The person turns around, a wide grin spreading across a face identical to my own. “Well, well, well. Fancy meeting you here. I think it’s about time for you and me to have a little chat,” my dark alter drawls, causing my heart to drop into my stomach.
She points to the pillows next to me, and I grind my teeth to keep from snapping at my mother for setting me up. Clio’s face goes red when she sees me, and her gulp is audible even as she takes the seat beside me. Her back is stick straight, every inch of her body on edge. Her voice is frosty. “What is it you’d like me to do, Aphrodite?”
I looked at what little remained of the orb and frowned. “Yeah…Oh well.” I shrugged. “It was a nice thought. But it’s just a material possession.” I tried concealing how bummed I was, but I knew Clio could tell. “But do you know how hard it is to find good friends?” I winked at Clio.
“Wait!” I hear him shout after me, but nothing can stop me. Nothing but— I suddenly slam into what feels like an invisible force field. My feet come to a grinding halt as I feel her black tentacles wrap around my subconscious. I try to scream, but it doesn’t meet my lips. Instead, laughter bubbles up from me as she pulls me under.
“You know, you’re pretty hot for a dead girl,” he continues, as if my silence is an invitation. Classy, idiot. You don’t know who you’re messing with. Don’t make her come out. Trust me, you’ll regret it.
Eyes like obsidian peek from behind his Guy Fawkes mask. Its twisted grin is like the antithesis to the gaping frown of mine. And yet, the foreshadowing of anarchy feels all the same. There’s a suave air to him as he dances up alongside me, just within reach and yet so far away. The energy between us feels static, like a live wire connects us.
As she goes to dispose of her drink, she trips on her own two feet, and without thinking, I reach out and grab her, steadying her on her feet. My heart goes into my throat as I feel a smidge of my power release.
I click into a saved recording labeled Message for Melpomene, and it pulls up a grainy, static-filled video of my bedroom. A shiver goes down my spine as the dark shape of a woman moves across the room, idly swinging a club.
“My, my, that’s quite the piece you have there,” the man at the front desk remarks, his eyes going round like saucers at the sight of it. I feel a slow smirk creep across my face as something, or someone, shifts in my head.
So, this is strange. There’s a tragedy mask sitting on my kitchen table. I don’t own a tragedy mask. I have no idea where it came from or how in Tartarus it got in my house. It’s giving me a weird vibe, too, like déjà vu. It’s so bizarre. I think I’ll keep it.