Reality Bit Me

The CR-V looked worse the longer I stared at it.

At first glance, it was just dirty—midnight black paint dulled beneath a suffocating film of pollen, road dust, and whatever grime clung to suburban streets like a second skin. But the longer your eyes lingered, the more it unraveled.

The scratches weren't just scratches.

They were violent.

Two long, jagged gashes ran across both passenger doors, deep enough to expose raw metal beneath the paint. They curved in unnatural arcs, uneven and desperate, like something had clawed its way across the surface in a panic. Not a clean swipe. Not vandalism.

Struggle.

Something had fought that car.

The edges of the gouges were curled outward, warped slightly, like the force behind them hadn't just dragged across the surface—but dug in. Like whatever made them had weight. Intent.

Like it wanted out.

The right headlight flickered again.

A weak pulse. Then darkness. Then a sharp, twitchy flash.

It lit up the wet pavement in quick, stuttering bursts—catching the reflective street sign across the road, then the thin, skeletal branches of a low-hanging tree. Each flash made the shadows jump like they were alive, stretching, recoiling, waiting for the next heartbeat of light.

It felt less like a malfunction.

More like the car was nervous.

Like it was trying to warn me.

Inside was worse.

Way worse.

The moment the door shut behind me, the air closed in—thick, stale, wrong.

The leather seats had been shredded open, not in clean tears but in uneven, surgical slices. Long vertical cuts ran through the passenger seat, deep enough that the foam stuffing bulged out in clumps, yellow and misshapen, like something soft dragged into the light that should've stayed hidden.

The back of the driver's seat had smaller marks—clusters of them. Repeated. Frantic.

Scratching.

Not from outside.

From inside.

My stomach twisted, but I ignored it, shifting awkwardly in the cramped backseat.

Hannah's gym bag dug into my ribs, the zipper pressing into me like a dull blade. The smell hit me again—sour, damp, heavy. Sweat that had soaked into the fabric had never fully dried. Old socks. Mildew. A faint trace of something chemical, like cheap deodorant fighting a losing war.

Next to me, the cup holder was crusted over with dried orange soda, sticky and cracked, as it had fossilized. Flies hovered lazily around it, buzzing in slow, confident loops as they belonged here more than I did.

I didn't think.

I just ate.

Two chicken tenders—cold, greasy, limp—shoved into my mouth like I hadn't eaten in days. I chewed fast, mechanically, like something might take them away if I slowed down.

My braces made it worse.

Crunch. Tear. Pain.

Tiny shards of fried batter snapped off and wedged between metal wires and my gums, stabbing into the soft inside of my cheeks every time my jaw moved. I winced, swallowed anyway. It scratched all the way down.

Didn't matter.

I kept eating.

Outside, everything was... wrong in a different way.

Too perfect.

Spring had taken over the neighborhood like a stage set someone forgot to turn off.

Every house looked identical—soft pastel colors, white trim, fake shutters that probably didn't even open. The kind of place where nothing bad was supposed to happen. Where people smiled too much and waved at neighbors they secretly hated.

Tulips and daffodils burst from the flower beds in carefully planned rows, their petals trembling slightly in the breeze.

Not gently.

Nervously.

Porch swings creaked in slow, uneven rhythms, even when no one was sitting on them. Wind chimes rang out in soft, hollow tones that didn't quite match the wind.

A sprinkler clicked.

Tick—hiss. Tick—hiss. Tick—hiss.

Over and over again, watering the same perfect square of grass like it was performing a ritual it couldn't stop.

The car rolled to a stop.

Jessica Summers' house.

Of course it was.

Bright yellow siding, almost painfully cheerful. Brown shutters frame spotless windows. A concrete walkway so clean it looked scrubbed with bleach.

The lawn was too precise.

Edges trimmed razor-sharp. Flower beds perfectly mulched. Not a weed in sight.

It didn't look lived in.

It looked maintained.

Like something was trying very hard to convince the world that everything here was normal.

Hannah didn't even look at it.

She flipped down the visor mirror, her face instantly shifting into something colder, sharper. Focused.

The lipstick came first.

Deep crimson.

She traced her lips slowly, carefully, like she was drawing a symbol instead of putting on makeup. Every line is deliberate. Every movement is controlled.

Then mascara.

Layer after layer, thick enough that her lashes looked heavier, darker—almost weaponized.

"People can't see me with a four-face," she said flatly.

"It's 'four eyes,'" I muttered.

She didn't even react at first.

Then a small scoff, like I'd wasted her time just by speaking.

Her bag landed in the backseat, slamming into my leg. The door followed a second later—hard, final.

Cold air rushed in through the crack she left behind.

I watched her walk.

Hips swaying slightly, controlled but effortless. People noticed. Of course they did. A couple of guys on the porch—clearly high out of their minds—stared openly, one of them elbowing the other as he'd just spotted something rare.

She didn't look back.

Didn't need to.

I sat there a second longer.

Pulled off my glasses.

Rubbed my eyes.

For a moment, I thought about it.

Just... staying.

Finishing the last chicken tender. Letting it choke me. Dying quietly in the backseat of a broken car no one would check until morning.

Easy.

Simple.

No more weirdness.

No more—SMACK.

I jerked so hard my teeth snapped shut on my tongue.

Pain exploded in my mouth. Warm, metallic.

Blood.

"Jesus—!"

Erin's face was pressed flat against the window.

His nose squished sideways, his breath fogging the glass in rapid bursts. He dragged his face up and down like a maniac, leaving streaks of condensation behind.

"Open the damn door!" he yelled, voice muffled and warped.

I cracked it open just enough. "You're a freak."

"And you're boring."

The door was yanked open the rest of the way before I could react. His hand clamped onto my arm, hauling me out like I weighed nothing.

"Let's go, lover boy."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

We hit the porch steps fast, stepping over a couple tangled together in the bushes. Not even trying to hide it.

Erin gave them a lazy salute.

The guy flipped him off.

Erin flipped him off back, slower. More deliberate.

Inside—Chaos.

The music hit first.

Not just loud—physical. Bass pounding through the walls, through the floor, into my chest like a second heartbeat trying to overwrite my own.

Lights strobed overhead, flashing in harsh bursts that turned everything into snapshots. Bodies froze mid-motion, then jerked forward again when the light returned.

The air was thick.

Beer soaked into the carpet. Weed clung to the walls. Sweat, perfume, something burnt—all of it layered together into something suffocating.

People moved everywhere.

Dancing. Shoving. Laughing too loud.

Grinding against each other as if nothing else existed.

Someone screamed upstairs.

Not playful.

Sharp.

Then laughter followed it, and no one seemed to care.

Erin was gone.

Just—gone.

Swallowed by the crowd as if he'd never existed.

I stood there, just inside the doorway, not moving.

Watching.

Waiting.

Like prey that hadn't realized it was prey yet.

Then—Her.

Blake.

She stood out without trying.

Bronze skin catching the strobe light in flashes. Hair curling just enough to frame her face, soft but intentional. Glasses resting perfectly as they belonged there, not like an accessory.

Her hoodie hugged her frame like it had been tailored for her specifically.

She wasn't moving much.

Didn't need to.

People moved around her.

"Hey."

Her voice cut through everything.

"You're Hannah's little brother, right?"

My throat tightened. "Yeah."

Smooth. Real smooth.

Her eyes scanned me—slow, deliberate.

Not shy.

Not friendly.

Evaluating.

She handed me the cup.

Red liquid sloshing inside, thick and artificial.

"Try this," she said. "Gummy bear-flavored. You won't even feel it."

"I don't drink."

"You will."

No hesitation.

No argument.

Just certainty.

I lifted it.

One sip.

That's all I meant to take.

Sweet.

Too sweet.

Then—

Fire.

It burned down my throat like liquid heat, like I'd swallowed something alive that didn't want to go down.

My eyes watered instantly.

She smiled.

Everything blurred after that.

Time slipped.

Fragments.

Voices. Laughter. Movement.

Then—

Bathroom.

I was on my knees.

The tile was cold and sticky under my palms. The toilet smelled like decay—beer, vomit, something sour that clung to the back of my throat.

I threw up.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Until there was nothing left.

Until something red mixed into it.

My glasses sat crooked in the sink, lenses smeared.

My gums throbbed.

My throat felt shredded and raw.

I couldn't breathe right.

The door creaked.

Jeremy.

Shirtless. Sweaty. Eyes glassy.

Jeans undone, belt dragging behind him like it had given up.

"You done?" he asked.

I didn't look at him. "Fuck off."

He smiled.

Not amused.

Not drunk.

Something else.

"Your sister's looking for you."

Something in the way he said it made my stomach twist.

I pushed myself up anyway.

Followed.

The hallway stretched longer than it should have.

Each step felt uneven.

Jeremy glanced back.

Smiling.

"You know..." he said slowly, voice dragging. "Your sister..."

I stopped breathing.

"She's fucking hot."

Something snapped in my chest.

I stopped walking.

He didn't.

Then—

He changed.

Not fast.

Not clean.

Wrong.

His back arched too far, spine bending like it was made of rubber instead of bone. His skin rippled, bubbling outward like something underneath was trying to push through.

His shoulders narrowed.

His frame shifted.

Flesh moved.

Bones cracked.

The sound—Wet.

The hallway darkened.

Walls stretched.

Paint peeled like skin.

He—it—turned.

No.

She.

Tall.

Thin.

Wrapped in something that moved like smoke instead of fabric.

Her skin—Pale.

Too pale.

Her lips—Red.

Not lipstick.

Something deeper.

Her eyes—Bright.

Blinding.

Like staring into something alive.

"Adam."

My name didn't sound like my name anymore.

It slid into my head instead of my ears.

I tried to move.

Couldn't.

My body locked.

My heart pounded so hard it hurt.

Then—

Pain.

Sharp.

Sudden.

Fangs.

They punched into my neck just below the collarbone.

No hesitation.

Not slow.

Violent.

I tried to scream.

Nothing came out.

My body jerked, hands clawing at the wall, nails scraping uselessly.

She drank.

Deep.

Greedy.

The world pulsed.

Heat flooded my veins, burning, spreading, replacing everything.

My knees buckled.

My vision shattered into fragments of light and shadow.

My fingers slipped.

I fell.

Her lips pulled away.

"Goodbye, Adam."

Soft.

Almost gentle.

Then—Gone.

No footsteps.

No movement.

Just—Nothing.

I hit the floor hard.

My body twitched.

My chest struggled to rise.

Each breath felt optional.

My blood burned.

My heart stuttered.

Slowed.

Faded.

And right before everything went black—

I smiled.

Because buried beneath the pain...beneath the fear...beneath the part of me that knew I should be dying—There was something else.

Something dark.

Something awakened.

Something that didn't feel like prey anymore.

I liked it.