Final Room

16 | needy lesnicki

CHAPTER SIXTEEN | NEEDY LESNICKI

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          Zach is with me today.

          He's the one to wake me up when the sun has barely risen, way before my alarm is due to ring, and even my room feels warmer in spite of the lack of sun rays. With an arm wrapped around me, safely tucking my waist against him, he stirs in his sleep, while I'm wide awake now.

          When his nose nuzzles the curve of my neck, his face buried in my hair, I let out a stupid, girly giggle, remembering we have to keep quiet. He's only here because I managed to sneak him into the house last night, aware the rules regarding overnight guests are strict when it comes to everyone whose name isn't Emma Chang, so we need to be extra careful so no one suspects a thing. I'll have to sneak him back out before anyone else wakes up, but it was raining last night and there's still leftover rainwater dripping off the roof, which makes it a lot harder than it needs to be.

          "That tickles," I complain, making no move to get him to stop. His stubble scratches the sharp line of my jaw. "Zach."

          He chuckles. "What?"

          "We really need to be quiet. If my dad finds out you're here—"

          The mattress shifts as he props himself up on an elbow, his chin disappearing from where it was resting on my shoulder. "What are you talking about?"

          "What are you talking about? Emma gets a free pass to sleep over, but you don't. Don't test my dad's patience."

          "The only other person in this house right now is Xavier. I'll take my chances."

          "Xavier moved out years ago. Stop messing with me."

          "Um, no. I'm pretty sure I saw him."

          "That's impossible. I'd remember if my own brother was in the house. Remember how he always made pancakes for breakfast if he suspected you'd stayed over?" He hums, though I can't shake off the feeling that there's something not quite right with this situation. There's no reason for Xavier to be in the house, as he moved out ages ago, and nothing gets past his radar; if he acts like he hasn't noticed anything, he's just pretending. "Like, I remember this time when—"

          "You know what I remember?"

          "What?"

          His hand disappears from my waist, trailing up my body until his hooked index finger stops right beneath my chin, raising my head and turning it so I'm looking at him. I jump back with a start over what's in front of me—no matter how many times I think of it, no matter how many times I remember it, it's still horrifying.

          Zach's face and hair are bloody, courtesy of the deep gash on his forehead and the one on his neck, staining his pillow, my sheets, and my clothes, and the wound on his chest, the fatal one, pulsates like a living being. I back away from him, heart thudding in terror, and one would expect me to be able to look away from something that frightening, the subject of several of my nightmares, but that's the thing about him—you can't look away. You just can't.

          It's why your eyes stay glued to the screen when you're watching a horror movie, regardless of how gory it is or of how scared you are. It keeps you on the edge of your seat, part of you thinking about how the special effects team did so well when they crafted the injuries, the makeup, and the fake blood. You almost think you're watching your own life on a screen, realistic enough to crawl under your skin, but unbelievable enough to make you feel at ease and glad that's not you.