[Hi real quick I just finished this book in the span of a few hours so celebration chapter and ALSO movie recommendation it's called The Voices it has Ryan Reynolds in it and it's so so so so good that's all I hope u like this chapter]

The next day, I have one scene to do twenty different times, and I'm dead for the entire time. I'm pretty sure they scheduled me to work because they wanted to test Jenna's ability to perfectly recreate the makeup, in which she succeeded and should never be tested again for my sake. I don't mind being around her because she doesn't talk too much and she likes to watch Dexter while she works, but it's tedious and irritating to sit still while coated in gooey cuts and fake blood. I could be doing so many other things instead, like eating.

The remainder of filming time is awarded to Taylor running around the various sets mimicking desolate places around the country to gather the proper ingredients to rip-off Pet Semetary for a little over two hours. Graveyard Blues does not outdo the original idea in any sense of the word, but that's just my opinion. A lot of teenage girls like it.

Brendon sits with me while I peel off the stage blood that had dried on my cheek and plastered itself to my chest through the shirt. It picks off in flakes and crumbles into dust between my fingers. It's disgusting but mesmerizing.

Instead of turning away, he watches me struggle intently. "The media's still going ape-shit over your criminal record, y'know. You're lucky you're off and filming away from the public eye right now."

I nod. I'm only half-listening. "Yes."

There's a small bird underneath my side of the bed. I want to get back and bury it inconspicuously before Brendon can find it and the odd twisted angle of its neck. It had just happened so suddenly — it didn't even feel a thing, and that I can guarantee. I didn't see why it mattered, because if it somehow did suffer it would be dead and all experiences would be obsolete. I didn't question it because it tended to upset him whenever I did.

"There's an animal adoption event thing going on all day next Wednesday," he glances at me to confirm I hear him, "and I think you should go. It'll make you seem like less of a hardened criminal psychopath and more like a normal human being."

I can't be around small animals, or rather I don't like to be if I can help it. It upsets him, and when he's upset, he doesn't give in to purchasing fast food in place of salads and healthy eating choices.

"I should, but should I? Really?" I stare at his reflection in the mirror. He shoots daggers back at me, but he knows I'm right.

"I'll go with you. We'll leave that morning and get back before you start shooting again. I already checked your schedule."

🔪

I leave the hotel room for a bucket of ice and I return to find Brendon packing sheets of tissue paper into my old shoebox. He doesn't notice I'm there until the door shuts and locks, but as soon as he sees me, he turns away.

"How long has it been there?"

He's talking about the bird. "Last night. I went for a walk while you were asleep. It walked right up to me."

His whole body is rocked by an unsettled shudder and he gently shuts the lid of the box. There's a bottle of Febreze in the garbage, his new favorite air freshener in the scent of Bora Bora waters. Underneath the sink at home, there are six bottles and a half empty one. They're good at masking the unwanted stench of dead animals and the occasional burnt pizza.

"That's fucking disgusting."

"I didn't know where you wanted me to put it. I was going to get rid of—"

"How about this doesn't happen in the first place?! There is a whole ass dead bird in our hotel room, and it's rotting underneath the bed! Why didn't you get rid of it?"

Before I can answer, Brendon waves the nozzle in the air and sprays for a few seconds. It seems to relieve his stress. Maybe I should get him some more for Christmas.

"Here," he picks up the box and shoves it into my hands, pushing past me and yanking the door open, "it's my turn for a walk. Take care of it before anyone else can see it."

"Okay. I—" I start and he slams the door shut before I can finish, and I tell him that I love him to an empty room. "Cool. Cool-io."

I grab my jacket from the closet and as I zip it up and head outside, the headlights to our rental car spark to life, and the engine rumbles down the road until Brendon's out of sight.

I lift the lid to the box. It's deader than ever, but I don't see why he was so upset. It's just a bird. There're plenty more, and it's not like they're endangered. If I had killed a dodo bird, that would be a different story.

A few doors own the open hallway, another door creeps open and Taylor's head peeks out. She squints against the fluorescent lights and the moths trying to... do whatever moths to do bright lights. I'm not sure what they do.

"What's in the box?" She fakes a sob. She was telling me earlier about her fascination with the horror movie "Seven", and how funny she found that one line to be. I remember Brendon hated that movie because it was too long, and I fell asleep three separate times.

I'm still at a distinct point where I need to lie. "A bird. It flew into the window and I didn't know where to put it so I kept it in the hotel room. Brendon told me to bury it."

She locks the door behind her. She loops the room key around her finger and hugs her body. It's cold, and she's wearing a tank top and fuzzy shorts with cats printed on them. "Aw, I'm sorry. Is that why he drove off? The walls are sorta thin. I heard a bit of yelling."

I need to remember to tell Brendon to keep it down if any situation were to arise. "Yeah. He's a little stressed out. He absorbs all mine and he bottles it up for as long as he can."

She gently takes the box from me and as we start walking down the stairs together, she opens it. The tissue paper shifts lightly in the cool night air. Her fingers hover above it, but she can't bring herself to touch.

Across the street and about a quarter mile into nothingness, there's a single bare tree with roots that jut from the dirt like zombie limbs. An eerie heart is carved into the bark, and nothing else.

We dig together and she talks. She talks about the asshole crew and the author that's supposed to arrive in two more days. She talks about everything she misses back home and how she can't wait to rub this jig in the faces of all the teachers that said she wouldn't succeed unless she unbuttoned her shirt.

She's very complex. It's interesting to watch her speak and to see her toss the dirt over her shoulder aggressively when she's talking about something that upset her. When she's reminiscing in happy times, she pushes the ground to the side in a neat pile beside the bird box.

Taylor claps her hands together as soon as she decides the hole is deep enough. I grab the box and stand with her.

"We're here today," she begins, "to commemorate this bird who flew into a window. I will now quote The Office, season three, episode fourteen: Grief Counseling."

"Really? Are you—"

"What do we know about this bird? You might think, not much, it's just a bird. But we do know some things. We know it was a local bird. Maybe it's that same bird that surprised Oscar that one morning with a special present from above. And we know how he died. Flying into the glass doors. But you know what, I don't think he was being stupid. I think he just really, really wanted to come inside our building. To spread his cheer, and lift our spirits with a song. Lastly, we can't help but notice that he was by himself when he died. But of course, we all know that doesn't mean he was alone. Because I'm sure that there were lots of other birds out there who cared for him very much. He will not be forgotten."

I applaud lightly for her and she bows. "That was impressive."

She nods. "I'm a big fan. I knew memorizing that speech would come in handy one day."

I set the box in the dirt and slide a small pile onto the cardboard lid. Taylor follows suit and nudges in a handful beside mine. We keep going and soon, there's only a lump of fresh dirt, and no makeshift bird coffin in sight.

"Jenna's gonna fucking kill me. She did my acrylic nails, and now there's dirt all underneath 'em."

"Tell her I did it so she'll kill me. Then I'll spend less time in the chair in her trailer. It gets uncomfortable after a while."

"Her chair is ridiculously uncomfortable. She really needs a new one." She mutters and squints in disgust.

Taylor is beautiful. Her hair is loosely pulled back into a bun, and upturned soil streaks down her arms where she rubbed when the slight breeze picked up. Her deep blue eyes sparkle in the moonlight, and she smiles.

I wonder how loud she would scream if I killed her. She trusts me. It would be easy.