Brandon

What am I doing here?

Deep in the hollow corner of my heart, I know the answer. I

know it so well that I can taste the nausea that slithered down my

throat and hooked onto my bones the moment I got that godforsaken text.

A text I should’ve very well ignored, deleted, and then blocked the

number.

A text I shouldn’t have dignified with a look, let alone given it enough

weight to intervene with my decision-making.

I did.

And that’s the reason I’m here.

I did.

And now, I’ve put myself in an irreversible position.

I did.

And I’m not sure I can shove this lapse of judgment on to the possibility

of having no choice.

In reality, I do.

I’ve just never been good with choices. Don’t appreciate them. Don’t

care for them. Would rather not be presented with one.

The text was an obligation or, more accurately, a pertinent piece of

information.

It was not a choice and certainly not a situation I could’ve escaped.

The reason I’m here is sorely due to my sense of responsibility that I’ve

carried like excess baggage since I started learning what life is all about.

I’m at what looks like an indoctrination center. Other students stand on

either side of me, forming parallel lines and wearing white rabbit masks that

cover their features.

We’re facing a huge three-story mansion with old-looking stone walls

and an ancient tower on the far right.

The longer I remain unmoving, the more unsteady my breathing

becomes.

My inhales and exhales flow in a fast, fractured rhythm, forming

condensation on the plastic and forcing me to breathe my own air.

Tick.

The sound is low, but it slams into my brain like a fatal crash. My

mouth starts to fill with saliva and I gulp it down, forcing my stomach to

settle.

Tick.

I lift my hand, about to pull at my skull. Sometimes, I wish I could

smash it against the nearest wall and watch as everything spills and shatters.

Once and for fucking all.

Tick.

My fingers curl in midair, but I lower my hand and force it to hang limp

at my side.

It’s fine. I can do this.

Breathe.

You’re in control.

My soothing words of affirmation splinter and crack as the scene around

me comes back into focus.

No matter how much I attempt to delude myself, the reality is that I’m

in the last place I should be.

And I’m not one to challenge fate or go places I’m not supposed to.

In my twenty-three years of life, I’ve always been the type of man who

follows the rules. I’ve never deviated from what’s expected of me and I’m

creeped out at the notion of being different.

In any sense.

For whatever reason.

And yet here I am at the Heathens’ mansion because I received a text

and made the conscious decision not to ignore it.

I made the decision to attend the initiation of the most notorious club on

Brighton Island—a secluded place near the UK’s southwest coast.

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