Chapter 14 #3
Summer huffs and runs her fingers through her hair in an attempt to fix the wayward curls. “You’re a brat,” she accuses, but can’t hide her amusement. “Should we talk about Halloween then?”
Finally a subject I don’t have to feel weird about.
“There’s a bunch of parties this weekend,” she reminds me. There have been a ton all month. What college campus isn’t teeming with themed parties for the entirety of October?
We haven’t made it to any because of how stressed we’ve been over our revision meetings. Now that we’ve survived them, there’s no reason not to go, but I hesitate. “Would it really be a good idea for me to go?” I ask, thinking about the stalker.
Summer looks around, her eyes falling on the laundry basket of clean clothes that may or may not have been there the last time she came over. “Anything new from the stalker?”
I shake my head. “Not since the flowers,” I admit, but even as I say it, I’m questioning how true that is.
Something about my nightmare last night.
The way I calmed and slept well the rest of the night.
Slept deeper than usual and woke up more well rested.
My gut is saying there’s more to this situation than what I’ve realized so far.
It sounds crazy, so I keep it to myself. For now.
“Then there’s no reason to worry,” Summer argues. “Maybe the stalker has moved on.”
I arch a brow at her and she waves me off. “You can’t stop living your life because of some hot psycho.”
I huff an exasperated laugh. “Are you hoping something interesting will happen at the party? Like I don’t know, me getting kidnapped by a supposed hot psycho?”
Her grin gives her away. It’s exactly what was running through her sick and twisted mind. “Would it be the worst thing?”
“Being kidnapped?” I ask in astonishment. “Yes, yes I think it would.”
She groans and throws the pillow at me this time. “You’re forgetting the hot psycho part. Or psychos.” She waggles her eyebrows. “They’re mean to everyone but you and kill your enemies.”
“I don’t have enemies,” I point out, but she’s not even listening to me at this point, already on a roll.
“And they’re all touch-her-and-die vibes.” She nods to herself like any of this is making sense in a real world context. It’s most certainly not. As hot as it sounds, it’s unrealistic. It’s hot in fiction because it’s fiction. “Oh, oh, and they take care of your every need.”
“After they’ve kidnapped me, of course,” I add dryly.
She misses the sarcasm. “Exactly, it’s all for your own good because they’re actually part of a crime family and one of their enemies discovered your existence so now they have to protect you.”
“I think you’ve lost the plot,” I say deadpan and finally she glares at me.
“You’re so boring.”
I can’t help but laugh. Of course, it’s a fun fantasy. If I have to have a stalker I would prefer a hot one who spoils me rotten and only wants to take care of me, but a stalker is still a stalker. “The guy still broke into my house while I was sleeping,” I argue. “Deranged behavior.”
Summer narrows her eyes at me. “Then why did you keep the flowers he sent?”
I shrug, a small smile twisting my lips. I’ve never really been able to hide anything from her. “Because they’re pretty.”
“Shut up,” she laughs. “You secretly are into this, you just don’t want to admit you’re off your rocker too.”
There’s no argument against that. It’s hard not to imagine this perfect scenario where my stalker is actually a good guy and saves the day. But a fantasy is a fantasy for a reason, it’s not meant to become your reality. Getting lost in the what ifs is a good way to end up dead in a ditch.
The rest of the day flies by far too quickly as I stay lost in my thoughts about the stalker.
Summer takes me to classes and I pick up my car.
We make plans for which Halloween party we’re going to go to this weekend.
When I get home, I get a bunch of homework and chores done, but through it all it feels like I’m moving in a daze. On auto-pilot.
I can’t help but keep coming back to my nightmare.
To the way warmth wrapped around me and chased the mind-numbing chill that normally comes with the flashbacks.
Staring at my bed I can almost feel the heat and smell something both familiar and unrecognizable that soothed the jagged edges left by the memory of the Ferris wheel.
My shadows.
They’ve visited me on many nights over the years and I’ve always slept better after they visited.
I always thought they were figments of my imagination.
A coping mechanism my brain conjured up to deal with the most painful memories.
When I knew I couldn’t take much more of living in a nightmare and my shadows would appear and ease some of the pain.
Lord knows my brain has done backflips in order to keep me alive and mostly sane. Why would my shadows be anything different?
But what if they are?
Could they be allusive not because it’s only ever been my brain trying to protect itself? But maybe because they’re here and then they’re gone, leaving no trace because they didn’t want to. Were careful not to.
Until they did.
What if I’ve had my stalker for a lot longer than I originally thought?
It’s a thought that should make my blood run cold.
So why doesn’t it?