Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Berlyn
Waking up has never been my favorite thing to do.
I’ve always been more of a night person, staying up late and letting my creative side free.
Putting pencil to paper and allowing the creativity to bleed from me in long delicate lines as I release all the innermost thoughts I never give a voice aloud.
The darkest parts of the night has always been the time I felt the most free to express myself freely. When the creative parts of my soul rise up until they feel like they’re overflowing from me faster than I can sketch.
It was something I always kept for myself. A therapy of sorts. Something to protect myself from letting the past fester and rot me from the inside out.
It’s always made me love the darkest hours of the night. Whether I was reading or drawing or getting lost in my own fantasies, I always felt most like myself after midnight. My love of late nights made my hate of early mornings, or mornings at all, inevitable.
I’d never admit it aloud, but my mornings hadn’t been as hard when I was waking up and immediately looking to see if I’d had a visitor overnight.
There was an edge of excitement that pushed me out of bed each morning as I searched for what would be different.
If a gift would be left. Another note? What random chore he would have found that needed to be done.
That feeling has dissipated over the last few days. Ever since the security system has been installed, there’s been no sign of anyone in my house besides myself.
Something I should be grateful for. Something that should put me at ease, help me relax, make me sleep better at night..
And yet…
I stretch my arms over my head with a groan. It took me forever to fall asleep last night. Even as the cool air from my now working AC blew over me, I tossed and turned for the better part of the night, unable to get comfortable.
Missing my home invader wasn’t something I thought would ever be an issue, even with how much I hate laundry. But something about knowing he’s no longer able to break in doesn’t fill me with the sense of peace and comfort I thought it would.
It isn’t something I would ever admit to Summer or even aloud, but there’s a small part of me that’s disappointed the security system has worked as well as it has.
No window or door in the house can be opened, from the inside or outside, without the alarm being set off.
I get an alert on my phone every time the alarm is turned on or off and the only way to turn it off is with a personalized code. Only Summer and I have one.
Not even the landlords have it. No chance for anyone to get in without me knowing about it, but somehow I didn’t really think it would keep him out.
He’s been more determined to get to me than I ever thought possible.
He’s sidestepped every other trap and preventative measure I’ve put up, even installing the camera for me when it was delivered.
I may have disagreed with Summer’s assessment and waved it off as delusional, but the sheer confidence it took in his own abilities to set it up for me made me think that the security system would pose no threat to him either.
I’m almost disappointed this game has come to an end so soon.
Thoughts I don’t have time for now that I no longer have the free help around the house. Normally Fridays would be the day I would focus on errands and chores, but of course I have my dreaded meeting with Professor Richards today to go over my revisions.
I only took this sociology class to fill one of my GE requirements but the internship and scholarship are still appealing.
I rush through getting ready for the day, ready to have the whole ordeal over with.
Summer has read my paper no less than ten times, given me her own notes from her meeting with the Professor.
I physically can’t be more prepared than I am.
And yet, my nerves race through me, making my hands shake and my heart pound.
I’ve never been great with authority figures. Often cowering at the first sign of their power. I never even know what to expect from myself when I feel backed into a corner.
I allow people, especially men, to trample on my pride and well, everything else too. I’ve grown accustomed to powerful men taking what they want without thinking twice about the devastation they leave in their wake.
Leaving home allowed me to find my own voice but damn do I seem to lose it when I need it most.
I have a feeling Professor Richards is going to make me cry. He’s got a reputation for being rude, abrasive, and probably worst of all, for being an outright ass who enjoys abusing his position. Not really the type of guy you want critiquing your paper.
Grabbing my bag, I pause and put another layer of deodorant on. Can never be too careful and I’m a nervous sweater. Rushing out the door, I almost don’t see the bouquet of flowers sitting on my doorstep and nearly trip over them.
“Shit,” I curse, sidestepping them before stopping and realizing how pretty the flowers are.
It’s a gorgeous bouquet made up of dark flowers.
Dahlias and chrysanthemums in deep reds and purples balanced by the lighter shades of the asters and camellias and lush with salvia and baby’s breath.
There’s almost too many competing types of flowers to focus simply on one.
Carefully, I pick up the massive bouquet, turning it in my hands to study the different flowers.
It almost shouldn’t work with how much is going on and yet whoever made this bouquet took the time to find the perfect balance between the different shades and shapes of each flower.
Each one only highlights the others around it, making it the most gorgeous set of flowers I’ve ever seen.
My heart races for an entirely different reason.
Flowers were a fascination for me for a long time.
The way they each have different meanings and how in different points of history those meanings were crucial to societal interactions.
Now, many people only vaguely know the symbolism behind each flower and often choose whatever is eye-catching.
People’s favorite flowers come from what their birth month flower is or maybe a favorite color.
The symbolic and artistry of bouquets are often lost on the average person.
Not me though.
Not only is this bouquet mesmerizing, it sends a clear message with the choice of flowers. One of love. Of devotion. Of obsession. No note necessary.
A chill runs down my spine even as I press my nose into the flowers and run my fingers over the silky petals of a dahlia. So so pretty.
It has to be him. There’s no other explanation.
Who else would send flowers and expect me to know the meaning without a note?
The disappointment from this morning is replaced with an embarrassing thrill. The game isn’t over. He didn’t give up and walk away. It’s only the beginning.
A smile warms my face as I set the flowers in my kitchen and turn back to head out the door. Already planning what colors I’ll use to draw the bouquet later and feeling more prepared to deal with my professor and whatever harsh critiques he has for me.
Summer said even with how much we prepped for hers, it was brutal.
It doesn’t take long to make it to campus and find Professor Richards in his office with another student. Checking the time, I realize I made it a few minutes early even with the distraction. I heave a sigh of relief and fall into one of the chairs outside his office space.
There isn’t much to hear through the door but the low thrum of conversation, too low to make out any of the words.
They run over their scheduled time and it’s nearly another fifteen minutes before his door finally opens.
I recognize the guy walking out of the room with a defeated expression and a handful of crumpled papers.
Shit.
He’s a smart guy. One of the most active participants in our lecture hall and often praised by Richards. If even he felt like the meeting was rough, where is that going to leave me?
The thrill the flowers brought me is long forgotten as I greet my professor with what I hope is a warm smile but probably more of a grimace. He tilts his head in acknowledgment.
“Ms. Matthews,” he greets, a sharp glint in his eye as he assesses me, his gaze ending on my bag. “I hope you prepared sufficiently for this.”
My hands sweat. Shit. I hate this feeling of being assessed and analyzed for my worth. It makes me want to rebel in any way possible. Even if that means passing out.
It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. I repeat the mantra to myself.
He’s going to read through my paper, look at the revisions, make further notes and ask questions.
Nothing to be scared about. The scholarship and internship would be nice, a dream even, but my survival doesn’t rely on it.
Even if I mess this up, it will be okay. Everything will be okay.
“I did,” I say, a small tremble in my voice.
I hate the feelings bubbling up inside of me and spilling over in tangible ways for him to see.
His sharp gaze misses none of it and there’s a familiar gleam that begins to grow in his brown eyes that I recognize.
He enjoys my discomfort. My fear. The power he knows he holds over me.
Focusing on what’s important, I grab the most recent version of my paper, hot off the printer as of this morning and hand it over to him before also removing my laptop.
“You won’t need that,” he cuts me off, taking my paper and waving at my laptop.
I swallow and nod, my words sticking in my throat as I attempt to explain. “I thought it would be nice to highlight my research articles and notes during our meeting based on your feedback.”
He pauses, looking up at me from above his glasses. “Why your research materials and notes and not the paper itself?”