17. Trip
SEVENTEEN
TRIP
S he hasn’t left the house in three days.
No streams. No socials. No sound.
And I know, know , she’s in there with the lights off, curled up under a blanket, phone powered down, body locked in a trauma response she doesn’t deserve.
All because of him.
Patrick.
I sit across the street in the Challenger with the engine off and my rage humming so loud I can barely breathe through it.
He hadn’t just hurt her.
He fucking unmade her.
The first creep shows up that night.
1:17 AM
He pulls up in a beige rust-bucket, tinted windows, hoodie up, phone in hand like he’s recording the whole thing.
I watch from the shadows across the street, dressed in all black, tactical mask pulled down, boots planted in silence on the cold asphalt. I don’t move until he crosses the edge of her property line.
He pulls out a pocket knife and starts tapping it against one of her windows like a horror movie cliché.
That’s enough.
I step out of the darkness and cross the street with the wind at my back.
He doesn’t hear me until my hand is already around his throat.
He spins, wide-eyed, but I shove him back into the side of his car hard enough to dent the panel. The knife clatters to the pavement.
“Wanna explain what you’re doing here?” I growl.
He tries to lie. Stammer. Beg.
So I break his nose with my elbow.
He hits the ground with a wet crack, blood gushing down his chin, choking on his own teeth. I straddle his chest and let my fists do the rest.
By the time I tie him up with zip-ties from my trunk, he looks like a Halloween prop, swollen face, one eye sealed shut, blood in his ears.
I drag him to the curb, drop a burner phone next to him with screenshots of his Reddit post asking for Lydia’s address, and wait for the cops to arrive.
I watch from the shadows as they roll up.
Flashlights.
Confusion.
Custody.
Cleanup.
Then I go back across the street and wait.
I watch Lydia walk out in sunglasses and a hoodie, holding her daughter’s hand. Small suitcase. Airport run.
Her daughter hugs her around the waist at the curb. Lydia bends down and kisses her on the forehead, whispering something. She doesn’t cry. Not in public. She’s too strong for that.
But I know the second she shuts that car door, her whole chest will cave in.
I don’t follow her to the airport. But I follow the man in the dark hoodie who follows her to the airport. I see when he walks too close to her as she opens the trunk.
He watches her like he’s been waiting.
He stays on the sidewalk. Doesn’t approach. Just films.
Until I step between him and the rental car.
“Delete it,” I say, my voice low and cold.
He looks up, startled.
I don’t give him time to answer. I smack the phone from his hand, catch it mid-air, and smash it under my boot.
Then I crack him across the jaw with the back of my elbow.
He falls like dead weight. I grab him by the hoodie, drag him behind a parked SUV, and press my forearm into his throat until he stops moving.
He’s still breathing. Barely .
That’s enough.
NIGHT TWO
Another one comes. Younger. Cocky. Hoodie that says “ Send Bobs ” across the chest.
He doesn’t knock.
He goes straight for the patio door.
I catch him as he’s sliding it open.
He screams when I slam his hand in the sliding glass track.
I break every finger. One at a time.
He pisses himself by the third.
He cries.
I don’t stop.
I wrap his shoelaces around his wrists and zip-tie them behind his back. Leave him sitting cross-legged at the curb, sobbing.
By morning, he’s in cuffs.
Lydia never looks out the window.
DAY THREE
I climb onto her roof.
Set up two more cameras. Recalibrate the motion alerts.
Watch her through her bedroom window, not in a creepy way. I guess any way of watching someone through their window is creepy, but… She’s mine. So it’s not creepy in my mind.
She sits on the floor in an oversized hoodie, hair a mess, vape in one hand, face swollen like she cried in her sleep and again when she woke up.
She stares at the wall like it owes her an apology.
She hasn’t touched her phone.
Mine has over twenty sent messages now.
I leave a bag of her favorite snacks at her doorstep that night, knock once, and disappear before she can even think of answering.
NIGHT THREE
This one has a camera rig with him.
He’s live streaming.
Twitch handle plastered across his shirt like a promo.
He says, “Yo yo, what’s up stream, we’re about to do some recon on LydieLIVE.”
I tackle him mid-sentence.
Drag him by the hair into the alley between her building and the fence.
He fights.
So I give him a fight.
I break his collarbone first, snapping it with a heel strike to the top of his chest. He screams.
I punch his ribs until I feel one give under my knuckle. Use my elbow to open a split above his eye. When he goes limp, I keep going.
Because I imagine he’s Patrick.
Every fucking punch is a word.
For.
Hurting.
Her.
You.
Fucking.
Coward.
By the time I zip-tie him to a light pole and shove his cracked phone into his mouth, he can’t even cry anymore.
The cops pick him up thirty minutes later.
I watch from my car with blood on my gloves and a smile I don’t bother to hide.
NIGHT FOUR
No creeps.
Just silence.
Stillness.
The kind that only comes after a storm.
I sit on the hood of the Challenger, watching her windows.
I haven’t eaten in two days.
I haven’t slept since I saw her Snap story disappear.
But I’m not leaving.
Not until she turns her light on again.
Not until I see her smile.
Not until I make Patrick fucking Rhodes beg for mercy and bleed on the floor like every other monster I’ve buried.
Because I know, this is just the prelude.
The bloodbath is coming.
And this time, it’s personal.