Chapter Text
Tara slams her bedroom door shut with the back of her foot, yelling profanities through the phone, thanking whatever god that her neighbors cars aren’t parked outside to eavesdrop. She really needs to close the windows.
“Seriously? You have to be fucking kidding me Christina, Im not bailing you out this time” She spits bitterly at the phone, her patience and formality long gone.
On the other end is her mother, Currently calling from inside a holding cell. She’d begun drunkenly slurring her words of protest.
“No—no I have nothing more to say to you. figure this shit out yourself.” she shakily brings the phone down from her ear and ends the call. Thankfully checking out before her mom had a chance to give her some bullshit excuse for this fuckup. It had been so long since her mom messed her life up this bad, Tara really thought she’d been getting better. But of course, old habits have to die hard.
With a glance at her surroundings, Tara notices she’s been anxiously pacing around the house during the short duration of the call. She made it quite far from her room without realizing it. She quickly walks back into the living room to seat herself on the couch, hoping to end the awful chattering of her teeth and calm down. Unfortunately, her body had other plans.
Shes shaking like a leaf, her reckless energy sputtering out to be exchanged with nervousness. Her body had been shot by a pang of anxiety. The sinking feeling cringes in the pit of her stomach and seeps through the rest of her body. Tara immediately sat up to busy herself with some menial task. The weight of her actions slowly inched into her mind.
”What the hell am I gonna do now… Fuck fuck fuck!!" she whispers to herself in a panic. Instantly beginning a slew of perturbed thoughts. Her chosen task was organizing the stray blueray discs scattered right next to the TV, simply a justification to admire the titles of her favorite horror movies.
It worked for an hour at most, owning a bunch of movies has its upsides. But unfortunately, her mind ended up sinking away from her chore and back to the situation at hand. She can’t help but freak out about her living situation now, her mom is definitely getting shipped back to rehab.
The familiar ring of her phone interrupts her soon-to-be anxiety attack.
“There’s no way she’s calling again.”
Tara stiffly walks towards her phone she’d set down on the counter earlier, studying the unfamiliar number before flicking her eyes to the top of the screen to check the time. Who the hell could be calling at 11 pm? Her face gives an expression of confusion, shakily accepting the call and bringing the device to her ear.
“Hello? Who is this”
A static voice drones quietly on the other end, almost at a whisper.
“Tara— is that you?”
She makes a strange face. Her eyebrows twisting downward in confusion, trying to recognize the voice on the opposite end.
“Who’s asking, who are you?” She retorts.
…
Who the fuck even is this..
“Tara— it’s Sam, I know you’re—”
Oh fuck that.
Instantaneously, the call is ended. She even tossed the phone like it was going to self-destruct in her hands. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!!” Tara wails into her hands, clasped over her face in exasperation.
Mom must’ve contacted her.
Anxiety rapidly climbs up her spine, the sinking dread amplified at the sound of the estranged voice. “Maybe if I just sleep. Things will just sort themselves out by the morning” Tara whispers to herself in comfort.
Wishful thinking.
Dragging her feet to her bedroom, Tara flops onto the bed, Utterly exhausted.
“I’m spent.” Tara whispers to her stuffed animals, Taking comfort in their presence. She’d grown used to talking to herself to ease the silence, her mother was never home.
She’s missing a few stuffed animals on her bed, so she takes a look around her room, a doomed expression dawns on her.
“Why is it such a fucking wreck in here?!” Tara growls like she’s not the only one who lives in her room.
Dusty books that appear to be untouched, random miscellaneous papers, water bottles.. so many water bottles actually, wrappers, a pile of dirty clothes, a shitload of trash, and a cluttered desk. What a way to live.
“…I’ll clean up later.” She says.
Sure..
Ignoring her obvious depression-room, Tara gets comfortable on her bed. Well, as comfortable as she can. Her body bent awkwardly to avoid the pile of unfolded clothes on her bed.
...
“Fuck it, we ball.” She kicks the pile of clothes off the bed.
Tara lies completely still in her sleep, almost unnaturally so. Moonlight crept through her open window, her body covered in a cold sweat, amplified by the winter breeze drifting through her window.
Meanwhile, Tara is keenly aware that she’s sleeping, her body simply doesn't function well under a lot of stress.
She's stuck inside a lucid dream, trying to wake herself. Her hands feebly trying to push through the cellophane walls of her dreamscape, the barriers feeling almost permeable. She’s beginning to panic, taking her short nails to the barriers now.
No dice.
“This will be the last time being a lesbian is gonna fuck me over. Never cutting my nails again.” She groans in frustration. Her efforts amounted to none.
A low rumble begins behind her, skin prickling up like she’s made of static.
Tara, get up.
”What..?”
A knife is pressed snugly in her back with a heavy silence.
A warmth blooms in the affected area. She stumbles forward into the wall, slumped against her face and body, as it lets her pass through. Diving into—nothingness.
She’s falling.
Tara wakes up in a cold sweat, untethered to reality. Nausea crept up from her stomach to burn in her throat. She shoots up out of bed at the familiar feeling of her mouth salivating, right as it prepares to turn her stomach inside out. She stumbles her way to the bathroom connected to her room. She lifts the lid and promptly empties her guts out. Her hand cemented to a tight grip on the counter to keep herself grounded.
She peers into the water below her, the bathroom exceptionally dark, saved by the moonlight from the door facing her bedroom window. “You’ve got to be...kidding…me” Tara looks downward in disbelief.
Blood.
She uses the hand grounded onto the ledge of the counter to quickly stand and blindly reach for the lights, eyes glued to the toilet bowl as if it’s going to disappear if she looks away. The lights flick on, and she’s reeling at the sight in front of her. So much fucking blood?! She blinks momentarily, and just like that, the scene is gone. Just the remnants of what she ate today.
“Fuck that, fuck that—hell no”
Tara reaches for the side of the toilet, and flushes the remnants. She opens the medicine cabinet on the right side of her mirror. Pills line the shelves; A container of half-cut Trazodone, a spilled bottle of Hydroxyzine, an old half-empty bottle of Lexapro, a seemingly less empty bottle of Wellbutrin, lazily cut Mirtazapine, her spare inhaler, and a full bottle Prazosin, her least favorite to take.
She holds her 25mg of Hydroxyzine for now, hopefully enough to settle her anxiety and put herself back to bed. She debates taking her Prazosin to keep her nightmares at bay, but decides that she’d like to have all of her cognitive functions. She stumbles in the dark to her kitchen. catching her foot under a rug and almost falling on her way there. She opens the fridge for light to fix herself a glass of water. Hoping to dispel the taste of vomit from her mouth first, and then to take her medication second.
Knock, knock.
Tara’s head whips over to the front door.
I’m not opening that.. what time is it anyways.
She looks behind her, scanning her stove for the time.
5:37
Who the hell is at the door at the ass crack of dawn—
Knock, knock.
“Fuck that, fuck that. Absolutely not” she whispers, barely above her breath.
She grabs a serrated knife from the wooden block on her left. Then, slowly and quietly, she makes her way toward her bedroom, Watching her feet for the rug this time.
She softly closes the door behind her, and breathes a sigh of relief. Her room is freezing cold, and she never sleeps in anything but her assortment of thin tank tops, sweaters, and plaid pajama pants. She sets her knife down and grabs a black long-sleeve shirt off the pile of clean clothes she’d kicked to the floor.
After slipping it on, she reaches for her phone lying on the cluttered desk. 3 missed calls are displayed on her home screen, all from the number Sam had used to try and contact her. Along with the 3 calls, 2 voicemails were also left.
“The fuck does she want..” She muses.
Skimming past her sister’s desperate attempts to contact her, Tara taps her password in and opens the home security app on her phone. first and foremost, she wastes no time making sure all the doors are locked, then proceeds to shift through the outside cameras next. The doorbell camera shows nothing—strange, The backyard camera is also empty. Did they just leave? Maybe it was the wrong house.
…
Tara rewinds the doorbell footage.
Her heart sinks into the pit of her stomach.
“Fuck that, fuck all of this actually. I’m so done.” She says in quick breaths, trying to keep herself calm.
Her phone replaying the clip of some asshole dressed as Ghostface. Bowie knife and all, crouching down low and waving at the camera. Tara slips her phone into her pocket. She grabs her knife off the desk, and clutches it in hand tighter, Sweat beginning to loosen her grip. Regretting her decision of putting a warmer shirt on, the breeze from her window couldn’t combat her anxious heat.
Wait.
Oh my god…
Nails carving into her skin—Her hands and body began to seize in pure, unadulterated, fear. Her throat is holding back a scream of terror. She feels eyes on her As she slowly inches backward towards the door. Tears are welling in her eyes, Her palm reaches the knob.
The hinges of the door creak.
Run.
She beelines out of the room, and into the hallway—but her foot gets caught under the rug again. She slams her knees and elbows onto the hardwood floor. A gloved hand grips her throat from behind her, swinging the Bowie knife deep into her left shoulder. She hears her skin and muscles audibly tear before her bones cracking, as the masked figure twists the heavy blade deep inside of her. She screams in pure agony.
Tara swings her own knife deep into the right side of the masked killer’s thigh. The serrated points ripping and severing the fibers of their vastus lateralus. Thankful for her anatomy classes, Ghostface keels over in pain, as she kicks them off of her back and attempts to get to the door again.
If only it was that easy.
Tara braces herself against the wall, her aching limbs carrying her to the kitchen. She slips her phone out of her pocket and hits speed dial, 911 is ringing. Unfortunately, Ghostface is already up and off the ground, slightly limping their way toward Tara. She quickly puts the phone back into her pocket. And tries for the door again.
The killer lunges forward and lands a hit on Tara. A deep swipe that connected to her bicep and upper back. She swings her elbow back and it connects to the killer's jaw, a rough crackling sensation is felt under her skin.
Ghostface sloppily cuts her side open. Watching the beads of fat appear under the layers of her epidermis. This put an end to her attempt at evading their attacks. This was all happening so fucking fast. She screams out in pain, her vocal cords ripping and stinging as her Lungs constrict, no inhaler in sight. She prays that her neighbors can hear her pleas of help.
Wishful thinking.
She can smell the blood all around her. Smeared up and down the walls of her home. Her balance is lost as her back and head are cracked against the floor. A steel toed boot is planted to her tibia, and blinding white hot pain is shot through her body, her nerves are set ablaze. She hears the deafening sound of her bone rupturing, splintering fractures tearing through her skin. knocking the wind out of her burning lungs, there’s no air left in her to scream.
The killer straddles her waist, knife raised above their head, glinting in the moonlight. Tara instinctively raises her hand up to block it, the blade slices right into the center of the appendage. Attempting to delay the attack, she braces her second hand behind the bleeding limb. Trying to keep the blade protruding at the center of her palm’s backside from connecting with her eye.
It’s inching closer,
And closer..
She derails the hand at the last second, but the blade nicks the center of her eyebrow. She uses her newly freed left hand to pick her knife back up and stab Ghostface’s left oblique muscle weakly. Her shoulder extremely frail and painful, Causing her to sob out in anguish. She uses the back side of her foot to kick the killer off of her and begins to crawl towards the door.
She hobbles to the exit on her one working foot, bloody hands slipping off the top and center lock, making it nearly impossible to make her escape. She slides her black sleeve over her palm to gain more friction, and attempts again successfully.
If only it was that easy.
As her sleeved hand twists the doorknob, she feels a knife press snugly into her back.
What..It’s not fair—
Taras vision is becoming spotty, a weight is pulling her down to earth. Her lungs are on the verge of collapse
A warmth blooms in her lower stomach
Her face and body slam onto the cold dark wooden door, promptly gliding out of her way. Her head collides with the concrete of her front balcony.
The relentless attack does not stop. She feels the pressure of the knife slamming repeatedly into her lower back. Blood dribbling from her mouth, she detects the familiar feeling of her salivary glands. Her mouth fills with the tinge of copper, and she vomits the contaminants onto the concrete below her.
This is it, I’m so fucking over.
…
The faint sound of sirens reach her ears. She feels the weight of the masked killer shift off of her and scurry away, detecting the noise too.
So she reaches a hand out towards the street, feeling her consciousness slip away from her…