Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 62095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
I was too focused on grabbing water and on whatever nervous breakdown he was having that I tripped over the area rug in the middle of the floor, sailing toward the ground.
“Shit.” Yup, my knees were definitely going to be bruised. I rubbed them both and moved into a sitting position, ready to just lay against the floor when I saw it.
A trap door?
Weird.
Or was it just storage?
There was a small square with a handle lying under the rug. I looked over my shoulder at the bathroom; his shadow was still moving. Tentatively I reached for the handle and jerked open the door.
The room beneath his lit up like a bat cave. The hell? I gently rested the door against the floor and poked my head in.
There was an angle, so I couldn’t really see around the corner. And he was still in the bathroom doing God knew what. Plus, we shared everything together, right?
With a frown, I got up and carefully walked down the wooden stairs. With each step, the room got lighter and lighter until I was at the very bottom of what seemed like a hideout.
There was a door on the opposite end; it was metal and looked fireproof. And lining the walls were so many weapons my head spun, weapons that I’d never seen Maksim even touch.
Semi-automatics.
Handguns.
Knives.
A bow and arrow that looked like something from the set of The Avengers. Bombs, burner phones, trackers the size of my pinky.
Why the hell did Maksim have this below his room?
Maybe it was his dad’s?
Right, and Maksim slept over it because it what? Made more sense?
In the middle was a simple wooden table with six brown leather-bound journals, the old-school kind with the leather strap wrapped around them.
He still wasn’t out of the bathroom.
And clearly, this wasn’t his, right?
I knew Maksim, truly knew him; there was no freaking way.
I unbound the first journal, the one that said September, and flipped through the pages. Disturbing drawings had me nearly dropping the journal. Drawings of monsters and winged demons, good drawings but creepy ones, and in between the pages, words, and riddles.
I started to read.
Journal Entry #27 September, 9 kills
I’m tired a lot. The medicine isn’t working as well anymore. I woke up in the middle of Seattle with blood running down both my wrists as if I was trying to commit suicide. It was mine, not hers, but I always see hers and just assume. I see her face, I see her smile, and it kills me the way I know I’m killing her. I don’t know how much more I can take. In the moment, it feels good. In the moment, I finally feel at home. The scary part is I don’t want to go back, but I always do, and when I do, I feel guilty for wanting it, for liking it, and for needing it. I’m afraid the medicine will stop working. I’m afraid that one day I won’t come back, and I’ll be happier for it. I would rather you kill me than let that happen.
Journal Entry #28 September, 9 kills
I stayed in Seattle a few extra days with you, you ran tests on me, and we both came to the same conclusion, my blood was just different enough, lucky fucking me. I’m sure one day you’ll cure many psychological disorders as well as other things with this breakthrough; I just wish it wasn’t a happy accident and that I was the accident. I’m proud of you. If you ever read this, know that if it had to be me to save thousands of people, well, I’ll take it. I was always the guy who didn’t want to go on a murder spree, who preferred books to the mafia, so maybe this is my lot in life; this is the legacy I leave behind. I just wish I could warn everyone. I wish I could hold her and explain why I did what I did. I wish she would understand. But how do you explain your weakness to the one person you want to see you as a hero? I need her to see me as strong, but I’m not; it’s the reason I did it and now look where it got me. I became the very thing I was afraid of in order not to become a monster. Hah, irony. I’m still tired, barely eating, but today tacos sounded good. Fucking tacos? Am I even Russian anymore? PS, vodka tastes funny now. Tequila it is!
My hands shook as I wrapped the journal back up. There were six. Did they all include stuff like this? His thoughts? Maksim’s? There was no way this was Andrei, and I remembered Maksim switching to Tequila a few weeks ago, which I’d thought was weird. He almost always swapped out drinks when nobody was paying attention; I never gave him shit. I just assume it was because he was embarrassed. Was there an actual reason?