DyZfunctional

By Ginger (AKA Sam, AKA Konspiracy)

All Rights Reserved.

Note: It’s pronounced ‘dysfunctional,’ like the normal word. Don’t hurt yourselves.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events & places is purely coincidental.

This work may contain material that some readers may find disturbing.

Not for the squeamish or the easily offended.

Reader discretion is advised.

The Beginning

October 22nd, 1999

Edgeview, Alabama

Kyle Galloway chose the wrong night to wander town.

Most times, his Mamaw warned him not to venture too far—never pass the pharmacy, she’d say. Never pass the pharmacy, and sure as hell don’t go near the bar. But on this late evening, for the first time, he’d gotten the nerve to disobey her—perhaps due to his hypomania, or perhaps due to the adrenaline coursing through him as he played tag with his friend—he couldn’t know why, nor did he care. He ran down the gravel road that stretched off from town, far past the bar and leading deeper into the woods toward the edge of the backwoods town, the wind pummeling against him, making his sandy hair fly about and his dirty t-shirt flatten against his body. His friend—Clayton Greene—was hot on his tail, chasing after him at top speed. Kyle didn’t dare turn around to see how far Clayton was; he was determined to outrun him above all else, lest he be tagged and lose his title of being ‘not it.’

“Stop!” Clayton shouted from somewhere far behind him. “Mama don’t want me going this far! Kyle! Stop!”

Kyle smirked and continued to run, soaring past the bushes and darkened woods all around him.

“You ain’t gonna fool me with that shit!” Kyle hollered between breaths, laughing and panting in unison.

In reality, it was common for every parent in Edgeview to warn their children about traveling this road. This narrow, gravel-covered street led to the back of the truck stop on the edge of town, the only part of town that regularly played host to outsiders. No one ever let their children near that truck stop—Kyle’s Mamaw wasn’t the only concerned parent in town. But Kyle didn’t care—he knew Clayton was just trying to trick him into stopping so he could get tagged. He wasn’t about to fall for that, not after running this far.

The longer he ran, the more enthralled he became. He’d never explored this road before, and the excitement of this new territory pulsated through him, as well as the rush of trying to outrun Clayton. Then—when he spotted light at the end of the shrubbery road—a beaming smile crawled across his face, and Kyle rocketed toward it.

He skidded out of the woods, glimpsing around quickly and realizing that he’d arrived in a parking lot. Now, the nighttime sounds of crickets were fused with the noises of car doors and distant chatter. To his left was a large yellowish building, with peeling paint and a few chunks of plywood against the rear wall, just beside the dumpster. In front of the large building were the noises, ambient sounds of vehicle engines and muttering voices—Kyle broke into another run, sprinting toward the building and hurriedly leaping around the corner, hoping to hide himself from Clayton’s sight.

For a moment, Kyle remained hunched at the corner of the building, not minding the distant voices and trucks behind him. He allowed his breath to catch up with him, closely watching the parking lot and waiting for that fateful moment—the moment Clayton would suddenly appear and startle him.

But, as minutes passed by, no such startling occurred. Clayton never came into view, never approached the front of the building, and Kyle could no longer hear the echo of his nearby footsteps.

Inhaling deeply, Kyle glanced over his shoulder, seeing two pudgy older men standing beside a massive rig, both of them speaking and making hand gestures. Kyle overheard the words stockpile and Y2k, but nothing else. The two strangers were standing a good distance away, and neither of them seemed to have noticed Kyle’s arrival. So, Kyle simply turned away, returning his attention to the corner.

Cautiously, Kyle slowly leaned around the corner, surveying the area he’d come from. The dark road of gravel was as still and silent as ever, residing under a canopy of trees just beyond the back of the parking lot, nothing stirring. There was no sign of Clayton anywhere.

Perhaps his fear got the better of him. Maybe he was too afraid to break his mama’s rules and go where ever he wanted.

Kyle let out a disappointed sigh, vowing to rub Clayton’s loss in his face later. Just when he prepared to move, a hand clasped onto his shoulder, making him jump and inhale a sharp breath.

Kyle’s hazel eyes flickered upward, landing on one of the pudgy men he’d seen moments ago. The man now stood directly behind him, almost too close, his meaty hand seeming to tighten around Kyle’s small shoulder. The man had silvery stubble that was half-grown into a full beard along his jaw, a trucker’s hat, a stained jean jacket, and a pair of old levis that smelled of cider. His round face portrayed a smile, an odd sort of grin that might’ve looked jolly on Santa—but on this man, it didn’t look much like a smile at all.

Kyle swallowed a sudden wave of fear, glancing over and seeing that the other pudgy man was no longer in the parking lot. No one else was around now—just Kyle and this stranger.

“You look lost,” the man remarked. “Where you from?”

Kyle gulped, gazing up at him again. “Edgeview…”

“Mmm.” The man nodded, still wearing the false smile, still with his hand clasped onto Kyle’s shoulder. “I never been there. Never been in this neck of the woods before… don’t plan on comin’ back, either.”

Kyle felt a rising panic inside, though he did his best to repress it. “I… I need to go home now.”

“Oh yeah? I can take ya’ home,” the man offered, the sausage-like fingers clasped firmly onto Kyle. “I can’t be lettin’ a kid wander off alone in the middle of the night.”

“I know how to get home—I’m fine,” Kyle insisted, trying to duck out of his grasp, but the man refused to release him. “Lemme go—I can go by myself.”

“Nah. I’m gonna take you home,” the man said flatly, his phony smile beginning to fade. “Let’s go. Now.”

Kyle forced himself to appear calm despite the growing fear he felt. He didn’t resist when the pudgy man escorted him around the corner, walking him toward the gravel road behind the parking lot, hand viselike on his shoulder, his pace strengthening as he distanced himself from the truck stop. With every step they took, Kyle’s heart beat faster and harder—a million frightful thoughts bombarding him at once, and suddenly, he fully regretted venturing past the pharmacy and the bar. His mind ran rampant with everything he might do—once he was in the woods, he would try his best to break away and run for it. He knew these woods well, after all.

The man marched onto the gravel, escorting Kyle out of the parking lot and into the woods. For nearly a full minute, Kyle merely walked alongside him in silence, giving the man no reason to tighten his grasp or attempt to restrain him.

The moment Kyle felt the meaty hand loosen—he ducked and leaped forward, scrambling into a run and dashing away from the pudgy predator at top speed.

The pudgy man became enraged—he exploded into a run as well, fumbling over the rocks and cursing at Kyle from behind. Kyle’s eyes were wide, his heart hammering madly as he made a desperate sprint down the road—the pudgy man swooped down and grasped a large rock, rearing back and—

“Agh!”

Kyle felt the rock smash into the square of his back—his tiny body buckled, and Kyle fell to the ground. He tried to jump to his feet—the man leaped on top of him, grasping his arms and pinning them painfully against the rocks.

All at once, Kyle’s mind erupted with the most overwhelming panic he’d ever endured—hot tears formed in his eyes as he screamed, kicked, and struggled with all his might, haphazardly launching his feet at the attacker and trying to squirm out of his grasp.

The pudgy man quickly lost his patience—he held Kyle down with one hand, launching his fist downward and punching the child as hard as possible. His fat knuckles collided with Kyle’s temple—the boy’s vision exploding into stars, a wicked pain spiraling throughout his skull.

Then, the man stood upright, dragging Kyle by the throat and placing one of his giant hands over the boy’s mouth. Kyle fought against him, but to no avail—the man carried him into the woods, far from the truck stop and the town, far from anyone who might hear his desperate pleas.

Just when Kyle’s vision began to straighten out—his head pulsating horribly and his mind blank with adrenaline—he kicked and smacked relentlessly once again, yelling into the man’s smelly palm and trying his damnedest to break free. The pudgy man lifted him upright and thrust him forward—he smashed the boy into a tree, making him grunt in pain and fall silent.

Then, the pudgy man revealed another smile—a nastier one that appeared much more honest than the first.

“You ain’t nothin’, boy.”

Kyle felt another punch—this one hard in the stomach. The wind escaped him, and he choked out a pained squeak, wanting to scream, or curse, or run, but his energy abandoned him completely. The pudgy man hit him thrice more—Kyle’s vision blurred as pain shot up and down him like lightning, and he quickly forgot to count how many hits he’d taken, his thoughts abandoning him as well as his fear, everything—awareness, processing of pain, the panicking thoughts—it all left him at once as the man threw him to the ground. His watery eyes gazed up at the night sky between the crooked branches overhead, every inch of him screaming in pain, though he was nearly blind to the feeling now—as if he arose from his body, as if he was no longer present, as if he barely knew what was happening to him now, his pants ripped from around his ankles as a nasty body thrust against him.

He remembered being flipped over at some point—he remembered trying to fight back again, only to have a leathery boot stomp down on his arm, a wailing scream escaping him as his arm gave a harsh crack. Then—he remembered the nasty body encompassing him again, thrusting, pain, tears, and the feeling of rising from his body once more, his mind separating from him completely, refusing to partake in the horrific events.

Kyle knew every detail, though he refused to acknowledge it all. He knew the darkness around him, the nasty body, the crickets, and the terrible pain throbbing in numerous parts of his body—but as of now, he couldn’t seem to absorb them all, couldn’t seem to process, couldn’t seem to believe what had happened. Something inside him snapped, just like his arm—a severing, a divide he’d never felt before, as if the pain and shock had forced his soul from his very being, never to return. The hours passing could’ve been minutes, the pain as faint as a tickle, the memories as clear as a lucid dream.

He didn’t know when the man finished his business and wandered out of the woods. He didn’t know where the sounds of sirens were coming from, and he didn’t care—his eyes were lost in the sky, his expression vacant and hardened, the pain in his arm steadily growing much more noticeable.

The longer he lay still, the more a festering anger began to grow in the pit of his stomach. He fought so hard, did everything he could—but it was all for nothing. The monster got what he wanted, and now, here Kyle lay, broken and alone. As time passed, the anger evolved into something more—something wickeder than the honesty of the man’s predatory smile. The fear slowly began to return to him, and it felt to be waging war with the growing hatred inside, all the while, his mind simply couldn’t keep up.

At some point—when he heard strangers calling his name in the distance—Kyle lumbered to his feet, moving as if on autopilot, wincing and stifling more tears as his arm hung limply in its broken state. He stepped into his pants, pulled each side up with one hand, and stood still for nearly a full minute, stoic and empty. He still felt as if he’d risen out of his body, and his soul simply hadn’t found its way back yet, leaving only the emptiness, the fear, and the hatred to dictate his movements now.

The trees moved by in a blur as Kyle wandered dazedly back toward the gravel road. When he stepped out of the woods, he spotted the distant flashes of red and blue lights off in the far distance, where police cars were parked at the truck stop. He paid them no mind, deciding to return home, walking with a limp as he meandered back down the path.

Just when the bar and the pharmacy came into view, another series of red and blue lights were close by, illuminating the darkened buildings and the people nearby them. Some of the cops were shining flashlights into the trees surrounding Edgeview, calling out to the lost child. Clayton was talking to his parents, as well as a couple of cops, yammering a mile a minute at all the adults around him. Kyle’s Mamaw was in front of the bar, repeatedly wiping tears away as she spoke with the police.

“Well… we got a call from a trucker,” one of the cops was saying to Kyle’s Mamaw. “He said he came outside, and he saw another trucker escorting a young man away from the building…”

Kyle’s Mamaw let out a disdainful whimper at hearing this, shaking her head as her expression warped with angry fright.

Kyle merely stood alone in the dark, remaining still at the edge of the gravel road, watching them all from a distance and saying nothing, his face entirely void of emotion. His head was lighter than ever as he cradled his broken arm, wanting to speak, but lacking the will or energy to do so. It didn’t matter what he did, after all…

Moments later, one of the police shone a flashlight over the gravel road. The cop’s mouth fell open as he shone his light over Kyle, and he quickly hollered at the surrounding policemen, gesturing for them to come closer. The cop rushed up to Kyle, followed by a few more police—Kyle’s Mamaw hurried forward as well, along with Clayton and his parents. In a matter of seconds, Kyle was surrounded by adults, all of them standing over him and surveying him worriedly. He barely heard any of their questions, and he barely felt his Mamaw’s hug, aside from the jolt of pain it caused in his arm. Just when his Mamaw backed away, Clayton forced himself to the front of the crowd.

“Kyle!” Clayton gasped, gaping at the bruises and bloody scrapes on Kyle’s face. “What happened? I went home and told Mama you ran to the truck stop—we called your Mamaw, and she said you never came home! What happened, Kyle?! The cops been lookin’ for you all night!”

Kyle felt a disgusted churning in his stomach after hearing the sound of his own name, a name he suddenly hated—he felt as much hatred for himself as he did for the pudgy man. He lost the fight, let himself be taken advantage of. He couldn’t fathom the depths of his distaste for himself—especially at hearing his name, almost as if he didn’t want the name now, as if it never belonged to him at all.

In fact, he felt as if his soul had never returned after leaving him, as if the shock and hatred had taken its place forever. He simply wasn’t Kyle anymore.

So, with the darkest expression anyone had ever seen on him, Kyle slowly raised his head, meeting Clayton’s eyes and flashing a vacant, unwitting smile, one that didn’t look much like a smile at all.

“Kyle ain’t here no more.”

May 24th, 2020

New York City

Twenty-one years after the incident in Edgeview, far north of the southern United States, a young woman named Ivy continued her evening routine as always.

The sun set into a beautiful twilight above New York City, and Ivy stood in her boyfriend’s loft, sparing the enormous window a glance and smirking at the gorgeous glare cast over the buildings. The weakening rays shone against the Freedom Tower and every building surrounding until night fell minutes later. Ivy returned her attention to her latest painting, making a few light swipes over the canvas. The loft was filled with her paintings—mainly this corner room, where she kept her best works, her leather couch, and her desktop that always had youtube or netflix playing in the background.

Ivy was a petite girl with a fierce attitude, a creative edge and a goth-punk fashion. Her clothes were always dark, usually with many blacks and reds to contrast her turquoise eyes. Her hair was short and dark, a red streak dyed down the side of her bangs, her nails as black as her thin, flashy overcoat, her belt leather with square metal studs. Her tank top was a fight fit, decorated with a glittery skull and bones, as well as a band logo beneath the image. Her clothes sent a clear message, just as her artwork did. Many of her works depicted various vigilante-types in numerous poses, usually around New York City, sometimes standing on buildings, other times immersed in a battle in a club or an alleyway. Her art style was some odd combination of anime and American comics, a bizarre style that was difficult to sell—yet still, she carried on, drawing and painting from the heart.

Not many liked her odd art style, but Ivy flashed a half-smile as she finished up her painting, thinking it didn’t matter. After all, she’d gotten a call from a certain wealthy collector today—someone was finally requesting one of her paintings. After she made her first sell, hopefully, this man would become a regular customer of hers. This was just the break she was looking for. Perhaps her boyfriend wouldn’t have to move his product this month after all.

Her smile faded at the thought of her boyfriend. He was a stern type, a take-no-nonsense sort of guy straight out of Brooklyn. Honestly, Ivy didn’t much approve of his job, but she usually remained silent on the matter. They couldn’t pay their bills simply from Ivy’s paintings, after all. Selling heroin wasn’t a good job to have, but it put food on the table nonetheless.

Ivy pondered on this, surveying her painting and giving it a satisfied nod. She’d have to grab her dinner and make herself scarce soon. One of the deals was going to happen tonight, and she didn’t want to be in the living room when it happened. The deals weren’t usually outright dangerous, but Ivy preferred to keep her distance regardless.

After about an hour—when Ivy was sitting in front of her desktop, enjoying a microwaved TV dinner—she heard the front door close, followed by the sounds of her boyfriend moving around and speaking on the phone. Ivy paused the video she was watching, placed the dinner down, and left her art room, peeking down the hallway and seeing him beside the front door.

Her boyfriend—Alex—stood with his back against the door, one hand hanging from the belt loop of his jeans, his dark button-up open with the sleeves rolled up. He had black hair, cut short, and a tribal tattoo crawled up his left arm.

“No… yeah,” Alex nodded, glimpsing up and briefly making eye contact with Ivy. “Yeah, we’re good. I just got home. Seeya in a sec.”

Alex hung up the phone and pocketed it, sighing and sauntering toward his girlfriend. He pecked her on the lips, offering her a quick, empty smile.

“Fucking corona virus,” Alex uttered. “This state-of-emergency shit is getting old. I can’t do my job without some law enforcement crawling up my ass everywhere I go—and there’s no goddamn toilet paper anywhere.”

“It’ll pass,” Ivy assured. “I found another pack of toilet paper in the back of the closet, so we’re good for a little while.”

Alex nodded distantly, giving her a curious squint. “Dave’s coming over. You’re not gonna hang out in your room?”

“I am,” Ivy told him, wrapping him in a hug. “Just wanted to see you first…”

They embraced for a moment. Ivy stepped back and peered up at him.

“I have news,” she said.

Alex frowned. “Oh, fuck… what? What now?”

“No—nothing bad,” Ivy quickly added, feeling a spark of anxiety at the sight of his grimace. “It’s good news.”

Alex slowly nodded, waiting for her to continue. Ivy took a moment to assess her thoughts before speaking. She didn’t like to see his mood drop—Alex was wonderful whenever he was calm, but his temper was another story entirely.

“I got a call from Richard Hamilton today,” Ivy smirked proudly.

Alex narrowed his eyes at her. “Who?”

“A rich guy… who likes art,” Ivy replied, her smile growing. “My art.”

Alex raised his brows. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” Ivy grinned. “We’re gonna hit the clubs as soon as I get that money, too.”

“Oh, shit. You know we’ve gotta pay rent first…”

“Yeah. I know. It’s a lot of money. Like… a lot of money.”

Alex revealed a wide, relieved smile.

Ivy loved that expression—he wore it so rarely, it was a treasure each time she’d see it. Most of the time, Alex was so angry and stressed, she could barely get through a conversation with him without a fight breaking out, and those fights almost always resulted in Alex breaking numerous things around their home. Now, however, he seemed more at ease than she ever remembered seeing him before.

“Dave…” Ivy mumbled thoughtfully. “Which one is Dave, again?”

“The blonde one with the brown eyes, hangs around a bad crowd,” Alex replied. “Worse crowd than mine. Heh.”

Ivy gave him an odd look.

Alex sighed and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it… just hang out in your room.”

When Alex marched into the living room, Ivy stared after him for a moment before slipping back into her art room, gently closing the door behind her. She didn’t know much about Alex’s endeavors outside of their loft, aside from the occasional club or diner visits Ivy would join him for. In fact, she purposefully avoided asking about his work beyond the deals he’d make inside his own home. Perhaps she simply didn’t want to know.

Forcing the thought away, Ivy returned to her desktop and her TV dinner. She watched videos for a while until she heard the front door open, followed by a new voice on the other side of the wall. Sounded like Dave had arrived for his product. It didn’t matter; Ivy continued watching her videos by her lonesome.

Alex spoke with Dave in the living room for a while, Ivy keeping to herself in the meantime. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she heard Alex raise his voice. Slowly, she leaned forward and hit the space bar on her keyboard, pausing her video and perking her ears. Alex was now cursing at Dave, his voice muffled between the two walls.

Gulping and feeling a wave of nervousness sweep over her, Ivy slowly arose from her rolling chair, tip-toeing across the room and gently pulling her door open. Suddenly, the voices became clear, and Ivy inched into the hallway, stopping at the living room’s doorway and peeking around the corner.

The burly blonde Dave stood with his back facing Ivy—and she clasped a hand over her mouth, swallowing a gasp. Dave was holding a pistol with a silencer on it, aiming it directly at Alex.

Alex stood on the other side of the coffee table, his hands raised in surrender, his expression grave, his eyes lit with a certain anger that Ivy had grown to fear over the past two years. Alex was clearly furious—but he maintained his composure, careful not to make a wrong move.

Alex’s eyes flicked over to Ivy for a split second before landing on Dave again.

“This isn’t how it works. This isn’t how it’s done,” Alex spoke in a calm, firm voice, his eyes locked with Dave’s. “You pay me. I give you the product. That’s it. That’s how it goes… always. Put the gun down.”

“Are you fucking deaf?” Dave growled, practically hopping in place, his eyes wild as he shot Alex a provoked glare. “I said gimme the bag—just gimme the damn bag!”

Alex glanced down at the black bag at his feet, the bag filled with the drug Dave so craved. Then, he slowly looked up, meeting Dave’s gaze again and wearing an empty smile, a sinister one Ivy had never seen on him before.

“You’re branding yourself as a bad customer,” Alex told him. “Nobody’s gonna deal with you if you go around waving a gun in every dealer’s face, you fucking moron.”

The two of them shared a heated glare. Ivy remained hidden in the hallway, watching in silence as her heart pounded ruthlessly. She’d seen her fair share of fights in the city, and she’d seen Alex lose his temper with his customers before—but she’d never seen anything escalate like this.

“Give me,” Dave breathed through gritted teeth. “The god… damn… bag. Now.”

Alex paused, inhaling deeply and slowly retrieving the bag from the floor. Then, just when he moved to stand upright—his foot shot out, kicking the coffee table forward and slamming it against Dave’s shins. Dave doubled over—Alex flew forward—

Ivy staggered away from the doorway as Alex slammed into Dave—Dave fought to aim his gun—Alex yanking and jerking his arm around, twisting his wrist and shoving the gun into Dave’s stomach—

Bang.

Ivy could’ve sworn her heart stopped at the sound of the quiet gunshot. Everything fell terribly still, Alex still holding the gun against Dave’s gut, Dave’s mouth falling agape, his face draining of color as blood began to collect behind the fabric of his white tank top.

Dave’s back slid against the wall as he sank to the floor, sputtering and gasping, though no words came out. His stomach began to bleed profusely, and Alex took back, staring coldly down at him and holding the silenced pistol in a manner much too casual.

Almost as if he’d done it before.

Tears formed in Ivy’s eyes, her hands locked around her mouth as her head went light, hardly able to believe what she’d seen. The seconds of awful silence seemed to stretch into hours—until, at long last, Alex tore his gaze from Dave’s fresh corpse, his eyes fixating on hers.

There was a long, horrible pause.

“C-call the cops,” Ivy eventually sputtered. “Tell them it was a home invasion, and hide your bag. C-call the cops and—and get him to a hospital—”

“He’s dead,” Alex replied in a dark, knowing tone. “Too late.”

“N-no it’s not,” Ivy cried, wiping her eyes. “Just call—”

“That’s too messy,” Alex stated, stepping toward her. “Listen to me. Listen closely.”

Ivy’s back was pressed into the hallway’s corner, her body trembling, her eyes gazing up at him behind watery lenses. His expression was the same flattened, detached expression it often was before he’d have an angry outburst—but now, it almost seemed uncharacteristic, as if he shouldn’t wear such a face, as if this expression was far too casual considering what had just transpired.

“You’re gonna go back to your room, and you’re gonna do whatever you want for about an hour,” Alex told her calmly. “I’m gonna be loading our friend into the car after I make sure the coast is clear. I’m gonna take a long drive out to Jersey tonight, and I’m gonna get rid of our little problem here. After I leave, you’re gonna scrub down every inch of the living room until every millimeter is fucking spotless. Then, I’m gonna come home, and we’re gonna move on with our lives. All right?”

Ivy stared at him incredibly, hardly able to believe his nonchalant ease.

“Have you done this before?” she gasped, feeling utterly shocked and nauseated. “No—we can’t just—this is fucking serious, Alex! We need to do something—”

Alex’s hand shot out and clasped around her throat, making her fall silent in an instant. Another explosion of fear shot through her—she gazed up at him in shock, shaking terribly. He’d had many violent outbursts in the past, but he’d never put his hands on her before now.

His fingers tightened around her windpipe, his eyes burning into hers.

“I love you,” he hissed. “So… don’t make me fucking hurt you.”

Ivy felt more terrified than ever before as he loomed over her, and all the sudden, she realized the severity of her predicament—that her mother was right, that Alex was no good, that Alex was into some heavy criminal activity that she never allowed herself to acknowledge, and that she was the only witness to the murder he’d just committed.

It all sank in, her mind slowly absorbing the terrible truth.

Alex released her, and Ivy took back, now giving him a glare of distrust rather than fear.

“You’re fucking evil,” she uttered.

Alex nodded, his eyes glazing over with a cold apathy. Then, his hand shot out—he delivered a hard smack, bashing Ivy’s head into the wall and making her fall to the ground.

Ivy stumbled to her feet, backing into the living room and swallowing the mad desire to cry, choosing not to look at Dave’s body. Alex advanced on her, and she continued to glare hatefully at him, her cheek burning terribly, but she wouldn’t cry—not now.

“Fuck you,” Ivy snarled, her voice cracking. “Don’t ever—don’t ever put your fucking hands on me! You fucking monster!”

Alex strode forward, slamming her into the wall and pressing the gun to her abdomen. Ivy froze, Alex’s breath hitting her face as he leered into her.

“You’re gonna do what I said,” he ordered. “Or I’m gonna fucking end you.”

Ivy inhaled a shaking breath, trying to muster up a response as anger and fear waged war inside her. Alex tilted his head, flashing a sly, wicked smile, one that hardly could’ve been called a smile at all.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Alex glowered. “I love you to death—and I really don’t wanna make you swim with Dave in Jersey for all eternity. Do I make myself clear?”

Ivy wanted to fight—more than anything, she wanted to hurt Alex and make a run for the door—but as of now, that was impossible. Alex had her pinned against the wall, a pistol jammed into her stomach. So, disdainfully, she gave him a slow nod.

“Good.” Alex backed away, waving the gun toward the hallway. “Go back to your room. Wait for me to leave… and clean up the house for me while I’m gone. Understand?”

Ivy nodded again, silently hating herself for complying. She took a moment to regain her composure, then stepped past him and entered the hallway.

“Ivy,” he called after her.

Ivy spun on her heel, meeting his unfeeling gaze.

“Don’t try any shit,” Alex demanded, giving her a stern look. “Or you’re dead.”

Ivy didn’t reply, sparing him another empty nod before marching off. She vanished into her art room, locking the door and pressing her head against it, tears rolling down her cheeks. For a moment, she remained hunched against the door, weeping in silence and cradling the door’s knob, wishing she would’ve listened to her mother. Her mother never approved of Alex—that was why Ivy stopped speaking to her mother for the past two years—but now, she wanted more than anything to run to her mother’s house and trap her in a hug, to never return to this loft and to never speak to Alex again for as long as she lived. He was nothing but a poison to her, a toxic monster of a person she never should have loved.

Ivy wasn’t sure how long she remained in her room. Eventually, she found herself sitting on her leather couch, staring blankly at the wall after she was finished crying. She heard the sounds of Alex moving around the loft, collecting everything he needed to transport a body. Then, a slow, disgusting dragging sound moved slowly down the hallway, making Ivy want to gag—Alex was pulling a corpse out of their home. She couldn’t believe it, even now, even after watching and listening to the whole ordeal.

After the front door slammed shut, another horrible silence overtook the loft. Ivy was alone now, and Alex was out there somewhere, giving a dead body a ride to New Jersey…

Her stomach turned, her eyes beginning to water again. Ivy shook her head, leaping to her feet and pacing in front of her paintings—something needed to be done, though she wasn’t sure what. Yes, she fully regretted living with Alex now, and she wanted to call the police on him, but she couldn’t erase the image if his icy stare from her mind. Alex threatened to take her life—a terrible act, something he’d never done to her before now—and after what he did to Dave, she knew he was willing to kill. It certainly wasn’t an empty threat—and if he felt the need to murder Ivy, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

Without thinking, Ivy pulled her travel bag from the closet and began packing it haphazardly, slapping clothes and art supplies into it before zipping it fully shut. Just when she reached for the door’s knob, her smartphone vibrated against her hip. Ivy pulled the phone from her pocket, swallowing her cries before answering the phone call.

“H-hello?”

“Yes, Ivy—this is Mr. Hamilton,” a voice replied from the phone. “Sorry to call you at this hour, but I wanted to check on your progress before I wire you the money. That all right?”

“I… um…” Ivy paused, wanting to tell the man the truth of everything she’d just experienced, but she decided against it. “Y-yeah, that’s fine… ahm…”

“You all right?” Mr. Hamilton asked. “You sound…”

“I’m fine,” Ivy lied, positioning herself in front of her newest painting. “Um… I’m gonna send you a picture now. I just finished the painting.”

“You did?” Mr. Hamilton said hopefully. “That’s excellent. I can’t wait to see it.”

“Yeah… um…” Ivy held the phone outward for a moment, activating the camera and taking a quick picture of the painting, then she sent the image to Mr. Hamilton. “Th-there you go. You should get the picture in a second.”

Mr. Hamilton was quiet for a moment. Then, he released a long, pleased laugh.

“Oooh, that looks amazing,” he remarked. “Thank you so much. I can’t believe how quickly you created such a work of art. I’m gonna go ahead and send you the money.”

“Th-thanks,” Ivy sniffed, glancing down at her travel bag. “I’m really gonna need it now…”

“Well, when should I come by and collect it?”

“J-just come by tomorrow whenever you want. I’m gonna text my landlord, and I’m gonna tell him to give you the painting. I… I have to leave town kinda unexpectedly…”

“You do?”

“Y-yeah… um… family emergency. I have to go now. Thanks, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Not a problem. Take good care of yourself.”

Ivy slowly nodded, biting her lip and sighing. “I finally will.”

At that, she hung up, ripped the door open, and stormed out of the dysfunctional poison of Alex’s home for the final time.