It’s Giving Final Girl
by Mallory Smart
How to Survive a Weekend Getaway with Someone Who Might Be Trying to Kill You
You said yes. Why?
Because you were bored. Or lonely. Or emotionally feral.
Because he texted with punctuation. Because your friends said he seemed nice and you convinced yourself it was okay to let someone see the gum wrappers in your passenger seat.
This isn’t about guilt.
This is about recognition.
You packed a bag. You got in the car. You left the city.
Now you’re in a cabin in Indiana with a man who calls Spotify playlists his love language and hasn’t blinked in forty-five minutes.
Here’s how to make it out:
WELCOME TO HIS IDEA OF CHARMING
He said “just outside Chicago.”
You pictured cider. Fleece. Maybe a corn maze.
What he meant was a blood-colored A-frame past the last working streetlight.
The silence here doesn’t soothe. It collects.
There’s a porch light that flickers like it regrets being alive.
The kitchen has knives on display and no clock.
You saw a missing poster taped to a gas pump but pretended you didn’t.
You hoped it wouldn’t be that kind of place.
The kind that already knows your name.
THINGS THAT SHOULDN’T BE IN YOUR BAG, BUT ARE
You packed like this was a date. It wasn’t.
What you should have brought:
- Shoes that won’t betray you
- Flashlight with batteries that don’t lie
- A charger that isn’t sentimental
- Pepper spray that lives in your pocket, not the bottom of your bag
- A hoodie that says don’t follow me
- The version of yourself that leaves when the door creaks wrong
You brought tampons, mascara, and the story of the girl who didn’t.
You told yourself you were being careful. You were being correct.
You sent your location to a friend who responds with memes and silence.
You brought the charger your ex left behind, still wrapped like it means something.
You didn’t cry when you packed. But you could have.
RED FLAGS AND HOW TO SMILE THROUGH THEM
He says he’s into true crime. Ask why. Ask how. Watch him flinch.
If he quotes Ed Kemper like a misunderstood philosopher, leave.
If he mentions the Gacy house like it’s hometown trivia, leave faster.
If he refers to serial killers by first name, don’t even take your shoes off.
This is how some boys in the Midwest make murder sound like folklore.
If he watches true crime like a basic white girl, smile politely, nod, and start mapping your exit plan.
That is your cue to treat this like a live-action horror show without the popcorn.
Bring up Stacy Peterson like it’s weather. Watch his reaction, not his answer.
If he tenses, laugh it off. If he laughs too hard, slip your keys into your jacket sleeve.
The playlist always betrays intent.
Phoebe Bridgers? He wants to look emotionally complex.
Bon Iver? He wants to disappear you with grace.
Anything with the word “gospel” in it but no mention of God? That’s how you know you’ve got a problem.
It’s not about the music. It’s about the performance.
If the lyrics mention rivers, bones, or mercy, he’s rehearsed this.
FINAL GIRL MODE: BLOOD-LEVEL ACTIVATED
Leave before the pancakes. It always turns after breakfast.
After he says something like “You’re not like other girls” and waits for applause.
You know this rhythm. The shift in temperature. The sudden sweetness in his voice.
You’ve seen this scene before. You don’t need to see how it ends.
Talk too much. Laugh wrong. Ask questions that make him uncomfortable.
Make him wonder if you’ve already called someone.
Let him check the corners at night. You’ve stopped bothering.
If he cries before you unpack, leave.
That’s not vulnerability. That’s a test.
He isn’t sad. He’s relieved. You’re here, and there’s no signal.
Don’t hand him softness. Don’t ask what’s wrong. Don’t blink when the crying stops too fast.
THINGS YOU LEARNED WITHOUT MEANING TO
You get home. You delete his number.
You tell your friends nothing happened.
But something did.
Now you check the locks twice.
Now you hold your breath when someone says they love documentaries.
Now you flinch when the playlist gets too quiet.
Fear is not a mood. It’s a mother tongue.
You were fluent by fifteen.
You never wanted to be suspicious. You wanted to be wrong.
But your body knew first. It always does.
You collect the signs like crumbs in the dark.
The way his jaw clenches when you say no.
The way the quiet stretches before he answers.
The way the trees outside the cabin leaned, like they were listening.
You’ll say yes again.
Not because you forgot.
Because surviving once makes you think you can do it politely next time.
Mallory Smart is a Chicago-based writer who loves keeping it weird. She’s the author of I Keep My Visions to Myself and The Only Living Girl in Chicago, the host of the podcast Textual Healing, and Editor-in-Chief of Maudlin House, an indie press for restless, unapologetic voices. Her work shows up where you least expect it and lingers longer than it should.