Simon Says Die

I don’t feel guilty for anything. I feel sorry for people who feel guilt. –Ted Bundy This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental. SIMON SAYS DIE First edition. January 27, 2023. Copyright © 2023 Erika Strauss. Written by Erika Strauss. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Dedication Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Epilogue To all the people who don't quite fit in, the weirdos, the abnormal, the twisted, the ones who see the world for the strange place it really is... embrace it. The planet is already full of people pretending to be normal, we don't need any more. Prologue ANGIE Why can’t it always be like this? I wonder, brushing a strand of shaggy brown hair out of his face. Every finger is tensed to tuck it behind his ear without touching his skin. What’s meant to be an easy, loving gesture makes me feel like I’m caressing a landmine instead of my son. I hold my breath, careful not to exhale too harshly and ruin everything. He looks innocent and sweet only when he is sleeping, especially now as he drifts among his dreams with his head cradled in my lap. Times like this don’t happen very often, so when they do, I take advantage. I turn down the music at the end credits of his favorite movie, The Jungle Book, and embrace the calm environment while he snoozes. I drink in every moment and memorize everything I can so I can store it for later. I’ll miss this version of Max, knowing that once he wakes up, everything will descend into chaos and fighting. Or worse, his soft features will be distorted by that sly, knowing grin that gives me goosebumps. I don’t know what it is about this movie, but whenever I turn it on, he calms down instantly. He is obsessed with watching the blue bear protect the loincloth-wearing child, and we have watched it so many times that he knows every line verbatim. I place the remote down on the end table next to me but freeze when Max begins to stir. No, not yet. I’m not ready to let him go. If even the slightest movement wakes him up, then the calmness that I feel will surely come to an abrupt end. When I found out I was pregnant with a little boy, I was overjoyed. Every woman wants a little momma’s boy to call their own—one that dotes on them and loves them to pieces. Unfortunately, that’s not what happened. I should have named my child Damian instead of Max because that is who he acts like: the spawn of Satan. My gut told me that something was wrong with him the day that he was born. He looked like an angel, but when I peered into his bright green eyes, there was nothing behind them. It was as if he didn’t have a soul. Sometimes, I wish I had listened to my instincts and given him up for adoption, making him someone else’s problem, but I didn’t want that on my conscience. These thoughts used to send me into a dark pit of guilt, but I’d like to think I’m immune to that now. For a while, when he was a warm bundle strapped to my chest, he was everything to me. Knowing which shriek translated to hunger or sleep made me feel like I could love those empty eyes. You’re just a baby, I said over and over until the emptiness didn’t bother me. Then he would smile and reach for me, and I decided that I would nurture away the evil, if that’s what it was. It’s times like this when those early memories feel so close that I could live in them. I don’t know why he fights me the way that he does. Part of me should have listened to the fear I felt when those soft, chubby arms grew lean and when his hands learned to destroy. Worst of all, those eyes began to study me and learn what makes me tick. Somewhere along the way, he learned how to mask the emptiness and blend in. He doesn’t do anything I ask, he’s sneaky, and I’m pretty sure he is the one that is responsible for all of the missing pets in our neighborhood. In recent months, a large number of missing cat and dog posters have been put up all over our small town of Oregon, Ohio. I remember the chill that ran down my spine when I realized that all of the animals had vanished within a three-block radius of my home. That surely cannot be a coincidence. Every time I walk down the street, the frantic, bolded words ‘MISSING’, and ‘REWARD’ haunt me almost as much as the animals’ faces frozen in happier times. A time before they met my son. The most recent flyer is of my next-door neighbor’s yorkie, Maxine. My son always thought it was so cool that the dog’s name was close to his. He would sneak over the fence to play with her when he saw her outside walking around her yard. Then, one day, poof! Maxine was gone, and the last person to see her was Max. He promised Ms. Franklin that he would scour the neighborhood for the dog, and he even helped the elderly woman put up signs all over town and gave her the last three dollars out of his piggy bank to throw in with the reward money. Still, there has been no luck in finding Maxine, and I find that suspicious. Sometimes, I think that I might be reading into this too