#technowarden

Eve woke up to the ringing of her alarm. Her limbs were like lodestones, her eyelids glued together with sleep. She wanted to roll over and swipe at the blaring noise, but her limbs wouldn’t cooperate, tangled up in the sheets. She was sitting upright, she must have fallen asleep while typing at her desk. Henri would make fun of that. He was always such an advocate of winding down properly in the evening, often with a book and Livy on his lap. 

Focus. Something wasn’t right. That wasn’t what her alarm sounded like. Eve had better fucking fucking taste than waking up to “Living La Vida Loca.” No, the blaring was coming from inside her head, a pulsing pain that radiated out like electric waves. Her phone didn’t have speakers like that anyway, this sounded more like her car’s speakers. But her car seat was more comfortable than this. Maybe not for Emilio, that one time he’d woken up in a body bag, strapped down in an unfamiliar space. Something that was feeling increasingly relevant as she realised how easy it was to move. Or not move, maybe. No wonder Emilio had been threshing about, trying 

Focus. Eve cracked open an eye. A flood of white light burned into her mind. Through the crack, she could see white, matt walls, and metal rolling trays with an assortment of commitment in them. Her head was tilted down, so that was what she saw first: her arms, tied down. There were no sheaths pressing against her skin, or uncomfortable weapons pressing into her hips. They’d all been peeled away, one by one. (Probably not one by one. Probably several at a time, like the way Eve did it. It was inconvenient to carry a corpse with weapons still attached to it. Probably same for unconscious bodies too, she figured. ) 

Focus. There was someone else in the room. The person who had brought her here, and strapped her to an uncomfortable chair. Shit, she could see it now. The new case study of Eve Farran. The unlucky thing about being a case study who survived? You’d get to be a second case study when you died. First mistake: let someone sneak up on you. Sometimes, your case study might have half a dozen mistakes. Sometimes, it was one and done. This might just be the latter. Eve could picture it now; her brother lecturing kids around a campfire, his voice unwavering as he described his baby sister’s demise. 

Why the fuck was it so hard to focus?  Eve tilted her head just slightly, and felt a warm droplet run down the back of her neck, from where the blaring pain radiated out. 

Ah. That would be why.

—

The inner pain of losing her son had become insurmountable, and the numerous kills Maxine had committed since she had come back from New York were getting sloppier and sloppier by the day. But when she had finally figured it was: go big or go home, the cat and mouse game she had been playing with the Cortez family for years now had been just the distraction she had needed. Emilio had been the easiest target. And though every fiber in her being wanted to encounter him and finally put an end to one of the biggest targets on her bucket list, she found that to be way too gauche, because the one thing Maxine Diaz had always strived for was to put on a show.

With Ricky Martin blasting over the cd player downstairs, Max slipped on a pair of latex gloves and the newly acquired lab coat she had ordered from Amazon, “Well, well, well. Looks like Sleeping Beauty finally decided to awaken from her slumber. How lovely of you to finally grace me with your presence.” The comment held less sarcasm than it usually would, and more hostility. “I hope you like my choice of music today. Taking it back a few years to the early 2000s. When I had a similar encounter.” For amusement, she rammed her steel-toed boot into the side of the chair giving it a swift jolt to make sure Eve didn’t doze back off on her.

“So I was thinking we could have a little fun. Little girl’s night, sleepover type deal. I mean, totally rude, you just falling asleep without me, but whatever. It’s not like I sleep that often anyways. Got too much going on in the old noggin’ you know?” Max tapped on the side of her head before moving over to the cd player and turning the music down where they could better communicate, “And of course, I made the perfect mixtape for us while you were down here snoring. It’s got Ricky Martin, Britney Spears, Menudo…Yeah, yeah, I know they’re 80s, but whatever. This is my party, and I’ll fucking cry if I want to.”

It was clear to see that Tony’s death was affecting Maxine harder than anything else ever had, including the loss of her parents, and the only way she had known how to cope was becoming a little more unhinged than her regular carefree do-whatever-the-fuck-she-wanted attitude. Good for her to distract from what most normal humans would call grief, but more so dangerous for anyone in her path, “So what should we do first? Paint our fingernails and gossip about boys or do each other’s hair?” Her eyes were wide with an excitement that would strike fear in most people.

—

In a Bond movie, you would play this situation perfectly cool. Without even looking at your arms, you’d know the exact weaknesses of your restraints, could make a few quips, and then break free. 

This was no movie. The harsh smell of her own blood in the sterile environment was proof of that. As the woman in front of her spoke, her voice didn't echo or bounce off the walls, and nor did the music. It sounded much like her own sound proofed room, like there was nothing that would escape here. No sound, no person. Just a deranged woman in a lab coat calling her sleeping beauty. Which brought her back to- right. Restraints and the testing thereof. 

No way to do it subtly. Eve yanked at the duct tape tightly wound around her arms and leg. (The prosthetic was tied up too, but “struggle against abduction” was not a setting it had, strangely enough.) Not built for humans, apparently. She tried to rock the chair, but it stayed bolted to the ground. No Black Widow moves need apply. Okay. That was not a problem. Well, perhaps a bit of one, but definitely solvable. She'd figure out how any moment. 

“Brittney’s always a bop. I know a woman of taste when I see one,” She replied, looking back up at the woman with the latex gloves. A true professional, Eve thought. It would be admirable if she could ignore what was coming next. (Even she wasn't concussed enough to be confused about exactly what was next.) But she couldn't think about that. Focus on solutions. Like exits. 

Well, exit. One, exactly, obviously closed so there was no idea as to what was beyond. No windows, either, which either meant she was deep inside a building, or she was below ground. 

With options dwindling (dwindled), Eve looked back at the woman. The bright lights made her eyes burn and her head pound, but it was important for her to look. To try to burn this face into her memory, to try and spot where Eve’s own weapons might be, or where the woman might carry weapons. Know thine enemy. Eve smiled. “I’d love to do your hair! God, it’s been– it’s been forever since I’ve had a sleepover. This looks cute. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

—

Max had been stalking Eve for quite sometime. Which honestly, considering how the other woman had conveniently been a part of Emilio’s life had made it a lot easier. And now, here she was. Another person and their death, that the Cortez family would soon be responsible for. She’d love rubbing this in Emilio’s face when the time came. It would bring her so much pleasure. Watching his face contort into something gross and unrecognizable. Much like Lucio’s face after she had slaughtered Victor and posed him for pictures. Maybe she’d have more luck with Emilio. Stick him dead (hehe, get it, dead) center in downtown Wicked’s Rest? Or maybe she could stuff him like a taxidermied rat and pose him with a beer in his hand propped up next to a jukebox in a bar. Just like the Joe Diffie song had aptly described. The options were endless.

“Oh stop. You don’t have to butter me up. I’m still going to kill you in a very slow and painful way, but maybe I’ll let you choose the soundtrack to your own demise?” Max wasn’t all that unreasonable. She knew different people had different tastes in music, and as Ricky Martin went off, it just so happened that “Baby One More Time” came on. As Britney’s voice rang out in the basement, Max began dancing along to the music, and when the well known singer let the words “Hit me baby one more time” come out, Max sent a hard fist into the side of Eve’s face, “Fuck! I love this song!”

Dancing her way over to the counter that held all types of tools, she began to pick out what might be fun, including a hairbrush that looked like it had pieces of scalp and other gross things stuck to it, “If we’re doing hair, me first obvi, because you’re my guest! Duh! Now, the more important question? Blue scrunchie or red scrunchie? The red might cover the blood better.” She turned to face Eve holding up the dingy looking scrunchies, “What do you think?” But before Eve could give an answer, Max made up her mind, “Red it is!”

Tossing everything onto a small metal tray that was on wheels, she pulled it and her rolling stool over, “Look you’re Emilio’s friend right? We go way back, and any friend of the Cortez family is a friend of mine. Just thought we could have a fun girl’s night, you know?”

—

As Max spelled out how long the process would be, Eve’s face flooded with fear. She didn’t even need to worry about faking it. The only thought worse than dying was dying slowly, spending hours in death’s waiting room yet again, begging for a release. She didn’t think it would be a bad thing for the woman to know that, though. Before she could answer, the woman’s fist slammed into the side of her head, leaving Eve reeling as gasping for breath as her brain rattled around inside of her. She felt sick. 

Eve spat out a mouthful of blood, and dragged her eyes back up to Max. “Great eye, I look good in red.”

There were some hunters who trained for this, Eve knew. Not just the restraints or the fight, but the… other part. So they could learn to endure pain. Parents who permanently scarred their kids just in case. The Farrans had never been like that. They said it was because Fae rarely had to default to physical pain to reach their ways. Why destroy someone physically when you could destroy their mind without anyone being the wiser. Eve had always suspected that her parents hadn’t ever wanted to, that they told themselves it was kinder to train their kids to be able to ignore every feeling, including love. (How could you not, when a fae could steal your heart or your loved one’s face?) It was why Eve was able to look at Emilio and love him and believe he ought to die at the same time. Feelings and duty were separate. Not that now was about feelings, or Emilio. Focus, Evie. Now was about information, and finding weaknesses. It was about surviving. 

Except apparently it was about Emilio, as the woman manically revealed. That was good, Eve told herself, over and over. It wasn’t her failure that had landed her here, and it wasn’t information that this woman was after. It was just pain. It was just about carving a message into Eve’s body for someone else to receive, and enjoying the process. That was better, Eve told herself. (What was not better was that an enemy of the Cortez’s was going to be harder to kill, especially without a blade to her name. But at least it was information. That was good too, right?)

“Girl, come on, we’re doing this because of a man? Damn. Not surprising. You know, I've never been special enough to have a nemesis of-of my own. Lowkey always wanted one. But Emilio collects them every time he breathes.” The implication was clear: you're not special. This woman seemed pretty fucking unhinged – Eve’s words could be a weapon when little else was available. Keep herself detached from the pain and the fogginess in her brain, and let this woman get caught up in her agitation and make a mistake. 

She exhaled slowly as she felt the comb starting to part her hair, promising herself she wouldn’t make this easy for the woman. It was like dating, if you got the reaction you wanted too quickly, it ruined the fun. Eve was a fun date. 

She desperately wished she didn’t need to be a fun torturee too.

—

Max grinned when Eve agreed with her, “Atta girl! You know what looks hot.” She winked at her as she sat down on her stool. It would take some adjusting of the seat, just mostly to build tension, but then she’d be ready to work her magic. It was going to be such a fun night. Max hadn’t had a true sleepover in years. Most of the people she had over were usually dead before the night was up, but maybe this time it would be different. Maybe this time, she could spare Eve. Keep her around for a few days, before tossing her rotted and decaying corpse onto Emilio’s front steps. What a way to start an investigation off huh? With the moldy body of your best friend?

Running the brush through Eve’s hair, Max was gentle at first. At least until the small talk started again, “Well guess what baby? Tonight, I’m your nemesis, because you know the next time you leave this basement, it’s gonna be in either a bodybag or in pieces. How does that sound?” She leaned forward and nuzzled the side of Eve’s face, “And the rest of Emilio’s so-called nemeses ain’t got shit on me. You should’ve seen Lucio’s face after I played dollies with sweet, little Victor. I might just do that to you, if you think it’d be something you’d enjoy.” The gentleness of the brushing soon faded as she ripped it out of the back of Eve’s hair, “I know! You can be Bloody Corpse Barbie, and I’ll dress you up in something totally cute so everybody will be, like, jealous of the new outfit on your festering corpse!”

—

Eve viscerally recoiled from Max’s nuzzling, and then wished she’d instead thought to smack her skull into the woman’s instead. It would probably do her more harm than her new nemesis, but at least it would have done some harm. “Aw, thanks babes, but I don’t even know your name! I feel like Nem-” Eve tensed the moment the metallic bristles of the brush dug into her scalp. “Nemeses know each other’s names, you know?” 

She clamped shut her jaw, tendons in her neck straining as she suppressed a keen in her throat as the hair brush ripped back, tearing at the skin already damaged by the hit had taken earlier. A lightning bolt of pain shot through her scalp as tangled hair ripped out of a surgical site almost thirteen years old, along a scar that Eve liked to pretend didn’t exist. Where her skull had once been bolted back together. 

“Emilio doesn’t even know what you did to Victor,” Eve panted, “Not sure you rank as highly as you think you do.” There was a specific angle for duct tape, where if you pulled it in just the right way, it would snap easily. Eve knew it, she’d learned it by heart as a teenager. She twisted and jerk her arms as harshly as she could… and couldn’t hit the angle.

Her only way out was the psychotic woman ripping out her scalp bit by bit. The thought hit her like a bucket of ice. 

—

“I am so sorry. How rude of me. You can call me Max, and you’re Eve. You and Emilio are besties right…or is it more like fuck buddies? You know, if he wasn’t so fucking ridgid, I’d ride him like a horse.” She had to admit, Emilio did look like he had been ridden hard and put up wet most days, but Max had still seen potential. Of course, how could she even expect that to work. Nothing like riding someone just to have them stab you in the back mid-fuck.

Max continued to brush Eve’s hair grinning like a giddy school girl as she watched the hair slowly rip from the woman’s scalp; little bits of blood coming to the surface from the damaged follicles, “Why do you think that?” Eve’s words of trying to put Max down, though not damaging enough, was starting to get under the vampire’s own dead skin. “I all but told him when we first met. Surely the man can put two and two together, unless he’s really drunk his last brain cell away. Which I could totally see.”

When she was finished brushing Eve’s hair, she pulled up as much of it as she could and put it in an extremely tight ponytail. Rolling back to the front, Max looked over her masterpiece, “OMG. You look so fucking hot! Bald patches and all! You know what we should do next?! Mani/Pedis!!! Quick! What’s your favorite color?” Max rolled back over to the counter to look at her selection of nail polishes she had brought down just for the occasion when she was getting prepared for Eve. Her collection also included vodka, salt, limes, and everything else that could be fun for a sleepover. Well…deadover.

—

Max. At least now she had a name. A name, a face, a motive. Information that was futile without an escape. Eve swallowed as her attempt to neg Max fell apart. “Funny, he’s never- ah- mentioned it. You’re not even in the top five worst things that have happened to him.”

Eve exhaled sharply as the comb yanked out her hair for the last time, taking the brief respite as Max crowed about how beautiful she was. She tilted her head slowly, scalp and skull and brain screaming at the movement, as she looked over at the counter of nailpolishes, her mind trying to predict what was coming next, as if she could prepare herself for having her fingers snapped, or splints shoved into her nailbeds. 

“...Yellow. What’s yours?” It was a convincing if unnecessary lie. If Eve was going to die here, she wanted to keep every inch of her self away from Max that she could. Max might get her body, but this small sliver of herself was Eve’s to keep. Not that she was going to die. Her heart hammered in her chest, her head pounded, her body fighting to be alive, became more and more frantic in straining against her restraints, against her own wishes. She couldn’t think while her body screamed. 

There was a shadow in the corner of the room. It was just from the dimming lights, Eve told herself. Ignore that. Focus on the tools Max brought to the party, on the collection of metal implements. Blunt objects, pliers, none of that was useful to her. The blades… that could be something, if she could get it in her hands long enough.

—

Eve was really starting to push Max’s buttons, so instead of simply taking a pretty, yellow nail polish, the color of the sun that Max would make sure Eve never saw again, and painting the woman’s nails, she grabbed a pair of pliers, “My favorite is red. Like a deep, dark crimson red. You know…the one after oxygen has reached blood.” She forced a grin as she snatched up the nail polish and rolled back over.

“I think yellow is going to look great!” Thankfully nail polish bottles were meant to withstand a lot, so when Max slammed it down on the tray, it had held its own quite well, “I’m thinking a pedicure though, you know, since you’re a little tied up at the moment? Oh! And I almost forgot one other thing!” Going back to the counter, she grabbed a scalpel, “Can’t forget to push those cuticles back. Wouldn’t want this pedi to look like shit!”

Dropping down to the floor, she ripped off Eve’s shoe and tossed it to the side, “Funny…the last little piggies I played with belonged to a cat with a fetish.” Max looked over Eve’s toes that were surprisingly delicate and not what she had expected. Taking the bladed instrument, Max gently began pushing the skin at the back of the nail inward as blood began to trickle from each toe, “There! So much better! You said yellow right? You’re in luck. I bought the prettiest yellow they had. Now we’ve just gotta clean those nails off and we’ll be good to go!” Taking the pliers, Max opened and closed them teasingly in front of Eve before going back to work on her masterpiece. Latching onto the end of the nail, Max slowly began to rip out each toenail wiggling and gritting her teeth at the resistance each one held. The big toe had been the hardest, “Fuck that one’s in there really good!” And when she finally was able to yank it free, she screamed “Huzzah!” in success!

With all the bloody toenails lined up on the tray, Max climbed back up on the stool and went to wipe them off. She was delicate with the small bits of Eve. There was an artform to this afterall. And with great intent and her tongue sticking out slightly, she focused on painting each nail the requested yellow color – bits of blood swirling with the lighter shade giving some of the nails an orange tint, “Finished! What do you think?” It had been the best thing, pushing Eve’s snide comment out of her mind, because any thought of her not being a threat in Emilio’s life had disappeared for the time being.

—

“If you’ve done this before, you might be the one with a fetish.” Eve commented idly, her heart jackrabbiting up further up her chest as she felt her shoe ripped off, nausea roiling in her stomach. She tried to jerk her leg away (her only leg), but the binds wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t logical to keep trying, but instinct was a bucking horse inside her. Eve’s eyes were wide as she hissed, and then keened, and then groaned, her foot jerking with every yank of the pliers. The floor became slick and warm under the bare sole of her foot. Electricity whistled through her as Eve slumped over, keening in a sound that was much less human than Max’s celebrations. (Not a scream, though. A scream only served to damn her. She wasn’t sure she could even if she wanted to.)

Eve wasn’t looking at Max as Max painted her nails. She wasn’t looking at anything at all. Or perhaps she was looking at the bugs on the forest floor, or the fresh fall leaves, or the distant birdsong. She was half here, half somewhere else, when she had lain in a pool of her blood mixing with the mud, bleeding from a much worse injury. Eve had been closer to death then, sure, cracked skull, toruniqueted thigh, stabbed by the ribs in her chest. This was nothing, in comparison. Nothing. And yet Death lingered in the corner. Eve wasn’t in the waiting room, but she was in the lobby. Max was not a wolf that had lost the scent, she was right in front of her, marching her down a path Eve had no control over. 

Walking would be excruciating. She was in a basement, which meant that somewhere, there were stairs. Eventually, her prosthetic leg would run out of power. Eventually, she would run out of blood. (Not for a while - scalp and feet; these were injuries made for pain, not for blood loss.) Eve’s breath shuddered and shook as the futility of her situation slammed into her. These restraints she could not break, the weapons she did not have. Eventually, her phone and computers would notice her lack of activity and send an alert to a chosen few friends in town that something was wrong, but her phone wasn’t here.  Eve turned her eyes back to Max, and realised she’d been asked a question. She didn’t see the outline of a phone in Max’s lab coat there either. 

Raising her blood-stained chin, Eve replied, “I think you’re pathetic. I think you want attention because you’re missing something profound in your life. Oh, and your nail polish is cheap and tacky.”

—

This had been an artform. A masterpiece. Some of Max’s best work yet, and that’s what Eve had to say? In the quickest instant everything about her life and the lives of her children had come rushing back, including the night she had found out about Tony. It was almost as if Max had briefly shut down. Logged off from reality for a moment, before an agonizing wail was released from her lips, and she swiped her hand across the tray sending the tools and freshly painted toenails flying. Everything scattered and in other parts of the room, including a scalpel that had ended up in a convenient spot for Eve.

“You…You ungrateful fucking bitch. You don’t get to talk to me about my life. My life is of no business to you. You’re going to wish you had never said a damn fucking word.” Taking the bottle of toenail polish remover, she knocked Eve upside the head with it, before uncapping it and pouring it onto the woman’s toes. At this point, she was raging. She was trying to make things a million times worse for the person who had just sent her through an eternity of pain. Pain she had so desperately wanted to cover up.

Not knowing where the scalpel had gone, Max grabbed a box cutter from the workbench and opened it up, “Emilio’s going to know exactly who murdered you by the cute little name tag I’m about to leave for him.” With hot tears running down her face, she had managed to straddle Eve and ripped open the top of her shirt. Shoving Eve’s head back, Max began to slowly carve the letters of her full name into the woman’s collarbone.

It had been slow. Though she was raging, Max made sure to make every letter visible and not some rushed job. “M…A…X…I…N…E…I hope you never forget it, even when you take your last breath.”

When she had finished, and blood was running down and staining Eve’s clothes, Max climbed off of her. There had been no desire whatsoever to feed on this woman. All she had wanted for her now was a slow and agonizing death. And that’s what she intended as she tossed the box cutter back down; bits of Eve’s flesh and blood dripping from the blade onto the once sterile counter.

With the cd player still blasting the mixtape that had been made specifically for this occasion, Max shut it off and pulled out the cd, throwing it straight at Eve’s head, “Fuck this shit! It’s a real party now!!!” Putting her own mixtape cd in, she shut the lid and hit play, blasting the song she considered her theme, “I WANNA BE YOUR SLAVE” by Måneskin.

Somewhere between the cute and softer side of Max and Eve’s commentary, the small bit of humanity that was barely hanging on had disappeared. As the music, turned up even louder now, blasted throughout the soundproofed basement, Max made her way through every nook and cranny pulling out every tool of torture she had, some even poorly washed from previous usage, planning to make this night last well into the next day.

—

The reaction was immediate and violent. Tools flew across the room: pliers, tweezers, contraptions Eve didn’t know the name for but she could immediately guess the usage of. A few hit her, cutting into her skin and clothing before clattering to the floor. Something fell into her lap, and she quickly twitched her legs open and shut to trap it underneath her. The blade of a scalpel cut into her, lighting a fire of hope that had almost dwindled to nothing in her chest. She didn’t let anything show on her face, just in case Max noticed her mistake. It was the best chance Eve had. 

She kept her arm pinned down as the acetone bottle smacked into her face, with enough force to crunch her nose and send more hot blood spilling from her nose and mouth. The liquid spilling over her foot turned Eve’s vision white, as she thrashed like a corpse possessed. For the first time in thirteen years, a scream tore out of her lungs as she tried to shake the liquid off her wounds. When her lungs burned as much as her foot, Eve slumped forward, her muscles trembling, trying desperately to take back control of her treacherous body. But Max gave her no time to recover. She flinched away from Max’s irontight grip of her face, looking up at Max’s tear stained face with tears in her own eyes too. Loathing radiated off both of them in that split second of eye contact before Max shoved back her head and took her knife to Eve’s chest. “My concussion’s not that bad yet.”

Good, Eve thought viciously, blood bubbling out of her lips. At least now, if she was killed, it was for who she was, not for who knew her. Death stood a little closer now, breathing down her spine. Thirteen years was a good run. More than most hunter amputees ever got. She had done so much with that time, helped so many people. Making it to twenty nine wasn’t so bad. Someone would get her body, someone would know. Max’s weight shifted on her lap and the blade of the scalpel dug deeper into her, pinching her back into focus. She had a couple options left. She just needed Max to leave. 

The CD smacked into her face, cutting a line into her forehead. Eve exhaled slowly, and dragged her eyes back to focus on Max. Max had all the control, and Eve had none of it. Max controlled the bindings, the blaring noise that added to the cacophony in Eve’s bind, the pain. Max controlled Eve’s own fucking body, and even her death. Everything, except one thing. 

Eve looked over the tools being pulled out and collected, and thought she might throw up again. She dragged her face into the expression of a sneer. “Gonna take more than that to break me, bestie.” 

—

This bitch was feisty. The mouth on her like razor blades cutting through Max’s own skin and had the vampire not been so hell bent on destroying this woman and Emilio Cortez, she possibly could’ve found respect in her strength. But not tonight. Not while every gear in Max’s body was being grinded. Her patience was being tested to the next level. And Max was going to need a minute or ten to recoup. To figure out how she wanted to keep this little party going without just snapping the woman’s neck here and now, “You’re really testing my fucking last nerve, you know that?”

Max looked at the sledge hammer laying on the floor every ounce of her longing to pick it up and swing it hard into Eve’s face. And though she could picture it perfectly in all the gritty detail, she decided against it. But she did need some quiet, and she knew that if she didn’t duct tape Eve’s mouth or at least knock the bitch out, there would be no peace. So without giving it a second thought, she let the music continue on playing while she grabbed a roll of Gorilla Tape, yanked off a decent sized piece and wrapped it tightly around the other woman’s head.

“Nighty-Night, you stupid bitch!” And with that, a swift punch to the cheek as hard as she could was what she had hoped had done the trick.

Her hands and arms were covered in blood. And as much as Max wanted to suck the sweet, crimson off of her fingers, she still had more work to do. Unfortunately though, what she needed was upstairs, “Potty break! Figured we could both use some down time while I go relieve myself and clean up a little bit! We’ve still got to play ‘Bloody Mary’. I think you’ll be so fitting for the occasion. Don’t go anywhere while I’m gone, Bestie!” She gave Eve a hard slap on the back before heading upstairs to go grab some pillows from the guest bedroom to shove thumbtacks, gravel, and nails into for their pillowfight. It wasn’t a sleepover without a pillowfight!