Part 1: Marion
The last mistake I made was sitting on this stupid sidewalk waiting for my mom to pick me up. The first mistake I made was befriending Marion Lane. She was a unique girl but her uniqueness was also seen as crazy. It didn’t look like anyone really understood her and she only really had one friend before me.
Marion was an intense horror fan who lived in what used to be an abandoned house. She was raised on classic movies, an attribute given to her by her horror-obsessed parents, who gave in to her every whim. At first glance her family seemed normal but every day for Marion was like a horror movie. She was the main character and everyone who played her game was a victim. I suppose that’s what made her so interesting, she was someone everyone told you to avoid. Sadly, I'm not much of a good listener.
I approached her first; an action I now regret.
“You’re Marion, right?” I said, like I didn’t already know. I planned how I would approach her for weeks.
“And you’re Lorry.” She smiled at me through a blood-covered vail. That day she was wearing a Victorian wedding dress.
“What movie is it today? I notice you do one every day.”
“Why, a bride who killed her husband, of course.” As she said that, her friend James walked in covered in fake blood, fixing the tie that went with his disheveled tux. He sat on her desk soaking the homework that she had laid out. From day one, I’ve always felt put off by him.
“Who’s she?” James asked not even looking at me.
“James, this is Lorry.” I’ll always remember the look she had on her face, like she had just added me to her collection.
“Isn’t her name just great?” She was beaming.
“I don’t know, Mar. I don’t think she’ll fit.” James stared at me like he was waiting for me to burst into flames. I didn’t stay to argue, I just went back to my seat. What I didn’t expect was for Marion to pop up next to me after class.
“Hey!”
“Ah. Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.” She never stopped sneaking up on me after this.
“Sorry. I was wondering … do you maybe want to go to the diner with me after school? The Garden make awesome burgers.” The invitation. Maybe things would have turned out different if I said no but I was curious and you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, even if the letters are in big bold print screaming: RUN!
So, I said, “Sure.”
Befriending Marion was easy, all you had to do was listen and maybe play a game or two. We’d hang out at this diner after school called The Garden it was a small 60s style diner but with over grown vines hanging from the ceiling and a black and purple jukebox that played vintage Halloween songs. All the waitresses knew her and were used to her little game. Occasionally they were a part of the game.
“So how does this work?” My second mistake. Listening and indulging Marion was one thing, joining her horror movie was another.
“You just have to play the victim.” Marion said, taking a bite out of her burger in the process.
“That’s it?”
“A. The movie changes every day. There are wardrobe changes and classic tropes and roles to play. B. There is no killer. I’m the main character and I also choose who dies and when they die.” When explaining the rules, you could see the seriousness in her eyes.
“Marion, when do your parents get the time to buy you more outfits?” said Diane, one of Marion’s godmother and also the owner.
“I just give them a list of the ones I find.” Marion’s parents were nothing short of well off. I don’t know what they did for a living but they could pay for her expensive taste and extravagant props. The first time I went to her house I was amazed by the Frankenstein’s Monster-like quality of the house. All the rooms looked like they belonged to a different movie. Her kitchen looked like it was taken out of a 50s house but her living room looked like it came out of a 90s commercial. Her room however was completely black with white stripes and she had props from her favorite movies. She didn’t have posters like I did with bands and actors, she had cardboard cutouts of Dracula and The Wolfman.
“That Marion, she’s an odd duck.” That’s what my mom said the first time Marion slept over at our house.
“She's not odd, she's unique and different.” I always defended her because she wasn’t that weird or odd, she was passionate.
“Still, you’ve made an interesting choice in friends,” Mom said.
She always judges the people I’m friends with granted, I haven’t had many. The ones I did have left when I became friends with Marion. After a week James didn’t hang out with Marion, instead he glared at me from the back of the class. It was easy to say we switched places and I became Marion’s puppet to play with. I guess I didn’t mind being her puppet, with my old friends I was just another body, Marion made me feel important.
I remember meeting her parents once. It was a rare occurrence for them to be home. When they were home Marion didn’t really talk to them.
“Marion I’m home,” said this silky-soft voice from the kitchen. Her mother was this tall looming figure that Marion liked to call The Director.
“Hello, Director, I thought you were on a business trip.” Marion rolled over on the couch.
“Left early to come home and to check on you.” When she walked in she was wearing a 50s cocktail dress. It didn’t fit with Marion’s theme that day and she wasn’t happy about it.
“Cocktail hour with the neighbors is why you're back early, not me.” It was only then that I realized maybe Marion needed the films because her parents weren’t really there for her. They were just background actors, without lines. I guess another part of why I stayed was because I felt bad for Marion. I’d make all these mistakes again to make her smile.
Part 2: Sick Twisted Game
The first time I played Marion’s game it was a process, one that I later called: Twisted Movies.
“I can’t believe you’re finally joining my game,” Marion said.
I began playing a month after I asked how it worked. What I didn’t realize was that it wasn’t just to dress up. Marion had outfits for different days, scripts that she had typed up on a typewriter, and props she’d lay out on her floor and pick. Watching her felt like watching some rocket scientist figure out time travel.
“Here.” She handed me this flowy blouse that looked like it came out of the 18th century.
“What’s this for?” Thinking about it now, that was probably the dumbest question I asked Marion.
“Tomorrow's game. I already have the script done but you need an outfit,” she said, still looking at the props laid out in front of her.
“Oh. I thought I’d just wear what I usually do.” My style never really changed, in fact I’m probably wearing the same thing as I was wearing then: old beat-up converse, a long sleeve black shirt for my favorite band, long blue jeans, and a black and purple headband. My hair was always in either two buns or a ponytail.
“The game calls for specific outfits. Here.” Marion handed me a piece of paper with the word “Script” at the top but it looked more like a bullet point list. It had specific times at which things would play out, as well as who would die first, and empty areas for what props would be used. It was hard to figure out how she got any school work done in between playing the game and making scripts.
“It says that the time period is the 18th century but nothing besides the outfits indicates the 18th century.” Questioning the game is always a mistake; it's what later led to me always dying first in her scripts.
“What do you mean? It’s about a terrible doctor who loses all her patients. The doctor is doing it on purpose but I don’t have props for modern medicine. So, I set it in the 18th century where it wouldn’t really hinder the doctor from ruling it an accident. I’m nothing short of a genius when it comes to this.” Marion had confidence in one thing, this game.
Later that night, my mom picked me up with my hands filled with costume pieces and props. When I got home, I laid the clothes out and went to bed. The next day I got dressed and waited for Marion to pick me up in her mom’s stained-gray car. What I did not expect was to be promptly splashed with fake blood as I opened the door.
“What was that for? What am I covered in?”
“Welcome to the game,” Marion said, looking at me with a bright smile while holding a bucket.
That was my first game but it wasn’t my last because, a month later, we started dating.
At first dating Marion was a dream, but it was a dream because I had never dated anyone before so everything was this brilliant new experience. It was dinner dates at The Garden and horror movies. Then it was domestic and routine: wake up, get drenched in fake blood, get fries and a burger from The Garden, then analyze the movie for tomorrow. Some days it was a tiresome nightmare that made me regret meeting her.
“What the absolute hell Marion?!” I had yelled in the diner during one of our usual dates.
“You’re the victim,” Marion said plainly. “Play the part.”
“Marion, I can't keep doing this. I look like a walking crime scene.”
“You look like a mess, Lorry. What’d Marion do this time?” Diane said, placing the burger and fries in front of me.
“Wasn’t me. I think the guys in the back of the class have been bullying her,” Marion said. “She won’t tell me though.”
“I’m not being bullied. I would just like to turn in homework that isn’t stained red.”
Our days would go on like this with a constant back and forth. I wasn’t lying to her when I said I wasn’t being bullied but I was still being watched by James. Sometimes it felt like he was following us but I only saw him when Marion was around.
The only time I really talked to him was when I was planning Marion’s birthday. It had been something her mom wanted to do. One big game with all her friends and a small party afterward with cake. I was in charge of gathering everyone, everyone being Diane and James.
“You have to come, you're her best friend. I see the way you stare at us. You're dying to join the game again, so just do it,” I said, trying to prove a point.
“You’re her best friend now,” James said, glaring at me.
“I’m her girlfriend. You’re her best friend. She misses you, at least think about coming to her birthday.” He didn’t come. Instead, on her birthday he sat in the booth behind us in the diner.
“Happy birthday, Marion this one’s on the house,” Diane said, dropping off this massive cupcake with a single candle.
“It’s always in the house, Diane,” Marion said, not taking her eyes off the cupcake.
The Garden normally doesn’t do birthday songs or anything like that but Diane was the boss and would do anything for Marion, including creating and teaching the whole staff an entire birthday song. She handed me a sparkler and a page with lyrics while a waitress dimmed the lights.
“Happy spooky birthday with happy haunts for you. We hope a ghost follows you home and a movie is made about you. Happy horrific birthday where all your nightmares come true. Blow out your candle as we add a year to you.” Everyone’s singing was incredibly terrible.
The song had Marion in stitches. I don’t remember what her birthday wish was but I remember how happy she looked. Later that day we were at her house watching “Psycho” and eating a cake shaped like a coffin. When her mom came back, she was holding wrapped presents.
Marion turned slowly to look at her, “You’re actually here.”
“Of course, I am, it is my house and it’s your 16th birthday. I couldn't miss it,” The Director said.
Marion wasn’t the type of person who hugged her parents. As a girlfriend she also didn’t really show physical affection. She was most comfortable holding hands. So, it surprised me when she ran to hug her mother, sobbing.
“Shh. It’s OK I’m here now. Why don’t we open some presents?” That moment should feel happy and it would if The Director continued to make an effort to show up.
We opened present after present until she lifted mine.
“Saved the best for last.” Marion picked it up and shook the box. I got her a picture frame made to look like the hallway with the twins from “The Shining.”
“It’s amazing, Lorry. Thank you,” Marion said, holding it to her chest.
“Oh,” The Director said, “there’s one more gift. It was a small box with red ribbon no taller than an apple. Marion opened it and stared inside before throwing the box and curling up into a ball on the couch.
“What was that about?” I asked, moving closer to Marion.
“It’s a wedding topper,” The Director said, picking it up from where it had landed on the floor.
“It’s a bride with the head cut off,” Marion said, staring blankly ahead.
“It wasn’t from me, and I remember that Diane’s gift was in the bag you opened first,” I said, trying to take her hand.
“Do you know who it could be from Marion?” The Director was now cleaning up wrapping paper as she asked.
“I don’t know and I don’t want to talk about it.” Marion got up and stormed up the stairs.
Part 3: Last Mistake
For weeks Marion was attached to me at the hip, but she wouldn’t admit as to why.
“You’re hugging me. You never hug me,” I said, surprised.
“I always do this, what are you talking about?” she said, as she looked over her shoulder.
I side-eyed her. “That’s a lie. Are you sure you’re OK?”
“I’m fine,” she said too quickly, her eyes never looking away from that spot behind her.
The rest of that week she felt off to me.
One night lying on her bedroom floor I said, “that’s a new prop.”
“It’s not a prop,” Marion said, picking up the small pocket knife.
“You just have a knife?” I had propped myself up.
“And pepper spray,” Marion said, dropping it in her backpack. “It’s not that weird to carry this stuff. A girl has to protect herself right.”
“You’re not wrong.” I looked around her room, eyes landing on the wedding topper surrounded by crystals and candles.
“Don’t worry about that. I’m cleansing it, I think, or cursing it, I don’t know.”
I had always felt she was weird but she wasn’t a person who played with voodoo dolls. It kind of scared me when the area around the wedding topper started looking like a shrine.
“There’s a voodoo doll with a tux now, you can’t tell me everything’s okay,” I yelled, walking out of her room.
“I said I’m cleansing it,” Marion whined, following me.
“Voodoo dolls are not for cleansing, M.” I started down the stairs.
“M? I like it, short and cute, the perfect pet name,” she said, wrapping her arms around me from behind.
“Why do you have a voodoo doll, Marion!”
“Your birthday’s coming up right?” She avoided my question.
“Marion.”
“What do you want to do for it?” Marion avoided it again.
“Marion!”
“I’ll get rid of the voodoo doll just please stop asking about it,” she said, annoyed, letting go of me.
My birthday was horrible. My one wish for that day was to not play the game. No costumes, no props, no scripts. Of course Marion decided that what I wanted wasn’t important.
“I’m leaving,” I yelled to my mom before I opened my door. When I stepped outside I felt the familiar splash of fake blood cover me. “What the fuck, Marion!”
“Happy birthday, Lorry,” she said, beaming.
It was probably no warmer than 60 degrees out on my birthday and being drenched made me shiver like a wet cat. Marion’s car was no help in keeping me warm. The heater stopped working months ago. Luckily, I didn’t catch a cold. It was a weekend where we could have gone anywhere and done anything. We watched movies on Marion’s couch and ate red liquorice popcorn and hotdogs. I was tired, so I went to take a nap in Marion’s room. The voodoo doll was still there, now stabbed with pins. I walked back down the stairs and collected my things to leave. I wasn't going to take a nap in a room with a voodoo doll and whatever else could be haunting it.
“It’s been a long day, M. I’m going home,” I said, tired as all get out.
“What? You can’t go yet. I haven't given you your present.”
“I’ll get it tomorrow, Marion,” I said, rolling my eyes. I’m too fucking tired to do this right now.”
I cut her off. “It will only take a second, let me just go…”
“I’m cold, covered in fake fucking blood and about to pass out!” She was shaking for the first time in our relationship. I felt like I’d actually scared Marion. “I’m sorry. It’s just you said you wouldn’t do this today and then you drenched me in fake blood even though it’s freezing outside. You’ve also been acting different these past couple of days and making me feel stupid when I bring it up. I just. I just need a break.”
After that I left. I remember her holding back tears. She’s always been too much for me to handle and on my birthday I just snapped. However, we didn’t break up. No, we broke up right before I sat on that sidewalk.
My mom was out of town so I was staying the weekend at Marion’s. The shrine kept bugging me and haunting me in my sleep but nothing much I could do about it. That weekend I’d wake up to her just standing in front of it stabbing the voodoo doll. As I tossed and turned in her bed this morning, I had a terrible nightmare. She was standing over me dressed in a white gown different from a bride’s dress but made of silk. She held the knife with both hands before driving it into my heart like she had with the voodoo doll so many times. Her voice softly whispered over and over again: sorry.
When I woke up, I was having a panic attack. She tried to comfort me and calm me down.
“Please don’t touch me right now, I need space,” I said, curled in a ball.
“Lorry, I,” she drifted off. “I think we should break up.” My head snapped to look at her. After everything we’d been through this is what she thinks I can’t handle.
“You’re shaking and I know it’s because of me. I don’t mean to frighten you but that’s not something either of us really have control over. I’m setting you free.”
At that I just stood up, grabbed my bag and left to sit on the sidewalk. It was a good decision, the break up. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. But I’m not crying so maybe I’m more OK than I thought.
I hear footsteps coming closer to me so I look up hoping, for some reason, that it’s Marion. Instead, it was James, the little stalker, probably could sense the break up a mile away. He was wearing the tux I first met him in, blood stained and cut.
“Hey James you, alright?” He gives no answer. He kind of looks dead behind his eyes. “You’re kind of staring buddy something I can help you with?” Still no answer. Looking at him closer he looks just like the voodoo doll, cuts and all.
“Is this some sort of game?” At that he perks up raising his hand to reveal a knife. He just tilts his head like he has no neck to hold it up.
“Marion,” he says in the faintest voice. Then his mouth curves up like it’s being pulled. “I’ve come to see Marion.”
“Okay,” I say feeling like I should have just walked home.
He reaches his hands out to me as if to show me something, “she did this to me. Why is she doing this to me?” As I stare at his hands new cuts appear like they were just stabbed. When I look at his face, he’s crying but the creepy smile doesn’t leave his face. It’s entirely off putting and makes me feel sorry for him. He slowly falls to the ground, plopping down to sit knees out to the side like a folded accordion. Then there’s the laughing and it isn’t James. It’s not his voice or his laugh.
“Amazing isn’t it,” James says, but it’s not his voice it’s Marion’s.
“Marion?” I stare at him.
“Amazing what you can do with voodoo dolls isn’t it,” she says. “All it took was an internet search. Now he’s my puppet and he won’t do anything like that again.” James shakes his head from side to side slowly.
“Never do what again,” I ask like I can’t guess the answer.
“Threaten me.” His eyes glare back at me. “He threatened me, Lorry.”
I scoff. “With what the wedding topper?”
“It isn’t funny it was a threat! He wasn’t happy about you; he just didn’t see you the way I do.”
“This is creepy though. You know that right,” I say as if I can reason with her. “Possessing someone is just wrong.”
James rolls his eyes. “Don’t try to be my moral compass now.”
“What happened to not wanting to frighten me,” I ask, like she still cares given we just broke up.
“I couldn’t resist I just had to show you this. Isn’t it cool? He’ll never leave me again,” she says with glee. “No one will ever leave me again,” she says a little quieter. James’s head hangs down a bit sad.
“You can’t force people to stay, Marion. Isn’t that why you let me go?”
His head pops back up with that same smile. “Who says I let you go? No, no I didn’t let you go I just let you leave.” The smile pulls further on his face.
I set back, I always used to joke about being Marion’s puppet but now I might actually get my wish. “I don’t want to be your puppet, Marion,” I say. “I’ll stay I promise I won’t leave.” Tears stain my eyes as I feel the sting in my arm like a needle sewing thread through it.
“I can’t take that chance Lorry. You’ll be happier this way. We’ll all be happier this way.”
I sob as I feel the sting in my hand in fold on the ground like James. I even feel my own smile peeing pulled across my face and my will slip from me. Then I hear Marion’s sweet familiar voice.
“Who wants to play a game?”
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