Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
I’m not in the closet.
The air is still thick as my breaths come in ragged pulls. My unsteady fingers dig into the sheets, searching for something real. Something that isn’t her.
But her voice lingers, coiled in my head like smoke, and I press my hands to my ears as if that will dilute the words I can still hear.
I know Mama’s dead.
But, in reality, she never really is.
She lives on in my nightmares, always reminding me how useless I am. How I can never be…more.
My feet tangle in the sheets and I fall on my knees on the hardwood floor, groaning, but I jerk up and run to Dahlia’s room.
My breathing slowly eases when I see her sleeping peacefully in bed. I walk on my tiptoes and pull up the sheet that’s fallen off, then quietly close the door, leaning my back against it.
My fingers still shaking, I slide down to the floor, burying my face in my hands. It’s times like these when I just want to…end it.
Once and for all.
Just stop everything.
The nightmares.
The dark closet.
Mama’s cruel words.
My silly yearning for love and affection that I never received.
Except from Dahlia—she’s always loved me unconditionally. She lost her parents to an accident and, like me, was pinballed in the foster care system.
Unlike me, however, she has no silly notions of hopeless romanticism or an unattainable need for affection.
Or any late-night secret meetings with Death, toying with the idea of it as a coping mechanism.
But now, I’m putting the only person who ever cared about me in jeopardy.
Because he is still there.
Death.
And I know if I continued to toy with the idea, Jude would use her to put me back in my place.
I stand on unsteady legs and walk to the living room window. Tremors still plague my hands as I pull back the muslin curtain slightly, squinting at one of the few working lampposts, its glare assaulting me.
It’s four in the morning, so he should be gone by now.
But he’s not.
Across the street, I spot a parked black car. I can’t see who’s inside, but I know it’s not empty.
Over the past two weeks, ever since Jude declared that my life was his, I haven’t seen him around, but I’ve felt him.
Everywhere.
At first, it was a feeling of being shadowed. At work, in the neighborhood, but also during my college summer classes.
You’d think he’d have summer training or something better to do with his time.
But then I realized he wasn’t doing the stalking himself. About a week ago, I spotted a tall, buff guy near my place—a pseudo stalker of sorts.
That guy comes into HAVEN every day and walks me home.
I mean, not walk me, but sort of walks a safe distance behind me. The other day, he punched a drunk guy who tried to come close to me.
His name is Mario, which I only know because Laura has been talking—and flirting—with him. She thinks he’s become a regular because of her, and I don’t want to shatter her illusions.
Still, even though the whole thing has made me deeply uncomfortable, I’m glad I haven’t had to see Jude. That man terrifies me. Not only because of his vendetta or his ability to beat people to a pulp without blinking, or his violent streak on the ice I keep hearing about, but something far more distressing.
He has a curious ability to see through the chunks of my soul that I thought I’d expertly wrapped up.
And last night, he did something that probably contributed to the nightmare.
He got into the apartment.
I know because of the last entry in my journal, where I mentioned that maybe I could convince Dahlia to move away from here or even possibly leave on my own since I don’t have the heart to make her lose the scholarship she worked her ass off for.
Unlike her, I don’t care much about mine and would consider dropping out of college altogether and continuing to work part-time and take odd jobs here and there.
Last night, after Dahlia and I binged some Netflix and she went to sleep, I opened my journal to write an entry.
That’s when I saw it.
A sticky note with neat print handwriting.
Abandon any useless thoughts about escaping me. Don’t act stupid and force me to show you what I’m truly capable of.
My body trembled so hard upon seeing that.
He came into my home.
Was it the first time?
Or maybe the first time he’s made himself noticeable?
But why now of all times?
His unpredictable actions are messing with my head so badly, I looked around the apartment, searching for his ghost, terrified that Dahlia would see anything amiss, or worse, get involved.
Because Jude is right. I have no clue what rich, privileged, and violent people like him are truly capable of.
And I don’t want to find out.
Later that night, I’m back at work after spending the afternoon embroidering one of Dahlia’s shirts while listening to an audiobook.