Page 1 of I Dare You
“Is she dead?”
“She looks fucking dead.”
“I had economics with her y-y-yesterday.Who would want to”—sniffle—“hurt her?”
“She was such a nice girl.”
These whispered conversations are exchanged between classmates as they circle the bloodied corpse of Rebecca Bloom.She lies face up in her university gym.More people gather out of morbid curiosity rather than calling for help.
One too many serial killer documentaries will do that, it seems, leaving us desensitized to real life.We all stand numbed to the reality that someone is fucking dead.
I’ve never seen Rebecca look anything but perfect.
Blonde.
Blue-eyed.
Cheerleader.
She’s the epitome of every ’90s rom-com stereotype.
She has the perfect boyfriend, Bobby Harris, who, of course, is the college star quarterback.
They were crowned prom king and queen in high school, and their legacy, it seems, has carried through to college.However, they are the couple everyone secretly envies.
It was disgusting that two people werethatattractive.
They made you feel bad about yourself because us normal folk knew we would never be like them, no matter how hard we tried.
Some people are just born perfect.
However, Rebecca is now anything but.
Her pristine cheerleader outfit is soiled with ribbons of her dried blood.Her hands are folded across her chest, and her long hair is spread out with precision around her face.She still wears the promise ring Bobby gave her in the tenth grade.
“Bobby, no!”
But it’s too late.
Bobby’s sneakers shriek against the vinyl as he runs to where we are, studying his very dead girlfriend.
“Move out of the way!”
“Bobby, man?—”
But Bobby ignores the warnings and shoves aside anyone who stands in his way.He soon stops dead in his tracks, however, when he sees what we’ve been staring at for the past ten minutes.
“Becca?”he gasps, turning a ghastly shade of white.“Becca…no.”
He drops to his knees beside her, confirming he’s probably one of the only peoplenotto watch The Crime Channel.He scoops Rebecca into his arms, which may seem like a romantic gesture, apart from the fact that her head flops backward with a wet squelch and hits the floor with a dull thud.
The sound echoes off the walls.
It seems the gash on her throat was deep enough to decapitate her.
Everyone takes a moment to process what transpires before their eyes in a deafening silence.
This isn’t a Netflix documentary.This is real fucking life.
