Chapter Five:

A cold wind whips over my back, sending chills over the skin where Trey had unzipped my dress. Did he leave a fucking window open?

"How the hell do you know my last name?"

He rolls his eyes. "It isn't that difficult! I mean, you made it easy." He leans against the back of the sofa near him. "For someone trying to stay on the down low, you sure don't know how to pick an alias. You kept your same first name, and only changed a single letter in your last. All I had to do was Google 'Rachel Summers', and after scrolling for a while, I found you. The real you."

Although I think I know the answer, I need to ask him. "What are you trying to say?"

"I see the front you put on, the mask you wear to hide who the true Rachel is." He takes a step forward, but I take one back. "What would they say if we peel back that fake layer?"

Trey reaches towards me, as if I actually have a second skin. I swat his hand away with the back of my hand. "What the hell are you talking about?" I wave my arms up dramatically to emphasize my point.

His arms fall to his sides with a loud slap on his thighs. "I know about your condition."

A new kind of fear swims inside of me. "Y-you know?"

Slowly, his head rocks back and forth with a tedious nod. "You've been kind of fucking obvious. I saw the way you would lick your lips when you saw something you wanted. And then when you finally went for it, I caught that sparkle reflect in your eyes because of the guilt. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out."

My voice shakes along with my boney body. "But nobody knows. N-nobody else figured it out." I feel so naked although the only thing exposed is the open back of my dress.

"Soon, everyone will see the killer inside of you."

Oh, my God. "No. No, no, no. You don't know. There's no way you know!"

He smirks like the kid who got all the answers right during the review game in class. "But I do. Oh, Rachel, it might surprise you on what I know."

My eyes shift to the front door. I can run now. I can get out. Go. Run, get out, get away from this psycho. Now, before you lose your chance. GO.

I'm a second too late. Trey follows my gaze. "No, you don't." He runs right into me as I make a bolt for the door. His strength overpowers mine, and he sends me sprawling to the floor. "You aren't going anywhere."

"What are you going to do?" I spit at him. "Chain me to the couch!?"

"If I have to."

For some reason, I find myself looking at his crotch. And somehow, he's still aroused. Does he like this, watching me struggle against him? Fucking sicko.

Trey goes back to his position leaning against the back of the sofa. "So anyway, imagine my surprise when I found this little newspaper archive from a small town in east Wisconsin about a girl who was murdered."

I swallow hard, shrinking further into the floor. "I was a minor." I clench my teeth, avoiding his eyes. " They were supposed to clean that up!"

His eyes narrow on me, getting me to look back. "Well, they didn't." He shakes his head, as if I'm annoying him. "So I clicked onto the article, wondering why your name was involved. And it surprised the fuck out of me. I mean, I couldn't picture you, skinny, weakass Rachel, capable of overkill."

I hold my eyelids shut. Memories flash in my head. Her body lying on the cold floor of her basement bedroom. Her eyes half shut, and I could already see her irises glazing over. Her skull beaten in so much, I could see her brain. By the time the police and firefighters arrived, she was long gone inside her blazing house.

There was nothing I could do. I didn't perform CPR. I didn't want to. I never felt a guilt, not even any that made me want to revive her. At least I never did until this very moment when someone wants to blackmail me because of something I did in my past.

I can picture myself right now; my dress falling off of me while I sit on my ass on the floor like a defiant child. My face probably shows how uncomfortable I am, yet I'm stuck listening to Trey relive my mistake through a fucking secondary source article.

"'Rachel Sommers, seventeen, was found outside the home of Deborah Wilson, also seventeen, as the Wilson house was up in flames. By the time the paramedics and firefighters arrived, Wilson's body was burnt so severely, they had a difficult time identifying her. The M.E. used dental records to identify her.'" He pauses, glancing up from his cell phone. "Shall I continue?"

"No." I grit through my teeth.

He tosses the device onto the couch, moving towards me again. He crouches, and takes my chin into his grip. "You murdered your best friend. You beat her in her head until her skull gave way." Salvia hits my cheek. "Why'd you do it?"

Sounds replay this time. Debbie screaming at me. She wouldn't stop. All she did was yell and scream, and I wanted her to stop. So I made her stop. I had to use her dad's nine iron to do it, but I did it.

Trey doesn't need to know that though.

He tilts his head, holding my face still as he analyzes me. "Nothing? This is your time to confess."

I gather spit in the back of my throat, and I throw it into his face with my mouth. "F-fuck you!"

Groaning, he releases me, and wipes his face with his hand. "You fucking bitch!" he winds his arm back and lands a hard hit across my cheek. I feel whiplash settle in on my neck.

"You're worthless!" he screams.

I laugh, turning my head to look him straight in the eye. "Your insults don't work on me. I've come to terms with who I am and what I've become."

"I don't know how you fucking did it. You killed your best friend, got no time, and skipped out on the whole mental hospital thing."

My amusement falls. "I'm the poor girl with ICD. I deserve a break."

He runs a hand over his face roughly. "Was that your defense? Oh, poor you. You murder because you're cursed with Impulse Control Disorder." He shakes his head. "Get over yourself."

"Why?" I sit up more. "Is there something you want to confess?"

Trey paces the room, stress heavy on his chest. He pants hard, his chest puffing up and down. He slows down, turning his head to lock eyes with me.

"Fuck it," he says.

Before I can back up, he grabs me by my arms, wrenching me into the air. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for another impact from his hand or worse - his fist.

But instead, he slams his lips against my mouth.

"No," I muffle against him. I twist and push against him. "Get urf me," it sounds like I say.

He holds me close, his mouth breaking away from me just to slip down to my neck. "You're mine, Rachel. You're my twisted, fucked up soulmate. You're only mine."

I push again. "Why are you doing this? You can't just act like you hate me one minute and then want me the next."

A familiar feeling rushes over me. The information from the research I did when I first found out I had ICD storms into my brain. If disorders had sister conditions like schools or restaurants do, I'd think BPD would be pretty close to being ICD's sister disorder.

Trey's possessive, has uncontrollable fits of anger, violent, and is highly arrogant and narcissistic. Does he have Borderline Personality Disorder?

A sense of entrapment crashes down onto me. I just want out. I want to get out of this fucking place, and to get away from him.

"Just let me go," I whisper into his ear, feeling close to tears. "Please, Trey."

His body stiffens. For a moment, I flinch, shutting my eyes in preparation of more violence. But it never comes. He pulls away from me, slowly and softly letting me go.

"Fine," he hisses. "Get the fuck out." His eyes lift up. "But if you leave, you are done with me. I'm done with you. No second chances."

Relief settles in. "Okay. Fine."

Trey closes his eyes, and steps to the side. I run for the door, flip the lock I didn't know he turned, and rush outside into the night air.

Realization hits me as I suck in the air without his cologne.

I never fulfilled my impulse. I never fucked him. And I feel unsatisfied. And he wants nothing to do with me now.

What the hell have I done?

This is going to be one hell of a Monday tomorrow morning.