I have always known that the brain doesn’t show us how we die in our dreams only because it could never imagine what comes after life. But there were millions thing I could imagine. I could imagine the back of my head fall on the hard concrete on the floor like a mannequin and right after, Abel would drag me by my right leg with absolutely no motive to kill me other than the end of an interesting tale. I could imagine Detective Lucy, alongside Detective James and Sheriff Brown and the rest of the policemen, one day, finally find Abel’s home in Nestlebay. Maybe after a year. Maybe the following day or the next hour. And I imagined my head split open as my scalp was emancipated from my head and the back of my neck probably branded with a crucifix logo to show Channing Myers’ delusional obsession with religion. I could imagine Abel walking away from the scene as if nothing meant anything to him. As if he knew the routine already: he would meet a naive boy who would choose him over his safety and sanity and only when he’s far from public’s reach will he hide his smile and prepare an axe in a dark house.
And I would imagine my body burnt in his barn with my letters wrapping my body in symbolism to his fixed fantasy of my life or, in his eyes, in symbolism to the fact that I was a sophisticated whore. Maybe, in symbolism that I was a sophisticated whore with a cheap mind.
And Detective Lucy would have found my body too late. And Abel would have sold my car and be gone to another city.
And I imagined if I was alive, I would be relieved to know that Nate Sells was found dead next to a bridge alongside Mia, but devastated that Jeremiah didn’t die to his sick idea of a prank.
And I would wonder. Why, if he never loved me? Why not just kill me and move on to the next victim? And I would try to imagine that for a second, he might have just understood love. But then I would remember that a psychopath has no compassion, empathy or affection.
And it would have been only an adventure to meet me.
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