The Stalker
Are You Really Okay - Sleep Token
The compassion radiating from her is palpable.
I don't want her pity. I don’t want her to view me in some sad light.
The internal battle I’ve been struggling with has been suffocating.
Like if I had smoke-filled lungs. To let her know, or not to let her know…
either way, I need the fucking help, and it’s killing me to admit it.
I shift on the sofa again. No matter how much I adjust, there is no getting comfortable. Not if I’m going to be reliving the past that I’ve tried so hard to leave behind. If we’re going to talk about it, then let’s fucking talk about it.
I stand. The anxiety that is taking over my every muscle has me wanting to collapse back onto the couch, but I force myself upright.
I can feel her watching me intensely as I roll the sleeves of my collared shirt up.
I wanted to keep my tattoos hidden in case she had seen them on my alter ego; eventually, she will know.
The fabric constricts my large forearms, and my veins bulge out instantly.
I want her to know; I want her to see my past carved into me that I can’t escape.
The dark ink that covers my skin is everywhere, masking over scars that you can feel if you just reach out to touch them.
She looks at me like I’m going to harm her.
I can see her body go stiff, a feeling all too familiar.
My arms stretch out in front of her in display.
“If you look close enough, you can see the scars,” I say, hoping she will lean in closer.
She scans my arms, studying them. The air in the room thins as both of our breaths go shallow.
She reaches out a hand, tracing the grim memories through the ink.
I watch her. I watch as pity and sorrow flow like rivers through her eyes.
Showing her tells my story without me needing to tell it myself.
The way she traces my scars instantly reminds me of the way I traced hers. She doesn't have the visual reminders, but we both bear the same emotionally torturous mementos that I wish I could take from her.
Her hand abruptly pauses as she quickly removes it, peering up at me through long thick lashes. Did she feel reminded of that night too? She isn't supposed to know who I really am yet. Before she can say the first word, I pull away and plop back onto the leather sofa.
“I have constant reminders of what I endured as a child, but I can’t seem to remember exactly how I got them. When these flashbacks appear, bits and pieces are played like scenes from a horror movie.”
“I remember being starved; I remember being isolated, and I remember feeling lonely. You know what fucking angers me? I had to go on like it was normal because I didn’t fucking know it wasn’t.
I didn’t fucking know that other children weren’t getting beaten by their parents.
I didn’t fucking know that being kept a prisoner in your room for days without food wasn’t normal.
I didn’t fucking know, because they made it seem like it was.
Like they conditioned me to believe all families were the same.
And my parents went on like they didn’t have an ounce of remorse for their actions,” I blurt out.
My pulse beats at an alarming pace, thinking if I don’t calm myself, who knows what I will fucking do.
Pain radiates from my palms, not realizing the white-knuckled grip had imprinted on my skin. I knew I was fucked up, but I didn’t think I was this fucked up. Saying it out loud makes it all too real for me, and I hate it.
Soft tissues meet my skin drawing me out of the panic stirring inside me.
They’re nudged inside my palms and I open them to welcome the material.
I watch as they are instantly painted red, the blood spreading like a disease.
Small, soft hands cup mine, and my head whips forward, reminding me I’m in the presence of someone else.
She looks panicked. No, frightened that I was able to draw so much blood from doing so little. It doesn’t bother me as much as it does her. Pain is second nature to me. I close my fist around the tissue, applying pressure onto the little crescent lacerations.
“I should probably go,” I insist.
“Are you okay? I don’t mind cutting the session short if that is what you need, but I want to make sure you’re okay before you leave,” she insists back.
I love that my girl cares about my well-being, even though I clearly frighten her.
I have plans in motion for my girl tonight, so this won’t be our last interaction of the day.
“I’m fine. I promise. I’m a big boy,” I joke, but I don’t think she is in the mood for any of that right now. The silence speaks for itself. She cocks an eyebrow, waiting for a real response.
“Ms. Rosen, I’m fine. Let’s reconvene soon?” I reassure her. It’s all I can give her at the moment, and I hope she accepts my response. She gives me a small but intentional smile, respecting my honesty.
“It’s Dahlia, and okay. I trust you know yourself well. I’m sorry if this has been a lot today. I believe we made a ton of progress.”
“I hope to see more flowers the next time I'm here.” I smirk, signaling to the perfectly arranged bouquet. It looks great in her office. The fact she wanted to take a piece of me here has my ego off the roof. I want thoughts of me to fester inside her like a virus with no cure. I want to haunt her mind, even when she doesn’t know I’m there.
Didn’t I say I wanted to be everywhere she looks and everything she thinks about?
She gets up from the couch, still so close to me.
I take in a breath, and smell the scent of vanilla and coconut floods my senses, easing the tension inside me.
I want to lean in and show her who she belongs to.
Slam her body back onto this couch and have my way with her while she screams my name loud enough for everyone in the office to hear.
Maybe I’ll fuck her in front of her boss…
Mental note for later, check.
Dahlia gives me a smile before walking me to the door and out to the checkout desk. My eyes trail over her as she turns, leaving me. The bouncing of her ass in that tight skirt sends dirty thoughts straight to my head. And I’m talking about the one in my jeans.
I put my leather jacket back on and pull the helmet over my head, securing it in place. I left it on my bike, not waiting to bring it with me. Glad to see no one snagged it. They wouldn't be too happy if they did.
I turn the key in the center, igniting the ignition with a roar.
The sound echoes loud in the enclosed garage.
A vibration rumbles in the confinement of my pocket, causing me to pull my cell out to see who messaged me.
As you can imagine, I don’t have many friends, so I already know who it is.
I just want to know what the fuck he wants.
Zane
I have a surprise for you.
Me
Well, what the fuck is it?
Zane
Come to your house.
Me
Are you at my house right now?
Zane
...
Me
What the fuck are you doing in my house. You know I don't like surprises, Zane.
Zane
Calm down, big boy, you might just enjoy this one.
Oh, don’t be alarmed by the screaming.
This dude is going to be the death of me.
He knows I like to get stright to the point, but he just loves to fuck with me.
If I find him in my house fucking Zoe, and that’s what he is referring to as the screaming…
I swear to fucking God, I’ll break him in half.
He would be the type to do some shit like that.
I rev up my bike before taking off, a loud purr of approval coming from the exhaust. It takes me less than thirty minutes to zip my way through the city. This sudden change of plans really puts a kink in my schedule. I don’t have time for this, but Zane never bugs me unless it’s important.
I reach the end of my driveway, pulling in until I reach the three-car garage. One of the doors automatically opens, and I slowly inch inside. I turn my key, shutting the bike off and removing my blackout helmet.
My garage holds my two bikes and my Challenger. Is it more space than I need? Absolutely, but I use my garage for other extracurricular activities as well. We don’t need to get into detail.
I open the glass door to the shelf I had hung snugly on my wall, and place my helmet inside. Numerous custom-designed helmets and headgear line the clear shelf, displaying them in all their glory. Collecting is an understatement.
Loud thumps and mumbling screams assault my ears. I burst through the door that leads into my home, not knowing what's on the other side. My temper escapes me, knowing I will leave a trail of wrath in my way.
“Zane, you better not be fuck—” I yell into the air, but I’m quickly stopped once I catch sight of what’s going on in my living room.
I see Zane’s fists making contact with some guy's face, leaving splatters of blood all over my floor.
The man is turned away from me, tied to one of my dining chairs.
His hands are bound tightly, leaving no room for him to wiggle out. Each of his ankles is zip-tied to the legs of the chair. When he tied him up, it was with intent.
Is this the guy who…
The man turns and spits red slobber onto my hardwood. I watch the action, noticing a tooth mixed in the liquid. I come closer, my heart racing. Not knowing if it’s from the excitement of who it may be.
Zane hadn't noticed me walking in, being fixated on beating the living shit out of the man in front of him. He glances upward, giving me a cheeky smile, and takes a step back, no longer torturing the man.
“Ah, the man of the hour. Perfect timing. I was just getting him warmed up for you,” he says in accomplishment. He reaches for a rag that he preemptively grabbed and cleans his bloodied fist with it. Motherfucker took one of my nice ones.