SICK. MENTAL. DELUSIONAL. PSYCHO

SICK. MENTAL. DELUSIONAL. PSYCHO
When he nods, I don’t know that I do the same in response. He then proceeds to open the door and disappears inside. That only confirms something to me, so I call Shawna again.

“Yeah, it’s me again, babe. You know how masquerade events like this one are the playground of serial killers?”

Shawna groans. ‘Do you need sleep inducement, Nectar?’

I shrug that off. “Anyways, the guy opposite my room, my serial killer suspect, turns out he actually is one.”

‘If so, are you not scared?’

I shrug that off as well. “He didn’t say anything, which means he’s hiding his voice. Also, he looks completely out of place. I guess he’s trying to emulate a normal dressing style, only to fall outside the classes here. Plus, he must have not marked his attendance at the front desk, otherwise he would have known the key-cards were faulty.”

‘You’re saying he snatched the card from the real owner?’

“That’s right! He’s probably lying low until nighttime. We need to call the police.”

‘But you don’t sound scared, Nectar. Your voice tells me you’re thrilled.’

Am I?

I am scared. It’s why I’m anxious, after all, why my heart is beating so loud as everything unfolds.

Shawna suddenly gasps as if realizing something. ‘My god, I wasn’t aware it had gotten this worse again. I shouldn’t have dragged you here. I’m calling your mom.’

“Don’t call anyone, Shawna. Nothing’s wrong with me.”

‘We don’t know that, which is why you need to connect with your family. Call someone.’

“Okay. I’m calling my dad.”

I stand up to shut my door before lying face up on the bed.

I’m going to call dad for the sake of it; to confirm that I’m not falling into my teenage times again.

And I’ll try as hard as I can to not tell him of my suspicions or else he would forcefully pull me out of the convention.

The call rings once. Dad doesn’t pick up. I try to dial the number again before his call interrupts me.

‘Nectar, is everything alright?’ he asks the moment I pick the call. Yep, that’s the voice of Zeath Lupin, the world’s best husband.

“Should there be something wrong, dad?” I ask.

‘Your mom called and asked me to block your credit cards.’

Fuck.“Because I’m rebellious? Do you think I’m rebellious?”

‘She wants the best for you.’

In truth, I don’t know why dad still has custody over my bank accounts. I should be the one controlling them. Besides, even though there’s literally a whole ocean and four or five countries between Country Zee and Country P, why does mom still contact dad for matters like this?

“What she thinks is best for me is being the head of the solicitor’s department of your company. She badly wants me to get the spot she couldn’t—be knitted at the company’s joint. I know how discontent she was when you didn’t give me bigger shares of the company.”

‘Dad remains silent for a while before humming, ‘Hm.’

“So… will you block my credit cards?”

‘I sense you are saying, ‘I’ll kill you if you do’. Anyways, your aunt says hi.’

‘Aunt Mellow?’ I’ve never seen aunt Mellow face to face before. There was a point in my life when I badly wanted to. But, now, I could swear with every pint of my blood that I DO NOT WANT TO MEET HER.

‘She is coming with me to country P for Christmas,’ Dad spits the horror. That certainly gave me an idea of how I would spend the last month of the year.

“Well then. I would have to travel to the next two continent for Christmas then. Bye, dad.”

>>>>>>>>

Tonight, we’re having the costume party, when everyone chooses who or what they want to be for the night. However, their costumes must cover their faces or require a mask.

Though it’s a controversial topic, I choose my uncle, Zachili—when he was a shadow person—as my inspiration.

People will call me out for the costume. But when aunt Mellow narrated his story in an interview while referring to him as ‘Cross’, I felt… I don’t know…

What I felt was similar to the feeling of seeing a dragon in… real life? Like, I had only watched people like uncle Zach in mystery movies until he made me believe people like him doesn’t only exist on screen and paper.

Clad in a knitted black turtle-neck top and a pair of black leather pants, I put on a black trench coat and a matching mask. The mask is quite fitted and covers all the way from my nose to my neck, worn by tucking out my ear through the loops at the mask’s sides.

The only thing far from similarity with uncle Zach would be my hair.

While his was ink black, mine is platinum blond. It’s fuzzy and too stubborn to dye or even style properly, so I just put the frizzes up in the messy bun. I’m glad I have his gray eyes and pale skin, though.

Shawna put on a whole animal costume—a bunny, I guess.

As we enter the hall, we notice the screaming displays of costumes. Both lively and horrific.

Now that we’re here, realization hits me, and I wish there was something I can swallow to calm my nerves.

You see, I’m presenting my art tonight, and I was busy getting used to my environment that I forgot I had a presentation.

“Your serial killer, has he come out since?” Shawna asks. I ignore her, but she urges while nudging my arm with hers. “Hm?”

“What?” I ask while looking at her nervously.

“The serial kil—”

“I don’t know. I’m more focused on my presentation now.”

“Whew!” Shawna sighs out in relief. “I knew the serial killer thingy was just a phase. You may need to start your medication, though.”

“You know one thing, Shawna, that an ‘unstable person’ hates to hear? It’s been told they’re sick and unstable,” I snap. “And you suggesting medication only means you’re indirectly calling me sick and unstable.”

“I— I didn’t mean that,” Shawna stutters, but I have no interest in hearing more of it. So I walk away.

Making my way through the crowd, I arrive at the front to watch the art reveal.

There are several canvas lined up on the stage, each covered with a black silk cloth.

The canvas are meant to be uncovered by the owners of the artworks. And I notice my work is the last.

When it gets to my turn, I step onto the stage after putting on my mic. The latter makes some loud blaring noise that triggers the crowd to shout. But it’s not about the microphone’s deafening sound for me. It’s everything; the crowd, the flashing lights, the other noises.

“Um…” I say into the mic just as the shrieking noise stops.

But when I don’t still find the right words to introduce my art, I reach for the canvas right away.

“My art is pretty self-explanatory,” I say while tugging off the silk cloth.

The spotlight shines on my canvas, the projector picking the sight and displaying it on the big screen. But even I don’t understand what I’m seeing.

The canvas has the tag ‘Nectar’ at its top, so I know it’s mine. But where did my art go?

All I see, all the audience sees, are words scratched with red ink—words that cover the original painting.

Sick. Mental. Delusional. Psycho.