Lexi sheltered beneath the evergreen and began picking the clothes off the old, rusty washing line. What Lexi could not say, she made up for in other ways—like laundry. With her mother's, she was gentle and considerate, folding and piling the articles of clothing into a perfect, square tower. But with Randall's, she was careless, grabbing them off the line and throwing them aimlessly towards the basket. Whether or not she missed was up to karma. If the universe decided Randall was to have dirty clothing, then who was Lexi to defy that? Once the line was empty and the basket was full, Lexi heaved it up the back steps, leaving it within the warm embrace of the mudroom, before she turned back to the cold.

The rain had picked up. Small flicks in the wind had become fat droplets, like the storm above was drooling in anticipation before it consumed the little town. Such a fact did not speed up Lexi's movements, however, as she picked up the rusty rake that lay against one of the tree trunks. The mud duck quacked at her approach—which Lexi took as a 'hello'—before he resumed his waddle to his nest beneath the house. During his first autumn on their property, she had broken a hole in the foundation, as seeing him in the rain always made her teary-eyed. That was before Lexi stopped feeling anything at all.

Raking the leaves was much easier than Randall had made it out to be, as the pond was leaf-free in only ten minutes. Bagging it up could wait until they were dry, Lexi decided as she peered at her reflection. Barely visible, with the rain rippling the surface, and the froglets darting to-and-fro. Transfixed, Lexi watched them dance. In a way, she was their protector—every spring, she would collect frogspawn from the lake and bring it to the pond. Randall thought it was to kill the mosquitoes in summer, but in truth, Lexi just liked watching them grow. 

Until five months ago. 

At the nape of her neck, her scar flared, hot and raw. Reaching a hand beneath her wet hair, Lexi ran her finger over the raised skin, checking it was healed. She knew it was, but a part of her—one still stuck back at the lake—still felt as though it was bleeding. The rake slumped against the wet grass, and soon Lexi joined it, despite the rain that now pelted down around her. It seeped through her clothes, sticking to her skin, chills chasing deep into her bones. How she wished it could go further, ravage her body, cure her sickness, rid her brain of pearls. Perhaps she wished it could kill her with it. But Lexi knew that wasn't possible—not even she could manage that. Besides, she had died five months ago, on the bank of that lake. The heart that beat in her chest was not her own, living off of borrowed life, one forced into her hands. 

As rain came down in sheets, dribbling down Lexi's pale face, she closed her eyes. Cold seeped through her, numbing her fingers and toes, biting at her cheeks, aching in her joints. Often, she had wondered if that was what it felt like to die—an impending cold, before it all melted away. Now, she knew that wasn't the case. Death was warm; it was welcoming. It was everything, yet nothing at the same time. It was all Lexi was, and never could be—such untouchable beauty, with its certainty and finality. The only flaw is that Lexi would never get to see herself rot. Skin mottled with decomposition, her father's eyes rendered to mush in her skull, lips ate back into a postmortem snarl. Oh, how much she envied the one who would find her that way. 

"Lexi?"

Her own name, flowered with a faint Russian accent, had Lexi's eyes flying open. It was dark now, an endless night swallowed by thick clouds, lightning fracturing across the black. Wind whipped at her face and whistled through the trees, and Lexi grimly realised that the leaves would surely be back in the pond—Randall would have much to say about that. As she looked up at the quivering trees, Lexi found she was staring at herself—only older and prettier, with thin eyebrows and kind, blue eyes. 

"Hi, Mom," Lexi croaked. 

Lexi's mother—Bonnie—didn't speak, only pressed her lips into a thin line before she bent down to peel her daughter off the ground. Only then did Lexi realise how cold and numb she was, her hair a wet noose around her throat and her clothes drooling with rainwater. How long had she been asleep, despite the storm that raged around her? Thick puddles were left in Lexi's wake as Bonnie led her up the porch, through the front door and into the hall. Music floated from a record player in the living room—ABBA. 

"Bon, the floors—" Randall griped.

"Do you feel sick?" Bonnie ignored him, pressing the back of her hand against Lexi's wet forehead, "Come, let's get you in the bath. Randall, unpack the groceries, will you?"

Randall didn't move, but his nostrils flared as Lexi delivered him a smug look. In the absence of his footsteps, Bonnie turned, furthering her request with an expectant stare. For a moment, Randall hovered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, before he sighed like an irritated horse and stomped to the kitchen. Although a horse wasn't necessarily how Lexi would describe Randall normally, comparing him to any creature was so insulting to animals that she considered it a crime against nature. 

Once the sound of paper rustling drifted from the kitchen, Bonnie turned and began peeling Lexi's sweater over her head. Neither spoke as Bonnie collected each sodden article of clothing that Lexi shed, nor when Lexi was left in only her undergarments, her pale skin goosebumped and pulled tight over her bones. When Lexi had first become unsettlingly gaunt, and when Bonnie had begun finding Lexi in odd, dangerous situations, a disturbed concern had always painted her mother's face. Gears would whir behind her scared, powder-blue eyes, attempting to decipher what mental mould was infecting her daughter, and why nothing she did ever seemed to lessen—or at least halt—the spread. But now, as Lexi watched her mother assess her, all that stared back was an expression of accustomed emptiness. 

After a stretch of silence, Bonnie finally felt Lexi's gaze upon her and met it with a smile. Skin creased at the corners of her eyes, souvenirs of past joy, furthering the false narrative that the smile was authentic. Lexi didn't point it out, for both their sakes. 

"Don't worry about the floor," Bonnie reassured her, misreading Lexi's troubled expression, "It's fixable."

The gushing spout of the bath barely silenced the downpour of rain whipping against the window as Bonnie cranked the knobs. To the side, Lexi hovered, as if she were a stranger in her own home. In a way, she was. The bathroom had been another victim of Randall's spontaneous renovations—olive green, much like the kitchen, with a claw-footed tub, a wood-seat toilet, and an undermount sink paired with cottage-style counters. Even at the young age of six, Lexi had suspected Randall wished he could renovate over her too, pull her soul from the house as he gutted it, as if doing so would wipe her from Bonnie's memory. Replacing their family couch with a loveseat was a clear tell. 

Steam fogged the mirror as the bath water began creeping up the porcelain, which was slightly marked with a straight, chistled line twelve inches above the bottom. The limit line, courtesy of Randall. Only the wealthy or the stupid waste their money filling up a bath, he liked to say. Yet past the line it went, and Bonnie made no move to stop it. Lexi wondered if Randall would call her stupid, too, or if that was only something he reserved for children. 

"I'll leave some clothes in the hall," Bonnie moved to leave.

"I'm sorry, Mom," Lexi blurted without thinking, "I fell asleep."

Loose reasoning—who falls asleep in the rain?—and the silence that followed told Lexi that Bonnie knew it too. A silence that remained, as Bonnie did not speak, only reached up to kiss her daughter's forehead before departing. A quiet forgiveness. Apologies weren't ever necessary; Bonnie never got angry with Lexi over anything. Sometimes, Lexi wished she would. Spats with your parents are a key milestone in development—something so common, so normal. Although, Lexi reasoned, she had already had her fair share of parental conflict with her father. Perhaps she should be grateful for her mother's unconditional love, instead of selfishly pondering giving it up for the sake of some normalcy. After all, it wouldn't mean anything—nothing about her was normal, and nothing could change that.

Once satisfied with the water level, Lexi stripped off what was left of her clothing and sank into the steaming bath. A violent shiver rattled her spine as the heat seeped past her skin, chasing the cold from her bones and taking its place. Sliding herself further down the bath's sleek surface, Lexi sank until she was submerged from the mouth down, greedy for more warmth. Even still, she could smell the damp, almost mildewy scent of rain and earth that clung to her hair beneath the suffocating musk of jasmine bath salts. If it was up to her, she'd stay that way—reeking of moss and sticks and wet leaves. It felt raw, familiar, a scent she knew more than herself. 

Abrupt hammering on the bathroom door breached Lexi's tranquillity.

Bubbles erupted from Lexi's lips as she gasped, bath water flooding her defenceless mouth. The muck that had coated her did not taste as good as it smelled. The cold prickled Lexi's wet skin as she reared up, water sloshing as she hacked, fire licking up her throat and down her sinuses. Despite her audible agony, the knocking persisted before finally pausing to allow for a much more grating noise.

"Why's the water still running?" Randall barked through the door.

Lexi glanced at the tap, which was still spurting water, and quickly shut it off. "It's not."

"Don't play games with me. You think we're made of money, huh?" The handle rattled loudly, but Bonnie must have locked it on her way out, as the door didn't budge, "Open this door."

Not today, Lexi thought, not tonight. Normally, for the sake of her mother, Lexi would grit her teeth and cope with whatever tantrum or minuscule issue Randall threw her way. After all, he was never cruel to her—apart from his vocal judgement on her parenting skills. That side of him seemed to be reserved for only Lexi.

Yet, she hadn't had a full, hot bath since her stay at the hospital, and that one had been soured by the prior events. So, she sank back beneath the hot surface defiantly.

"Go away," Lexi called.

Her voice radiated off the tiled walls, sharp and clear. Nothing came back through the door to meet it, yet Lexi knew better than to know he had left. Preliminarily, she inched further into the water, an action that proved to be wise, as after a few moments of anticipation, Randall spoke again. Lower, meaning whatever he was saying, he didn't want Bonnie to hear.

"That's fine. I'll just take it out of your medicine fund, see how far you get without your happy pills. Or maybe I'll just sell your cat." 

By reflex, Lexi replied, and regretted the words the second they passed her lips, "My dad gave him to me. He wouldn't let you."

"Yeah? Where is he then? Oh, right, he isn't here. Because your daddy didn't want you, remember?" 

Lexi slid further into the bath. 

"Didn't even stay when his precious baby girl was dying. Only came to begin with to double-check your pulse."

Then some more, until water licked at her earlobes.

"Not very nice of you to disappoint him, is it? Why don't you do everyone a favour and—"

Something lurks out there. Can you feel it calling?

Lexi is a troubled girl, riddled with a rot no pills or institutions can cure, struggling to cope after a traumatic event nearly claimed her life.

Nia is Lexi’s best friend, and is perfect in comparison. But even she has her flaws, her secrets, things that ruin her from the inside. She just hides them better.

Dark things are called to the rotten and ruined.

cw: death, gore, graphic descriptions of animal decay/death, implications of violence

This is ACT 1, CHAPTER ONE of my creepypasta OC origin!

Spring was quick to fade. Leaves budded and unravelled, the bushes and grass blossomed with flowers, and naked chicks grew their feathers as summer took its hold. Three months of no school, all warm breezes and hot afternoons, were eagerly anticipated. Lexi spent all of it inside, thick curtains drawn as she burrowed under her covers and hibernated. Only Nia managed to peel her from her sheets for brief outings to the ice-cream section of their local convenience store, or to the theatre's emergency exit that never locked.

But no matter the company, the ice-cream flavour, the movie, Lexi always found herself creeping back to her bed prematurely. There was something about the heat that only served to deepen her depression. Perhaps it was the feeling that her emotions were supposed to thaw with the seasons, but instead she remained frozen in her sickness, stiff while the world moved around her, beaming faces and clear heads. 

Just as quickly as they had bloomed, the flowers wilted, and the leaves began to yellow, and Lexi had to finally depart from her bedsheets and play the part of a diligent student. Only two more years before she was free from the shackles that bolted her to this town was the thought that would motivate her. Two more years until she could pack her things and get behind the wheel of whichever car she scavenged enough money for, drive herself somewhere new where nobody knew her face, nor the rot that plagued her head. Perhaps she would find a quaint apartment, where she would shed her teenage flesh and partake in adult things, like eating what she chose to and doing her laundry together, instead of separating them by colour and fabric. Small and humble fantasies, for that is all girls like Lexi were allowed. Girls who, once they were alone in the dark, faced the reality that they did not expect to live that long.

"Have you been experiencing anything unusual since your new dose?"

There was a hangnail wedged in Lexi's nailbed, sore and inflamed. Absentmindedly, she picked at it, despite the stinging pain. It was a good distraction from the fluorescent lights, the plain white walls, and the uncomfortable leather chair. Slowly, she answered, "No."

"Hearing or seeing anything unusual?"

One of her dark eyebrows arched upwards, just barely, "No."

A sound, barely audible, followed her response. Ballpoint pen scribbling across paper, providing her a momentary break before they finally asked, "What about thoughts of harming yourself or others?"

The hangnail Lexi was picking at gave way, but not without pulling extra skin with it. Raw skin gleamed in the white light before blood beaded on its surface. She stuck her thumb in her mouth, slicking her tongue over the tender cut, taste buds flaring at the metallic flavour. Then, she lied, "No."

"Are you certain?" That prompted her to look up, finally. 

The psychiatrist—not hers, Lexi didn't claim people like that—was a middle-aged man. Perhaps elderly, by now. Rectangular-framed glasses sat on his bulbous nose, drawing attention away from his stern, but strangely kind, blue eyes and sagging cheeks. Not many medical professionals Lexi met were kind; something she had come to learn from her frequent trips to various clinics, hospitals and wards. Never for anything mundane, like a bad flu, or anything interesting, like a broken leg. Nothing mundane happened to Lexi, much like nothing interesting happened to her either.

What landed her in white-walled places that smelt of disinfectant was herself, or rather her own mind.

Oddity was endearing when she was a child. But as she grew into her skin, her macabre mutated, and suddenly she was startling awake to her own screams, or tying nooses to her ceiling fan or scrubbing her skin red and raw to rid herself of the rot she felt beneath. 

"I'm sure," Lexi replied. Without decipherable emotion, the psychiatrist took a glance at her thumb, which was now dribbling blood down to her knuckle. More scribbling on his paper.

"We'll keep you on the same dose," He finally decided, and pressed a few fat buttons on his clunky keyboard. The printer beside him buzzed loudly, "I'll see you in another three months. If anything changes, I can fit you into an emergency appointment."

The printer buzzed once more, decisively. The psychiatrist did not move; instead, it was Lexi who stood and took her script from the tray. They had done this dance before. "Thanks."

Now autumn had fallen over Twisp, the town had been quick to revert to its famous gloomy skies and nipping breezes, the kind of weather that always threatened rain. As Lexi stepped out of the psychiatrist's office, she clutched the paper, which was still warm from the printer, to her chest. Despite her reservations for the warmer months, there was some joy in them, as she could find sanctuary from the temperature in her gloomy room and in cold soda. But when the shell cracked, and autumn came in whistling winds and orange leaves, it was a harsh reminder of something Lexi often succeeded in ignoring. For no amount of scarves and hats upon sweaters and jeans could make up for the lack of fat and muscle that blubbered her body. When your skin sticks close to the bone, it is hard to create warmth, and even harder to keep it. 

Daring to sacrifice some heat, Lexi rolled the moth-bitten sleeve of her hoodie back, tan Band-Aids dark against her sickly skin. But despite the contrast, her attention was drawn to the old watch on her wrist, one of the few objects Lexi owned that proved her biological father existed. A clunky, stainless steel Casio from the 90s, screen chipped and digital numbers crackly. It wasn't worth much back then, and it was worth even less now, both financially and sentimentally. But the watch on her wrist was there for the same reason Lexi wore moth-bitten clothes—only families with heavy pockets got the luxury of choice. Past the cracked screen of her father's watch, Lexi managed to make out the time: 10:15. There was nothing particularly special about such numbers, or rather the combination of them, but it did notify her she only had fifteen minutes to make it to school. Fifteen minutes, unless she wished for the tyrannical receptionist to call her mother. 

Plenty of time, Lexi would like to think, as she walked down the gritty, cracked pavement. But there was a risk to being outside on a time limit, when you had morbid fascinations like hers. For the ground beneath her feet was rich with treasures only she found the worth in, wrapped in blankets of earth, waiting patiently for her delicate fingers to dig them up and bring them home. This day was no different.

Squatting down, Lexi parted a considerably long patch of grass as if she were unwrapping a present, sliding deeper until her fingertips met cold, dry earth. Peering through, she ran her gaze along the scurrying ants and wriggling centipedes, watching for any that seemed considerably still. It didn't matter if there were none—she had jars upon jars of exoskeletons, perched on the shelves in her bedroom. But, like any collector, it was always nice to have a new addition. Instead of empty shells, however, Lexi found her throat watering sickly as a familiar, foul odour filled her nostrils. Pungent and sour, sickly-sweet and rotting meat.

The smell of death. 

"There you are," Lexi muttered to herself, leaning forward until she settled on her knees, and flipped over a particularly long piece of bark. 

Flies erupted, chorusing with beats of their wings as they made their escape. The young they left behind wormed beneath the gooey flesh and matted fur of a squirrel, its tiny jaw cracked wide in silent, perpetual terror. Or perhaps pain, Lexi contemplated, it was rare for an animal to die in fear without being eaten immediately after. Nevertheless, it was absolutely dead, eyeballs long since melted to goo, one side of its face reduced to bone and strings of dried flesh. Lexi abandoned its tomb of bark and instead rolled it over with a short stick, examining how its skin wriggled with each ravenous movement of the maggots beneath. Soon, it would be nothing but bone.

With that thought, she stood and dusted off the flecks of bark remaining on her fingertips and continued her venture down the street. In other circumstances, she would have lingered to watch nature do its work, but she did not see her inability to do so as a loss. A squirrel carcass was a significant find, one that she marked on the map tucked into her journal with a red pen. Red for carcass, for "come back later". Soon, she would reap the reward of her discovery. 

Halfway through her walk, Lexi stopped checking her watch. There was no point in confirming what she already knew; it would only serve to make her anxious and late. Regardless of her efforts, she still felt a weight settle in her stomach as the bland building stood in the distance, harshly awaiting her tardy arrival. Much like the rest of Twisp, it was a boring, sad place—a large white building with a grey slate roof, rectangular windows, and bulky, modernised doors. Devoid of all colour, passion, and arguably, knowledge. There were some efforts to save its mediocre appearance, with overgrown hedges and a few trees with protruding roots, but pairing something so hideous with nature's beauty only made it harder to look at. Lexi preferred to ignore the bias in her opinion on the architecture; anyone with eyes could see it was a crime to build such a thing. 

The inside was no better. Upon entry, Lexi's senses were immediately ambushed by notes of unbranded disinfectant and printer paper, which only watered the seed of nerves that was sprouting in her gut. Ahead of her, across the tough, grey carpet, was a fibreboard desk stained a dark, almost cherry-like colour, backed by shelves of files and various buckets of stationery. Between them, nestled in a creaky office chair, was a large woman with a dirty blonde perm, whose intense blue eyes had already set themselves on her. Clasped to her ear was the gleaming, black handset of her desk phone—Lexi had no doubts as to who was on the other end. 

"She's actually just come in now," Then a pause, followed by, "Yes. Thank you, goodbye."

As Lexi made the venture across the office, she took a fleeting glance at the large clock hung behind the receptionist. Its thin arms read that she was only three minutes late. A merciful outcome, as if her mother hadn't picked up, and if Lexi hadn't only been three minutes late, her step-father would have been the one receiving that call. Avoiding his wrath was not an easy feat, so doing so was always something to be celebrated. And, if fate were on her side, her mother would forget the receptionist ever called to begin with. Above them, the bell rang shrilly as Lexi arrived at the desk, noting the distasteful purple eyeshadow the receptionist had experimented with that morning. 

"Sorry," Lexi began, even though she wasn't, "I got distracted."

A scoff in return, as the clacks of the woman's keyboard spoke the foul words she couldn't, "Distraction isn't an excuse. Do you think your university professors will accept that?"

"Probably," Lexi replied. A sharp look in her direction made her quickly add, "…Not."

"You're signed in. Show up late again, and I'll escalate it to the Principal."

Lexi severely doubted the geriatric Principal, who was more dust than man, would do anything, but she attempted to act scared as she scurried from the thick-aired room. The remainder of the school was better lit, but that was the only positive aspect. Swarms of students pushed and pulled Lexi into their current, smelling nauseatingly of sweat and cheap deodorant, all while violating the societal laws of personal space. After a painstaking five minutes of holding her breath, she managed to get herself spat out at the eastern doors, which led to brick paths, lunch tables and a small, patchy hill. Fresh air whisked her pale hair off her neck, prompting an aggressive shudder, but Lexi prevailed through the glass doors, pushing herself up the hill to the lone oak tree in the very corner of the courtyard. 

Against its old, scratched bark lounged a girl clad in bedazzled blue jeans, a purple Juicy Couture zip-up over a white lace cami, and Ugg boots. Even from where she stood, Lexi could hear the pop music blaring from her clunky earphones, attached to a purple rhinestoned iPod nestled in the pocket of her hoodie. She flopped down on the yellowing grass beside the girl and plucked out one of her earbuds.

"Hey." She greeted.

"Lex'?" Nia dragged out her other earbud as she turned to Lexi in surprise, "I thought you were off sick!"

"I just had an appointment, I told you yesterday," Lexi explained.

"Oh yeah~! " I forgot," Nia's glossy lips stretched into a smile before her face morphed, comically quickly, into a pout. "Boo! I was so bored on the bus, you bitch! I brought a Pop-Tart for you, too."

"Do you still have it?" Lexi absentmindedly palmed her stomach.

"Uhh, no, duh! I ate it. Why would I keep one Pop-Tart? Weirdo."

A smile teased at the corners of Lexi's mouth. Something rare and strange, comparable to finding a flower bloom amongst rubble. Since she was a child, Lexi had always struggled with feeling emotion—that's what she would think, if she were anyone but herself. In truth, she found it difficult to show it. If anything, she felt far too much, far too often. But when faced with a grim face like hers, she supposed she couldn't blame people for making the assumption. Even if she did, however, she would think Nia would be spared from her quiet, stewing wrath. 

'Best friend' is how Lexi would describe her, if she cared for labelling. Not like there was much competition for the girl—if not dissecting every flaw Lexi had, whether verbally or silently, all the other sweaty spawn their age didn't even know she existed. In their perception, she was a flaw in a photograph, something only vaguely noticed, but never truly seen. Nia saw her, though, Lexi liked to think—when she wasn't too busy looking at herself.

"Oh!" Nia had taken out her cosmetic mirror, watching with scrutiny as she fussed with her bangs, "I forgot to tell you. Smithy asked me to go see The Fountain with him on Saturday."

Lexi pursed her lips, "Who?"

"Brayden Smith? The tall guy?" Nia rattled off. When Lexi's face remained thoroughly clueless, she snapped her mirror shut, "He's literally in three of our classes!"

"Which ones?"

Nia's head rolled back, lips parted as a long, vexed groan radiated from her throat, as if not knowing every spotty face that haunted Lexi's weekdays was an astounding sin, "His dad is the Sheriff!"

Something equally scalding hot and sickeningly cold prickled the inner linings of Lexi's gut, a sensation that chased up her spine to the thick, serated scar on her nape. An urge to touch it, feel the puckered skin roll under her fingertips, caused the tendons in her hand to twitch. But she did not submit to the desire—not in front of Nia. Instead, she mulled over the pearl left in her skull, bile collecting on her tongue at the recollection. If Lexi was indignant—or if she brooded on it for longer than necessary—she would find herself aversive at the fact that common people would never know how it felt to be prey. To feel such an unnatural level of awareness that you can feel your teeth in your mouth. To be seen as so abysmal that, once bored of squashing ants and chasing cats, teenage boys hunt you for sport. 

"What about him?" Lexi's voice didn't sound like her own. 

"Are you listening?" Nia seemed exasperated, "He asked me out."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

A gratified look to Nia's eyes momentarily perplexed Lexi, as if she had been hoping for that response, "Yeah, I said no. I don't know why he thought I'd ever say yes; he's been acting like such a freak recently. Like, sorry that I don't want to hear about a bunch of dead kids."

That managed to dilute the thickness in Lexi's stomach, her ears perking, "Dead kids?"

"Apparently, a bunch of kids have gone missing in Winthrop, and his dad got told to be on alert since they think it's the same guy," Nia grumbled, "Smithy won't shut up about it."

While Nia allowed herself to spiral into a rant, mostly about Brayden's meretricious self, Lexi found it increasingly difficult to hold onto the words. There was undeniable tragedy in the crimes Nia spoke of so fleetingly, and perhaps, if Lexi were less rotten, she would feel a stronger inclination to be concerned. But in pursuit of ipseity, she allowed herself to indulge in its fascination.

Was this man a serial killer?

A kind of corruption so unlike her own, so much more abominable. If faced with such moral depravity, Lexi pondered how her little town would respond. Perhaps something worse than herself would fool them that she was one of their own, that she fit in with the societal laws they had crafted, but never shared. That she would no longer be the outlier, something more than the strange girl whose only contribution was a week-long newspaper article that made parents worry for their more beautiful, more ebullient daughters. In their desire to protect their sleepy little town, maybe they would not notice Lexi amongst the masses, and she would no longer be a walking stain. 

From the canopy above, something both fat and light dropped into her lap, just as the bell screeched across the courtyard. Nia exclaimed in what Lexi first thought was irritation, but as she lowered her gaze, she realised it was horror. Embraced by the crook of her crossed legs, there lay a mouse—a particularly large one, at that. Its underbelly, white and furry, was sliced down the middle, a painting of intestines and blood splattered across her jeans. Still warm and limp. A recent kill. A caw caught her attention now, and Lexi craned her head to gaze at the winding, gnarled branches overhead. Beady black eyes stared back from the tilted head of a raven, its slick beak still ripe with mouse guts. 

An accident, to most, but Lexi knew better. Change was coming, and she would do well to be cautious of it.