Iris

By Jozach Craig

This is stupid! This is incredibly stupid! This is "first five minutes of a horror movie" stupid!
--
Ray is at a tender time in his life, junior year of high school. He’s lost a lot just in the past summer and moving to a town a bit of a drive away from his only friend, getting misgendered constantly, and suffering the incompetence of teachers, Ray can only do some much.
Then comes along this goofball, who’s part of a club dedicated to studying serial killers!
On top of that, the goofball is connected to a serial killer who is rearing their ugly head again for the first time in fifteen years!
Is it a copycat or the real thing?
Can Ray break through his own demons and help someone else fight theirs?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387931491

Book preview

Iris

IRIS

Jozach Craig

Copyright © 2018 by Jozach Craig

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2018

ISBN 978-1-387-93149-1

Lulu Enterprises, Inc.

860 Aviation Parkway,Suite 300

Morrisville, NC 27560

www.instagram.com/jozachcross

To my baby brother, who had to put up with me bullying him almost all the time growing up...

Wassup, dude?

When I woke up, my head was throbbing. It took me some few minutes to remember what’d happened as I saw Mark sitting across from me. He had a thin trail of blood trekking down his face. What terrified me was the sight of him strapped down to some kind of lab table! I gulped and tried to get up, finding myself restrained to whatever chair I was in.

I looked down to see ropes crudely tied around my wrists and ankles, my arms tied behind me and my ankles tied to the legs of it, leaving me anxiously trying to get out of the chair. Mark was bleeding. He was hurt. He was trapped. I was too.

After struggling until my limbs ached, I slumped and looked around, trying to understand my surroundings. It was a small room, but the lights around the edges of it were too bright for me to focus on them for long. I saw a table with what looked to be surgical tools and gulped. My heart started thudding hard against my chest.

I had to get us out of here.

Mark, I whispered, not sure if anyone was nearby. When he didn’t move, I spoke a hair louder. Mark! Still nothing from him.

I swore under my breath, looking down at my body. I wished I had a knife or something. I scooted the chair. Nope. The movement made the chair scratch loudly against the wooden floor. I blinked, holding down the panic as I looked around again.

Looking for a second time, I noticed the walls were surrounded by some plastic something or other. I remember thinking to myself I’m still in the shack, which made sense. Isolation was better when you tried to kill people. The smell of bleach had begun to overwhelm me. I blinked a few times as I looked around.

A door creaked open behind me, making me freeze. As the door closed, I listened to the soft footfalls behind me before a familiar laugh resonated in my ears. Oh, good. You’re awake now.

ONE:

Let's talk about the night of the wreck.

The fuck is wrong with this lady? was the first thought to cross my mind. My eyes snapped up to my therapist, questioning why the hell Dad was paying this woman to help me through what is apparently PTSD or some shit, and she has the gall to ask about That Night.

What did she expect? Am I supposed to break down in tears and tell her about how I blame myself or how God is a jackass because I didn't get a Spider-Man action figure when I was sixteen?

I just shrugged. Nailed it. I wanted to tell her Hey, I don't really talk to people I don't know. I wanted to tell her I hated talking! I just never talked to many people. Especially not to some random overpaid lady that puts on way too much eyeshadow. It looks like she was some Rocky Horror reject, to be honest.

She sighed and glanced up at the clock in the office. Miss-- I cut her a look, silencing her. She had the gall to look annoyed! Annoyed! Some doctor! I know you are transgendered, but, really, if you would speak to me, it'd be much easier.

This. Bitch. In the back of my mind, I began to wonder if her strategy was to piss me off enough to talk about it or communicate in some way. I mean, she even acknowledged that I was trans and still brushes it off! What the hell kind of psych is she!

Yet, I somehow found myself simply leaning back against the couch, listening to her sigh as my eyes trailed to her desk. Doctor Selena Black (no relation to Sirius Black) was engraved on the plaque on it. Next to it was a model of Newton Balls, a photo of two teenage girls who looked like her, a wedding photo of herself and her husband, and her appointment book.

She sat across from me in a rolling chair she tended to roll around in to reach the various cabinets and shelves when she consulted something. She was a scrawny middle-aged woman with intelligent eyes. Maybe that comes after you graduate college though. You just instantly have eyes screaming out to patients Yo, guess who can certify yo ass is crazy?

I don't know why I made this woman go street in my head. That was weird.

Doctor Black looked to me, meeting my gaze before looking at the notebook and file she kept on me in her lap before she finally spoke again.

At your last school, you preferred to go by your middle name? She ended it on a question, glancing up at me for clarification. I nodded, to which she responded, Alright, Ray? It wasn't until I nodded that she continued. You're starting at a new school this year? As a junior, right? I nodded. How does that make you feel?

I shot her a look at that. The typical psychiatrist line. How does that make you feel? always seemed like something the movies threw in, but I guess not. Hearing someone actually ask me that was weird. For all of Dad's attempts, he never actually bothered. Not that I'm blaming him. He's got a lot on his plate, too.

She was still waiting for an answer. In response, I scrunched up my face to show her how I felt.

Uncomfortable, She muttered as she wrote in her notepad. I get that. Starting a new school so close to graduation? Yikes.

Way to tone down the professionalism. I just nodded in agreement. It was really the best way to describe it, all together. The entirety of the rest of my high school life summed up in one word. Yikes.

She seemed to think this a good thing as she smiled a bit. Are you excited for graduation?

I thought about how I would respond to that. If someone asked me as we finished off sophomore year, I would've said Hells yeah! with so much enthusiasm and excitement, it would cure cancer! Now? Now, I just sort of bobbed my head side-to-side.

Bit so-so, Doctor Black whispered as she jotted it down. Probably nerves but also a bit of depression?

That seemed odd to me. Why would she ask me if I had depression? Wasn't it like...bad teenagers to self-diagnose themselves? I'm about ninety-percent sure if I typed all my symptoms in WebMD, I'd either come up as pregnant or have cancer. Doesn't matter if I'm gay or not. If WebMD says I'm pregnant, then lo and behold, the Chris is born.

I shrugged, watching her write that down too. Well, Ray, I know you like to study and focus on that based on last years reports from your school, but I want you to try something different this year. I straightened my shoulders back at that, wondering what in the Hell she could want me to do. Try an after-school activity. Something crazy, but obviously not too crazy.

Sorry, what? is what I wanted to ask, but I'm certain my face gave it away.

Doctor Black just smiled. Because of the wreck, you suffer from PTSS--Ah, Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, She explained, noting my further confusion at the term. "They actually changed the diagnosis as this is something that can be treated, much like generalized and clinical depression or anxiety. As I was saying, the trauma has caused you to suffer from what is known as Selective Mutism. It's actually quite common in children who are noted as introverts in early development. Very talkative at home, quiet at school, idea. Your father has noted that you do talk, despite what I see here, but your words are few if you can help it. I suspect something happened in the car--"

Of course not. I was only screaming bloody murder for Mom to wake up, please, Mommy! Wake up! Mom!

I flinched a little, shaking my head. Damn flashbacks.

Doctor Black stopped at that, humming softly to herself as she made note of the reaction. This is why I suggest something for after-school or even consider doing some kind of sport or club. It'll be a means of keeping your mind occupied, but also allow you the social interaction that you naturally need. How does that sound?

My tongue seemed to grow a mind of its own as it shot out past my lips in an indignant gesture. Real mature, Ray.

If not something for school, then a hobby. An instrument, a new language, that sort of thing. Oftentimes, distractions are the best way to go about recovery.

Recovery. I'm not so sure I could ever recover from what had happened. She wrote up a note and gave it to me, instructing me to give it to the guidance counselor at my new school before dismissing me. Out in the parking lot, my dad waited, getting out as soon as he saw me. Something we'd learned quickly. I can't be in the passenger seat.

How'd your first session go, Pumpkin? He asked. I made a face and he grimaced in response. That bad?

Says I should try an after-school club, I muttered in distaste as I got into the car.

I hated this. I hated that I had to go through bullshit therapy. I hate that she's recommending some bullshit club. I hate this fucking bullshit.

"Well, it's not that bad," Dad said, trying to ease the