Chapter Five

I haven't seen Chloe in years in this timeline; she stares at me as if I'm alien but I have known her, who she has become, for a while. Guilt subsides in my stomach, making me feel nauseous, to think at the horrible friend I've been to her, in this reality and the one I live in. How could I have just left when her dad died? I try to avoid her eyes because I know I've hurt her, this is me repaying my debt. For her, though. Not for me. "It's been a while, Max," she says. "When did you decide to suddenly show up to the shit show Arcadia Bay?"

The dining table, which Rachel's fingers brush against, seems large like it did before when William was alive. I remember when I use to see three people, a family, enjoying breakfast over this table, I remember joining them. I'm glad that Rachel was here, at least for a while, to soothe Chloe when I wasn't; I doubt that Chloe would have been here if Rachel hadn't came around. Under the table, like their relationship I suppose, is their hidden intertwined hands, which they think I haven't noticed. "Thank you for taking me in," I avoid her question, I don't give an answer.

The two girls exchange a look, suspicion painted on their faces, before settling their eyes on me once again. Chloe, with one eyebrow arched, digs the issue further and says, "You didn't answer my question. Max, what's going on? You show up at my door and don't even give me an answer as to why you are here? 'Something is going to happen', well, what is it?"

Chloe, I don't want to lie to you more than I already have to. She waits for an answer which I can't give, she waits for something that destroyed my life and she doesn't even know it. "I got accepted into Blackwell," I say. The letter has been delivered but, according to my memory, I haven't opened it yet; I already know that I've been accepted. I won't be happy this time. "So the something is me moving here, I hope you're okay with me being around."

A towel, the same shade as her hair, is wrapped around Chloe's shoulders and as she enthusiastically jumps up to show her excitement, tiny water droplets travel to the ends and fall on the towel. "No fucking way, are you serious, Max?" She grins but I didn't want that reaction; for some reason, I wanted her to punish me. I'm a terrible excuse for a human, a friend... a girlfriend. Warren. "That's so amazing! Are you serious?!"

"I'm cereal," I mutter as she celebrates with Rachel, who also seems excited. "Rachel, listen to me."

This captures the attention of my peers, who turn to me instantaneously. Now, my voice is laced with seriousness. "Both of you actually. I want you to stay away from Mark Jefferson, the photography teacher at Blackwell," I pause, his poisonous name rolls easily off my tongue and it sickens me. "I know you don't understand and it's hard to explain, a really long story. It's just I know a girl, I know her really well, who was hurt by him. Really bad. Promise me, if you do see him, you'll go together and tell someone else."

"Okay?" Chloe promises and Rachel seems phased. "Max, chill. None of us even like Jefferson. He tried to come onto Rachel."

The animated corpse, Rachel, looks away and there is a sense of guilt. I know what she did.

They fade into the distance and I watch memories unfold before my eyes, pictures I've seen change. There is a picture of the three of us dancing together, we've become friends. The next is the day I move into Blackwell, Chloe and I smile among piles of boxes. Then, as I did when I first came to Blackwell, I meet Warren after both reading the same nerdy comic and we hit it off. At least one thing didn't change.

Change. I'm not, and will never be, used to it.

There was one day in my life that will be more significant than the others for numerous reasons; today was the day I had found my ability, my vulnerability and enemy in such a short span of time. The classroom is as I remember it before everything happened, before it was destroyed by the storm. My camera, which I had lost and sadly replaced, is in front of me. My baby! I pick it up, my fingers tracing over the familiar bumps and curves of this model. I loved this camera. No, I love this camera. This time thing is hard to wrap your head around. "Diane Arbus," my attention is drawn immediately to Victoria, who is different from the last time I saw her.

Two people, who aren't friends, passing in the hallway is very normal, except I knew her at her weakest moment. Unlike herself, who usually has infinite confidence, she walked close to the walls of the hall and keeps to herself. Her normal straight, controlled, golden hair had turned darker and it looked as if it hadn't been brushed in days. When her eyes landed on me, as we almost met, she didn't exactly smile. She tilted her head and her eyes softened, she looked right through me. I know that the way I look at her must be similar because we didn't look at each other, we looked past who we were and, instead, the label we shared. Victim.

Her eyes, lifeless, reminded me of the person I see when I look into the mirror, her twitches as people brushed past her reminded me of his hands on my body and, finally, her apparent bruises showed the physical marks left behind us by that monster. I hadn't rewinded yet, I hadn't saved Chloe yet. I was too weak. However, when I did, Victoria's body would be healed and what he had done would be erased but I would remain the same. I would be hurt still, I would had have the bruises and the reminders. Except, I wouldn't be able to tell anyone because technically it didn't happen. I had to pretend to be the same.

"There you go, Victoria! Why, Arbus?"

Almost like clockwork, my body responds instantly to his smooth voice. It sends chills down my spine as my heartbeat intensifies, I feel the chemicals in my body preparing me to run and, yet, I stay. I crane my neck to see him, forcing my eyes on the person who has ruined my life. On the gray desk, he positions himself, propped by his arms which are further back than the rest of his body, leaning gently against it. His head, sharp, jagged features from the side, is tilted as he stares at Victoria. He's facing the girls of the class, I hadn't noticed this before. "Because of her images of hopeless faces," Victoria answers, her voice confident like before. "You feel like, totally haunted by the eyes of those sad mothers and children."

Now, after I've been hurt, I notice the red flags. He's charismatic and entices you with the promise of intelligent conversation, he's groomed, he's overly confident and has this aura of superiority. It's textbook and I can't believe how easy it is to notice it. "She saw humanity as tortured, right? And, frankly, it's bullshit." He pauses as the students excitedly comment on his use of language. "Seriously, though, I could frame any one of you in a dark corner and capture you in a moment of desperation. And any one of you could do that to me. Isn't that too easy? Too obvious."

How could I have been so stupid? So blinded by his talent? My eyes are wide as his words filter through in my brain, I try to process them but I can't. That's what he did to me. In the dark room. The dark room. With shaky hands, I pick up my camera. This is what came next, after the lecture I hadn't paid attention to. There is a small flash and I hear the machine working. "Shh, I believe Max has taken what you kids call a dumb "selfie"." Don't talk to me. My heart beats rapidly. "A dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition and Max has a gift. Of course, as you all know, the tradition has been popular since the early 1800s. Your generation is not the first to use images for selfie-expression. Sorry. I couldn't resist."

All I can think about is how my name sounds from his mouth, how there is a hint of malicious intent there I hadn't noticed before. I had read online that psychopaths, like Jefferson, like to drop hints about their delight in fooling you. I just found one. 'I could capture any one of you in a dark corner' seems to be blatant and he was right, he fooled me. But now, I'm coming for you, bastard. "The point remains that the portraiture has always been a vital aspect of art, and photography, for as long as it's been around."

"Now, Max," he continues, directly addressing me. I'm scared of this man and I can feel it, my heart feels like it's going to tear through my skin. "since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self portraits?"

The day where I'd face him again seemed to not exist but here I am, I'm scared. I feel boiling as beads of sweat collect on my forehead, my palms become sweaty and I rub them on my jeans. "Uh," is the first thing I say. "The Daguerreian Process... Invented by a French p-painter named Louis Daguerre... Around 1830." I may be scared but I'm also angry.

And that's more empowering now that I've spoken to him. "Somebody has been reading up as well as posing. Nice work, Max." He says.

A figure loomed over me but I couldn't see, I knew who it was regardless. "Can't you smile for me, Max?" He smiled, taking delight in my pain. "I want to see some of your stellar poses, you never paid attention in class but I didn't mind. Now, if you could be so kind, turn to the right or I'll make you turn."

Sobs racked through my body as I thought: he's safe.

You're not safe anymore, Jefferson. I'm coming after you.

A/N: Please give me feedback on if you liked this chapter or not. I'm sorry for the darker themes once again.