Ch. 1

Followed

"Fear can't hurt you. When it washes over you. Give it no power. It is a snake with no venom; remember that. That knowledge can save you."

–Maureen Johnson, The Name of the Star

It was snowing. Cold, wet, flaky, snow. There was something about the cool grey dimness of a snowy day that put me on edge. It made me look over my shoulder to check for shadows. It made me listen for footsteps that weren't there, not really.

I couldn't concentrate on anything.

Definitely not my homework that I had left unfinished until the day before it was due. I just wanted to curl up with my laptop and watch Netflix. I just wanted to forget about the world and my life. But right now I needed to finish my history paper.

"Avery!"

I sighed and glanced at the clock on my vanity. It was five thirty. Which meant it was time for my meds.

I got up and stretched. My back was sore from sitting in my hard wooden desk chair for so long. I glanced back at my laptop to check my progress on the essay. Much like my motivation, my essay was, well, nonexistent. I sighed again and climbed down the stairs to my kitchen. My mother had recently painted it a startling scarlet red. She'd read in some book that the color red made people hungry which is why big fast food chains liked using red in their color scheme.

Red didn't make me hungry, it just reminded me of blood.

"Hi sweetie," My mom smiled softly. She had long brown hair and grey eyes. Her round face was open and her lips were full. I loved my mom, I did really, but she worried too much. She worried too much about me and it made her sick.

"Here you go." She handed me a pillbox with five little compartments. I sighed at the myriad of tiny colored tablets tiredly. I took my pills carefully and after each new medication I showed my mother that I had indeed swallowed them.

I hated taking my medication. It made me feel fuzzy, slow, and yet hyper and jittery at the same time.

"How was school today?" She asked as I washed down my next set of pills.

"Fine, fine." I muttered.

"No… incidents?"

I pursed my lips. "No." She checked under my tongue. I was notorious for hiding my pills under my tongue.

"Have the voices gone away?" Mom asked, almost hopefully. But she knew better than to hope. Things like this didn't just go away. Schizophrenia didn't just go away no matter how many pills you took. It lingers, it always lingers.

"No." I washed down the last of my pills and my mother ran her fingers through my long blonde hair. It almost reached the small of my back and I wondered if I should cut it.

"That's alright sweetie, you know what the doctor said. We'll fight this. Day by day." My mother smiled again. I had always loved my mother's smile; it always made her look so free. I didn't have a smile like her's. I looked too much like my father. My mother cared too much and my father didn't care enough.

"Day by day." I echoed. That was our motto. If I could just make it to tomorrow everything would work out. The thing was that tomorrow never came. Sometimes I would sit up until midnight waiting for tomorrow. At eleven fifty-nine my heart would beat loudly in my chest. I would be right there, on the brink of tomorrow but as soon as the clock struck twelve I wilted. Tomorrow never came. It was just today. It was always today and never tomorrow.

My mom asked me if I was hungry, I shrugged. "I have to finish an essay." So I went to finish my essay. And I did. After that I got ready for bed and waited for tomorrow but deep down I knew I shouldn't hope. It was foolish to hope. And I knew tomorrow would always be just out of reach.

The bell rang signaling that the period was over. Dr. Hall reminded us of a chapter test on Friday as we packed our books away in our bags. I pulled my coat on and tied my blue scarf around my neck. The snow had been washed away by rain earlier that morning but it wasn't any less chilly. When I stepped out to meet Lucy I could see my breath billow out in front of me.

"C'mon darling," She drawled when she spotted me from over her book.

"I'm coming." I trudged over to her VW Passat. Lucy Anderson was an old friend of my family. She had come to the states from England to attend Johns Hopkins medical school and was staying with one of her relatives here in Bethlehem before moving to her dorms.

She snapped her book shut and climbed into her car, I followed soon after. Lucy turned on her stereo and soft classical music played through the speakers. She would later tell me that it was one of Chopin's Nocturnes, one of her favorites. The twinkling sounds of piano lulled me after the long day and I felt myself drifting asleep.

I hated falling asleep.

The veil that kept my reality safely away from the deepest corners of my mind always seemed to wane and let little horrors slip through. One time it was a massive spider in its forest den surrounded by its spawn and another time it was a killer clown with blood dripping off of its lips.

This time was no different. I was in an abandoned warehouse filled with forgotten scaffolding and rusted chains hanging from the ceiling. I was alone but I felt wild and rabid. Like I had been chased by someone or something for a long time and it was finally closing in.

I had dried blood staining my arms up to my elbows and a steel knife dipped in ruby red in my left hand. Had I killed someone?

Maybe.

I walked through the cavernous room slowly. My eyes darting to every corner, every crevice in which someone could hide. I collided with a wall that was quite invisible and yet very much solid. It burned me like I had been standing in the sun for to long.

Being trapped frightened me but it also made me angry; so angry that I growled.

That's when the laughing began. It bounced off the walls taunting me. The panic began to set in and my breaths turned shallow. I felt like no matter how deep a breath I took, I couldn't capture any oxygen.

A man appeared from the shadows. His eyes were tinged unnaturally red and didn't seem to have any pupils; they were all sclera. The worst thing about this man was his face. It was twisted and deformed and seemed like it was made of chalky black ash.

"Look what I caught." He sang mockingly. His eyes flicked to the ceiling and I followed his gaze. Many feet above us, drawn on the ceiling, there was a strange red circle. I couldn't quite make out the markings but it was vaguely familiar. I felt as if I had seen it before but I couldn't place where.

"Boss is going to be real pleased when he hears I caught Avery Jackson." His eyes glinted evilly. "The reward will be unbelievable." He laughed.

"Go to hell." I hissed.

"Oh don't worry, I will." He promised. "But you're coming with me." He grinned showing me a row of jagged teeth.

The ground beneath me jerked and I gasped awake. I was still in the car with Lucy; we'd just gone over a pothole.

"You alright there?" Lucy asked. I nodded and swallowed thickly.

"Fine, I'm fine." I whispered. Lucy dropped me off on my street and I thanked her. I pulled my coat more firmly around me and pressed on. My house was a large Victorian affair hidden deep in the woods; neatly spaced birch trees lined the long winding driveway. They were bare now and reminded me of skeletal hands reaching out of the ground.

I walked along silently when I stopped. I thought that I had heard something…footsteps. I turned around and found that I was still alone. I took a deep breath and kept walking.

I stopped. There it was again. I peered into the now darkening forest, searching for movement. I was just being paranoid.

"Hello?" I called out.

Nothing.

I gritted my teeth. "Stop acting like a paranoid freak." I hissed at myself. I kept walking, determined to not let my… condition get the better of me. I finally made it to my front door but it was ajar. All the lights were off in my house. It seemed, empty. Which was strange. My mother should have been home by now.

I walked through the entryway hesitantly. Nothing seemed out of place. I walked through the kitchen; there was a pan on the burner filled with cubes of steak and vegetables. The stove was off but the food was still hot. There was a glass of wine on the island.

"Mom?" No one answered. I climbed up the stairs and checked each room one by one. They were all empty until I reached my parent's bedroom. The second I walked in I was hit with the metallic scent of blood.

I gagged on the stench and quickly covered my nose and mouth with my sleeve. I dared to venture further into the room only to find that there was no source to the stench. I checked the bathroom and the closet but there was nothing there. No one was there.

I walked back to the bedroom where the stench was the strongest and looked around. What was going on?

Drip Drip

I wiped at my nose, blood. I looked up slowly my heart pounding in my chest.

"Mom?"

Her corpse detached from the ceiling and fell towards me. I was too shocked to move and avoid her. Her skull cracked against mine and blood spilled from my cut temple and into my eyes. Her limp form knocked me over. I was lying there stunned from the blow, but it wasn't long before I began to hyperventilate. This couldn't be happening. It had to be a hallucination; it had to be.

I rolled my mother off of me and promptly threw up. The sobbing came soon after. It was a horrible hiccuping weeping, the kind you never saw in a movie because of how unattractive it looked. I dry heaved one last time before the tears stopped and I became numb.

What happened here?

I stared at my mother's corpse while I rocked back and forth. What was I going to do without her? Who had done this? I stopped when I saw that, in her tightly closed fist, there was a slip of what looked like paper. I shuffled towards her on my knees and willed myself to pry open her cold dead fingers. I managed to pull it out of her hand and I scuttled away as soon as I had.

I spread out the crumpled piece of paper and stared at it.

Run. She's coming.

My heart thudded in my chest wildly. Mom had known who her attacker was. Mom was telling me to run. I got up and rushed to my closet.

Many years ago when things between my mom and dad had become violent, my mother made me a go-bag. It was a black duffel bag filled with cash, a first aid kit, a gun with ammo, a knife, and spare clothes for any environment. She was convinced that at some point I was going to have to make a run for it.

Since we didn't have any other living family to turn to if things went south, she wanted to make sure I was ready to leave if anything ever happened. I didn't understand for a long time. Why couldn't I just call the cops? I would ask her.

Mom never had much confidence in the police.

But tensions died down between my parents and the go-bag became obsolete. It had lived at the back of my closet for a little more than five years now. I never got rid of it just in case. When I think about it, I've realized how horribly irresponsible my mother was, allowing a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic easy access to a gun and a knife. It mystified me, why would my mother take so much care to keep me safe. Make sure that I've taken my meds, check on me constantly, and yet allow me access to very dangerous weapons? It didn't make sense.

But then again, nothing made sense. Not today.

For the next five minutes I sprinted around the house grabbing anything I might need, any toiletries, food, my wallet, a cellphone, and my laptop. I was zipping the duffel bag shut when I heard a crash from downstairs. I froze when I heard faint mumbling floating up from the kitchen. I took a shaky breath and pulled out the nine-millimeter handgun my mother had left for me. I decided last second to stick the knife through the belt loops in my jeans.

"The Queen said she'd be here by now." I heard a gruff male voice complain, there was another clatter. I heard the burner click on and the hiss of gas filling the air. What was he doing?

"Stop whining." Another growled; she was female. "You're giving me a headache."

"As soon as she gets here, we grab her and go. I'm sick of this place." The man said as I stepped out onto the landing. That was my first mistake. This was an old Victorian with all the original floorboards, squeaky floorboards; the kind that made all sorts of noise if you stepped on them right.

All movement stopped for a second and I held my breath.

"Avery, sweetie." A voice called softly and my muscles froze in fear. "Come out, come out wherever you are." I naturally went for the first refuge any fifteen year-old girl would go to. The closet.

I heard their lumbering steps thunder through the house as they rushed up the stairs. My fresh tears mingled with the blood that dried to my face and I struggled to keep my gasping sobs silent. They banged around upstairs yanking open doors and slamming them shut when they didn't find me. I knew it was a matter of time before they did so I cocked the gun and waited for the inevitable.

A shadow appeared through the sliver of light that leaked from the bottom of the closet door. My finger was heavy on the trigger as I watched the knob turn.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

It was the man. He went down and I launched myself forward grabbing the duffel firmly as I ran for dear life. I wasn't even down half the stairs before I felt someone give me a vicious shove and I tumbled down smacking my forehead against the wall and landing awkwardly on my side. I think I might've broken a rib by the way every breath in felt as if I was pouring acid into my lungs.

I had dropped both the gun and my duffel on the way down. They were now about four feet from where I had landed. The kitchen reeked of propane which only made it that much more difficult to breath. I tried crawling towards my discarded weapon but my progress was interrupted when a small feminine hand pulled me up by the collar.

"You little bitch." She hissed. "You killed Joey." Her right hook was staggeringly strong. Too strong. My mouth filled with blood and my jaw ached from where her fist connected with it. She picked me up again and pinned me to the wall by my throat. I choked and gasped around the blood and struggled with the knife in my belt loop.

"I don't care why the Queen wants you. I'll make you pay." She smiled darkly. The woman's smile turned from sadistic to shocked in the matter of seconds it took for me to plunge my knife into her heart. I pulled the knife out and blood spurted over my chest soaking through my coat. Her hand went slack and she collapsed.

I dropped the knife and threw up for the third time that day.

Two people, I had just killed two people.

I wiped the bile away from my lips dazed and staggered over to my duffel bag. I swung it over my shoulder awkwardly and tucked the gun into my waistband. The bag seemed infinitely heavier with a busted rib and every breath was agony. I had taken only two steps out of the house when I heard more voices laughing and jeering in the distance. They were coming up the driveway, quickly.

I ran as best as I could into the forest surrounding my house but my progress was slow and they were gaining on me. I was about twenty feet into the forest when my house exploded with flame. The force of the explosion sent me hurtling through the air. This time I landed on my left arm and I felt my ulna snap under my weight.

My scream of agony was dwarfed by the thundering roar of my burning house. Rubble and pieces of burning wood had sprayed over me during the explosion. My pant leg was torn and my coat was singed. Burns crisscrossed over my hands and a long burn stretched over my cheek from my neck.

I picked myself up when I heard the voices approaching through the red light of the fire. I wept hysterically as I pushed through the foliage. I had to focus all of my will to keep moving forward and not let the panic lock up my muscles.

Hours passed and the forest was soon pitch black. The voices had faded long ago while I was stumbling through the brambles and weeds, which snagged around my ankles and caused me to trip every once in awhile. My head swam and throbbed. The trees seemed to spin and the world listed unnaturally.

Another half hour passed and I started to see lights through the trees. Fifteen minutes later I started to hear noises like the whooshing of cars passing. I had reached a road. It had started to drizzle when I finally reached it.

I dropped my duffel bag and fell to my knees. Everything ached viciously although the cool rain did soothe my burns a little. A rumbling growl alerted me of another vehicle coming over the hill. There was a moment when I was blinded; I could hear the sound of rock music leaking out of the car. I ran out into the road and pleaded for the car to stop. It screeched to a halt in front of me, and two rather large men climbed out.

I was hit with a staggering wave of nausea and despair when I immediately recognized the men. It was Sam and Dean Winchester, but they weren't real people. They were characters on a TV show. I had been hallucinating this entire course of events. I had to be.

"Are you alright?" Sam asked me.

"You're not real," I slurred wiping my hand over my face. "This isn't happening." I cried. I cradled my broken arm and gasped raggedly. What had I done? My arm was definitely broken as was my rib. The blood could be fake though. But what if it wasn't? Had I actually hurt someone? Killed someone?

"We need to get her to a hospital, Sam." Dean muttered the comment obviously not meant for my ears. He held up his hands and began to approach me. "You're hurt." He said slowly. "We can help you, okay? But you have to let us help you."

"You're not real!" I yelled. I recognized the look that washed over their faces. They thought I was deranged.

"I think you're confused," Sam pointed at my hairline where I knew there was a jagged cut. "You hit your head. You could be concussed."

"We'll take you to a hospital, sweetheart. It'll be okay." Dean promised taking another couple of slow steps towards me.

I'd killed someone; I was convinced I'd killed someone. If they took me to the hospital I would never get out. They would put me in a psych ward and they'd give me pills. I'd be trapped there forever.

I pulled the handgun out of my waistband and pointed it at them. "No! No hospital." My hand shook violently and I couldn't steady my aim with my broken arm.

"Whoa, whoa. Hey!" Their voices overlapped in shock.

"Okay, okay." Sam nodded quickly to appease me. "No hospital, we get it."

"Drop the gun, you're going to hurt somebody." Dean ordered. I felt feverish and tired. I felt hopeless.

"Give me the keys." I rasped.

Dean scoffed angrily. "No."

"Give me the goddamn keys or I'll shoot you!" I said tears spilling down my cheeks. Sam shot his brother a look and Dean nodded.

"Alright." Dean pulled his keys out of his pocket and held them up on his thumb. They jingled on his palm, teasing me. I was so close. "Here, take them." He took a step forward and he was now about an arm's length away.

"Don't move!" I said weakly pointing my gun at his face.

"It's okay," He assured me. "I'm just doing what you want, I'm giving you the keys." Dean took a step too close so I pulled the trigger. "Dean!" Sam called.

The gun jammed.

As soon as Dean heard the gun click uselessly he knocked it out of my hand and I turned to make a run for it. Pain flared through my side when Dean wrapped his arms around my torso and pulled me back. This didn't make sense. Hallucinations couldn't hurt me. But this? This was the most pain I'd ever felt in my entire life.

I screamed in agony. "Help! Help me! Anyone! Please!" Somewhere deep in my brain past the haze of pain I'd decided that I must be superimposing my hallucination onto real people. It was the only thing that made sense. And for some reason, despite the agony I was in, despite the fear I had of being attacked. I needed to have what was happening to me make sense more than anything. It was the most important thing.

"Sam, A little help here!" Dean struggled as I writhed in his arms. My elbow connected with Dean's jaw and he grunted. Sam's hand wrapped around my arms and tried to hold me down. I screamed louder, the idiot was crushing my broken arm. I didn't think he realized that he was hurting me.

The more I struggled the harder they pressed and eventually the pain became too much and I passed out.

Dean felt the girl go limp in his arms and her scream cut off in a strangled choke. He lowered her onto the ground slowly.

"Jesus," He muttered rubbing his aching jaw when he finally got a good look at the girl. Whoever she was, she was beaten to hell. Her blonde hair was stained red from the cut on her forehead. She had burns all over her hands and a nasty bruise staining her pale cheekbone. There was dried blood all down her front but it didn't come from any wound she had. It was somebody else's blood, maybe from her attacker?

"Dean." Sam called. Dean looked up to see his brother carrying a small black duffle bag. "This was by the road."

"Is there anything in there telling us who she is?" Dean asked undoing her jacket and opening it. He pulled up her shirt to see a massive purple bruise stretching over her side. He probed gently and confirmed his suspicions. Broken rib. Guilt pooled in Dean's gut. No wonder the girl had passed out, he'd been pushing down on a broken rib when he was trying to hold her down.

"Avery Jackson, 15. She lives in New London, Connecticut." Sam read out. He'd found the girl's wallet.

"Connecticut?" Dean asked bewildered. "What's she doing in Kansas?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Sam muttered. He rifled through the bag and whistled. "There's like five thousand in cash here."

Dean's eyes widened; who the hell was this chick? He scrubbed his face tiredly. "What are we going to do with her?" His brother asked him.

"Hospital?" Dean offered. "Drop her off and then take off."

Sam gave him bitch face number 28. "We promised we wouldn't take her to a hospital."

"Yeah, I also told her I would give her the keys to baby." Dean scoffed and stood up. "Sam we can't afford to babysit right now. Cas is missing, Abaddon is in the wind," He said ticking off fingers as he went. "And we still have to deal with the angels falling."

"I know Dean but," Sam sighed. "We can't just abandon her. We used to help people Dean… We need to help her." Sam gave Dean his signature puppy dog look and Dean crumbled.

"Fine, fine." Dean growled; he gingerly lifted the girl up off the concrete while Sam tossed the duffel bag into the trunk of the Impala.

"You better not bleed on anything, sweetheart." Dean mumbled at the unconscious girl. She didn't respond, naturally, but Sam had heard him.

"Don't be a jerk." Sam said climbing into the passenger seat.

Dean followed suit and turned the Impala on. "Bitch."