Molly watched you with thinned eyes, a sharp, pink, nail tracing up and down your upper arm as you slept. You looked so stressed, even as slumber took you. Your brow was furrowed, lip twitching, and regularly you’d shift and squirm, struggling to get comfortable.

You’d asked her to stay with you. Ever since the ‘copycat-killer’ had begun their string of murders, you’d been in a state of panic, shaky and on edge, throwing accusations and theories around left and right. But you trusted her. She seemed to be the only one you trusted.

It was funny, to her, that you trusted the only person doing the actual killing. That you were stupid enough to let her into your home— and why? Because she was the ’final girl’? Because she was the dumb blonde who was too stupid to do any wrong? Because she’d shot your psycho boyfriend at the party all those years ago— and stopped him from stabbing you to death?

She wasn’t stupid. No. She wasn’t stupid at all.

She was smart enough that she could pretend to be. she was smart enough that she could parade herself around in hot pink, and bat her lashes, and prance around acting like she was dumb. She was smart enough that she’d thrown every single cop off her tail with simple dim-witted fibs. She was smart enough that she convinced every single survivor from that party that she was clearly innocent, just by acting dumb.

You were dumb. You were stupid. And god, as she traced your skin with the tip of her nail, and watched as your eyes flicked open with panic (a nightmare, no doubt) she couldn’t help but relish in the fact that she was your only sense of security.