9. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Harbor
The sun wakes me like a fucking nightmare. My heart still beats that slow, lazy rhythm, the ghost of sleep refusing to leave me alone. The floor is cold under my bare feet. Fuck mornings. They’re the fucking worst. Coffee, I need coffee.
It’s not without great effort that I force myself into the kitchen, start the machine and look over at my counter. My manuscript. The one I’ve printed in a desperate fit of optimism. I think I expect to find a miracle there, like maybe it has edited itself, but instead I find a sticky, wet stain blooming on the page.
Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t understand. The edges are soaked, curling, the ink a blot, a smear on the page. I touch it, my finger trailing over a particularly vivid streak, and my brain catches up with my hand. The hot prickle of bile rises in my throat. I drop the page, watch it flutter back to the counter, see clearly now that it’s—god—it’s come.
My fingers begin to shake. I take a step back, stumble against the wall, the whole world tilting off-balance. Breathing shallow, my chest a fragile cage on the verge of collapsing. The room spins. Sorry, I can’t… No. No, no, no.
My hand still tingles where I’ve touched it. Like an electric shock from something wrong, something filthy. I wipe my fingers against my shirt, again and again, the feeling refusing to leave me alone.
Am I imagining this? Is it real? How can this be real?
Everything moves in slow motion, every second an hour. This isn’t happening. How can it be happening? I’ve been alone all night, haven’t I? It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room, leaving only panic.
The paper sits there, and I don’t know what the hell to do about it.
Somehow, I’m more upset about this than the fact that this guy has violated me directly.
This… this is like he violates my very brain. My soul is spilled out on those pages and it’s this deep, penetrating type of violation that I can’t quite understand.
It’s some fucked-up prank, some twisted joke. Or worse. I can’t let my mind go there. I can’t.
It hurts to breathe, my ribs tight and constricting. I hear a sound, an animal whimpering. Me. My heart is trying to break free of its bone cage.
But in that frantic beating, there is something else too. A flicker of heat beneath the fear, a pulse of something darker. How is that possible? How? Am I so screwed up that even now I can feel a rush? Like a scene from my own nightmares, ripped from fantasy into the real world. Like I’ve written it myself.
This is exactly the type of thing you’d write about… that’s why you’re both disgusted and fascinated.
I stand here, paralyzed. Trapped between horror and disbelief. Between reality and some twisted story. It feels like an eternity, and still I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to deal with these rising feelings. Those sick ones, that say “You’ve always wanted a man possessed.”
Because it’s true. I have. I live my life fluttering from one lame one-night stand to another, when all I want is the kind of man who will protect me. Keep me safe. Love me more deeply than he’s ever loved anything.
Somehow, my brain confuses that type of want with this… this… violation. Like this guy’s come on my pages is some kind of declaration written with his babies. “Hey, I love you so much, I’m wasting my future kids on you.”
I want to throw up. I need a shrink. Maybe a padded cell. Definitely to never write the evil that lives in my brain down on paper ever again, because it’s almost as if the universe is like, “Sup, bitch, you want this? Here you go,” and it delivers him right to my fucking door.
I have to move. To do something, anything, besides standing here and losing my mind. I stumble through the apartment, fling open doors and turn on lights, searching for—what? A sign that someone has been here.
The apartment feels impossibly big, a too-large space that could swallow me whole. Too many places to hide. How can this happen? How am I so stupid not to notice?
Nothing seems out of place. Everything is normal, orderly, a stark contrast to the chaos in my head. Even the dust floats calmly in the pale light. No drawers flung open, no clothes strewn about, nothing else missing or violated. The only thing out of order is me.
Why would someone do this?
I throw open my bedroom door, eyes scanning for—what? A person? An explanation? But the bed is perfectly made, untouched, like I’ve never even slept in it. Probably because I made it before coming out here. What am I expecting? Him to just be lying there with a come-hither look?
Honestly, at this point, I’d prefer that. What if he’s some ninety-year-old man with no teeth and skin so saggy it could cradle a baby?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I need to get my head checked. Yup. I’m going insane.
Why would someone break in just to do this? To leave their filthy mark on my work and nothing else? Why not on me? I hate myself for even thinking that. For letting my mind go there. What kind of twisted creep am I dealing with?
My heart races ahead of my thoughts. Pounding so hard I can barely hear myself think. The locks. The windows. I have to check them, see how this can have happened.
The front door is bolted tight. I yank at it, just to be sure, but it holds firm. So do the windows, securely latched with no sign of tampering. I can’t breathe. Can’t understand how someone got in, how they got out, leaving nothing behind but that stain.
This isn’t real. It can’t be real.
A sick, insistent whisper curls at the edges of my mind. You’re not as scared as you should be. The dark thrill of it sickens me. Does that mean—? Am I so messed up that even this feels… exciting? A different kind of foreplay, played out on the stage of my life instead of just in my mind?
No, no, no. I don’t want to think that. Can’t let myself think that.
The panic burns through me, leaving only raw nerves and an awful, empty exhaustion. I sink to the floor, arms wrapped tight around my knees, eyes flicking from door to window and back again.
I am alone. Completely alone.
So why doesn’t it feel that way?
I can’t sit still. Can’t just do nothing. I stumble to my feet, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen. Is this something I call the police for? They’d think I’m insane. A paranoid writer, seeing stalkers where there are only shadows. I imagine their laughter, the echo of it bouncing off the empty walls. They wouldn’t believe me. They’d never understand. I drop the phone, pace the room, my thoughts wild and feverish, the whole apartment too quiet.
I try to picture the conversation. Try to imagine explaining it all. What would I say? Help, officer, someone broke in and came on my manuscript? The humiliation burns in my throat, almost as bad as the panic.
Back and forth across the room. My movements frantic, my pulse erratic. Sorry, I’m rambling, aren’t I?
Maybe I really am going insane.
The phone sits accusingly on the counter. I pick it up again, thumb brushing against the call icon. Put it back down. I can’t do it. Can’t bring myself to call and hear that skeptical silence on the other end.
I feel like I am trapped inside my own twisted fiction. Dark romance bleeds into reality, turning it into something I can’t recognize. Am I letting it mess with my mind? Is that all this is?
I have to get out. Have to escape the walls closing in around me.
Keys. Book. Shaking hands. One last look at the wreck of my morning. The manuscript sits like a festering wound, the stain vivid against the white page.
I need to clear my head, get some space. I need to breathe.
The door closes with a sharp, final click, locking away the chaos inside.
Lila texts while I’m still on my way to the cafe. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN HIDING??
The urgency of it stings my already raw nerves. How can I begin to explain? How can I even try? My thumb hovers over the screen. Sorry, just dealing with some things. We need to catch up soon. Miss you.
I wait, watching the little dots of Lila’s reply flicker in and out of existence. My anxiety grows with each blink. What things???
Hard to explain over text. Will call you later, okay?
I walk faster, each step an escape from the thoughts I can’t quite get rid of. Lila won’t let it go. She knows me too well, knows when I am avoiding, when I am breaking down and trying not to admit it.
Later when?? I’m just going to call you, thought maybe you’d gone missing!
A guilty knot tightens in my stomach. Lila, worried and waiting while I am losing myself to dark fantasies and stains on my manuscript. She doesn’t deserve that. She deserves better.
You’re the absolute best, you know that? I promise I’m okay. Talk soon.
I am the worst liar, and even in text, I know she’ll hear it in my voice. But what can I say?
Okay, if you say so. Just don’t make me send out a search party!
I’d love that! Maybe with balloons? Sarcasm is the best offense.
You’re an idiot. LOVE YOU.
The knots in my stomach loosen just a little knowing my best friend always has my back.
Heading to read now and clear my head. Will call after!
I slip the phone back into my bag, relieved and anxious all at once. How long can I keep pretending this isn’t happening?
The café is sunlit and cheerful, the exact opposite of how I feel inside. A refuge of normalcy, where everything should be okay. I slide into a corner table, back to the wall, eyes on the door. It’s supposed to feel safe. Instead, it just makes me more aware of how jumpy I am. How close to unraveling. The barista has to ask me twice before my brain registers her words.
It’s a perfectly ordinary morning for everyone else. Laptops open, heads bent over books, the smell of fresh pastries. The comforting chaos of a bustling café.
But for me? Each clatter of a spoon feels like an earthquake. I pull the novel from my bag, hands still trembling, wishing the story will take me away like it used to.
The door chimes, and I flinch. A couple walks in, holding hands and smiling, as if to mock my paranoia.
My coffee arrives, sloshing over the rim as the mug touches down. Even that splash seems like a reminder, a flashback to the stain.
I try to lose myself in reading. Try to escape the trap my thoughts have laid for me. Maybe it’s just me, but the words don’t connect like they should have. They keep slipping away before they form into meaning.
I touch my phone, the screen lighting up with Lila’s last message. You’re an idiot. LOVE YOU. Should I call her? Tell her everything? Or should I call and pretend everything is okay?
The café’s warmth doesn’t reach me, the normalcy doesn’t stick. Instead, it all makes me feel more isolated, more aware of how different my world has become.
I stare at the same page for what feels like an eternity, my mind circling back to the only thing it can’t escape.
That stain.
That awful, accusing stain.
I’m not as safe as I thought, am I?