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My friend Steven was a player in the truest sense of the word. He always had a girlfriend, and he always had many other women on the side. It was his undoing.
Brianna Taylor - if that's her true name - was a phlebotomist at the local hospital. Like Steven, she was (appeared to be) in her mid-20s. I'd guess that she was 25-26 years old. She was Steven's latest steady girlfriend. The two were almost inseparable, and I thought that, maybe, Steven had found "the one."
All this changed on the 22nd day of December. After a night of visiting the clubs, I found myself too intoxicated to make it home, and my bed for the night was the couch at Steven's apartment. Steven came home a bit later, and he wasn't alone. He had a girl with him: A girl that was not Brianna.
As fortune, or misfortune, would have it, Brianna came home early that night. She was still dressed in a "Santa suit" that she had worn to an office party. She entered Steven's bedroom. I could not tell what was being said, but voices were definitely raised. A few minutes later, Brianna walked by me and left the apartment. A short while later, the new girl left too.
On the night before Christmas, Christmas Eve, Steven and I visited the clubs again. I figured it would become a regular habit after Brianna left. We went home together that night, a little earlier than usual. Once again, I planned to sleep on the sofa. Steven stumbled into his room and fell on the bed. He didn't bother to undress, and he didn't bother, as he usually did, to close his door.
Around 2 AM on the morning of December 25, Christmas, I suddenly sat up. Something was wrong. There was smoke in the apartment; it seemed to be wafting out of Steven's room. I stood up and began to walk in that direction.
As I entered the bedroom, the mist began to coalesce and formed into none other than Brianna Taylor. "Get out," she said to me, coldly. "Get out while you still can."
Backing up, I began an attempt to say something, but I just stammered. I don't remember what I was trying to say. Once I was outside of the room, the door closed on its own accord. Not knowing what to do, I sat in an armchair facing the bedroom door. I thought about calling for help, but I didn't know where my phone was. I also thought about leaving, but I couldn't pry myself off the chair. I suspect now that I couldn't have escaped even if I had tried.
See Part 2 here.
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