Free Interim by S. Walden Page A

semi-automatic.
    “Jesus Christ,” Regan breathed.
    She stared at her reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. She felt the notebook slide down her thighs, and reflex urged her to grab it. But she let it slip slip slip to her knees, teetering perilously, giving her one last chance to rescue it. She wouldn’t, and it fell to the floor like it meant nothing to her. But that wasn’t right because those words, that boy, meant everything.
    Curiosity killed the cat, Regan. Oh God, was he going to kill her? Was she one of his targets? Surely not! He practically confessed his love for her throughout the pages of his journal.
    “So what?” she said. “So what that he did? People kill people they love! Happens all the time!”
    She spoke to her reflection, waiting for a response. It came in the form of uncontrollable shaking. She lifted her hands in front of her face, thought for certain she could see the perspiration push its way out of every pore. So much sweat.
    “What’s happening to me?” she whispered, crying softly so that her family wouldn’t hear. She fisted the quilt on either side of her, trying to wipe away the perspiration.
    She had no business opening that journal. This is exactly what happens when you meddle where you don’t belong! her brain screamed. You discover things you wish you never knew, and now, whether you like it or not, you’re responsible! You’re a dumb bitch, Regan!
    “What do I do?”
    Her face leaked—tears streaming in fast succession. Snot seeped, threatening to crawl into her open mouth. Anxiety flipped the switch, closing the valve, and she couldn’t breathe, every inhalation of air caught in her chest, collecting in a pile of racking sobs. They would choke her to death. The panic strummed her nerves like an electric guitar, and her whole body submitted to its piercing tune—a heavy metal dirge screeching through her veins.
    “Mom,” she mouthed.
    She stumbled about the room, trying for one long breath. She just needed one. But her chest closed in each time, severing it, and her heart screamed, begging for life. Face numb. Arms numb. Legs numb. She tried to open the bedroom door. Locked. She fumbled with the knob. Her fingers slipped.
    “Dad,” she croaked.
    She lurched toward her bathroom and threw up the toilet lid. Tell. Don’t tell. Live with the fear, the guilt, the anger. Ruin a life. Don’t ruin a life. Lock him up. Save dozens. Don’t lock him up. Kill those people. No! Talk him down, instead. Yes, yes! Talk him down. But wait. That doesn’t work. That never works. Tell an adult. Tell an adult. Tell an adult . . .
    “Get it out!” she screamed, and she vomited violently, purging the yellow bile sobs. Purging her racing thoughts. Purging the terror.
    Banging on her bedroom door.
    “Regan!” her father shouted. “Open the door!”
    She vomited again. This wave hurt worse, her stomach constricting in painful you-haven’t-fed-me-for-days cramps.
    But I did feed you , she thought absurdly. I did .
    “Open the door!”
    She couldn’t move. A third rush of acrid bile. It meant to punish her. She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t know. She heaved, releasing the last of her ignorance. Her innocence. It splashed into the toilet water then floated about lazily—a little, aborted piece of goodness. Worthless now that it wasn’t inside her. Only a faint bitterness remained, coating her tongue and teeth with regret. A byproduct of the shift. It didn’t taste good—this knowing—and she wanted to cover up, hide away.
    She flinched at the sound of cracking wood. It splintered and screeched, and in an instant her father flew into the bathroom, dropping to his knees beside her.
    “It’s okay,” he assured her, pulling her gently to his chest.
    He didn’t know what was happening. He just knew to break down the door at the sound of his daughter’s screams. He knew to hold her when he reached her. He knew to let her soak his shirtfront with