Chapter 13 Seth
Chapter thirteen
Seth
“You can do this. It’s just some paper with writing on it. There are no monsters in there. Maybe some spiders, but no monsters.”
The little pep talk doesn’t help the anxiety that’s pounding through me. There’s no reason I should be reacting like this. Okay, that’s a tiny white lie, but there really is nothing that could physically hurt me.
I continue staring at my closet door, my forehead damp with sweat even though the air conditioning is on and it’s chilly in my bedroom. I can feel my heart pounding against my ribs as I grasp the doorknob and slowly twist it.
Honestly, if one of the hinges gave a melodramatic squeak like in horror movies, I would have been out of there, but my closet door opens soundlessly, and I’m left staring at the clothes crammed inside.
I need to do this. I just need to go through them as fast as possible and get it over with.
Yeah, but will it actually be over with if the letters say anything important?
I grimace at that. I can’t get the words Frankie said to me out of my head. That he wants to “keep” me. What does that even mean? And is that something I even want?
My dick is down for it, because of course it is.
I absolutely hated bottoming for Jake because he made me feel absolutely worthless, even as he fucked me.
Hell, vast majority of the time Jake fucked me whether I wanted it or not.
Sex with Frankie is different. He makes me feel good.
Not just physically, but watching the emotions on his face, the affection in his eyes as he looks at me…
Okay, yes, it’s very possible I’m seeing things in the recording that aren’t actually there. However, the fact that he makes an effort to prioritize me is telling. Isn’t it?
That changes things. If it makes me a little crazy, too, then so be it. I can be crazy if it means feeling treasured.
But I need to stop procrastinating.
I take a deep breath, blowing it out in a rush as I drop to my knees. With a tiny growl, I dig through my pile of shoes and old clothes that I really need to donate. Finally, I find the box and pull it out of the closet.
The shoe box is so old that the brand name is nothing but a faded blur of colors, and duct tape holds the top to the rest of the cardboard. My mom mailed it to me when I first came out here, filled with old mementos from my childhood.
Why do moms do that? I have no use for old art competition ribbons or love letters from elementary school crushes.
In fact, the only thing in this box that I’ve actually used is the trophy, and I’m not about to tell my mother about what it is I used it for.
My mother might accept my sexuality, but I’m sure she’d draw the line at knowing what I use for sex toys.
With a last look at the trophy, I grab the stack of letters and leave my bedroom.
I honestly don’t expect to find much. The only letter I ever opened from him was a two-page apology after my dad died.
It barely made any sense, only that Uncle Cody was somehow involved with his death.
After that, I had no interest in opening anymore of his letters.
That first letter was sent to me almost two years ago.
I open that first one, rereading the slanted handwriting.
Uncle Cody has always had beautiful penmanship, and I remember him practicing calligraphy with my dad when I was younger.
The letter is just as confusing as the first time I read it, something about venom and some sort of energy trappings before going on and on about how sorry he was about the death of my dad.
The anger I felt the first time I read this letter remains, simmering just beneath the surface. I never got the full story of what happened to my dad. All I know is that he got shot at point-blank range, and my uncle was the one who pulled the trigger.
I push away my feelings over the matter. My uncle is in jail, and letting my anger out won’t do anything. Besides, maybe he’s innocent? Or my dad got mixed up in something he shouldn’t have?
Now I’m kicking myself in the ass for not bothering to check the letters sooner. Honestly, it had been so many months since I’d gotten a letter that I had forgotten about them.
I skim the letter once more before setting it aside. The second and third letters sound similar to the first, but it’s the fourth letter that gives me pause. The handwriting is sloppy, like he was in a rush to write.
Reading through the letter, my heart starts pounding.
This has to be what Frankie was talking about.
The letter sounds like the ravings of a madman.
Uncle Cody goes on and on about a “family”, and I don’t think he means the kind of family that comes with a picket fence.
The family name is a blur, as if he tried to erase it, but I can only just make out the first part of it –Whit-something.
I don’t think that’s who Frankie works for, but I honestly have no clue. I didn’t exactly ask him the few times I’ve talked to him while awake.
I put the letter in a separate pile before reaching for the next one. I have to read it twice and even then, I have no idea what I’m reading. There are too many sentences that just abruptly stop, and random topics that don’t make any sense with anything else he’s saying.
The letter after that is just random words written all over the paper in varying sizes, slashing across one another almost angrily. Tears blur my vision as I stare down at the paper in my shaking hands.
My uncle is losing his mind. Does my mom know? Has he been sending her letters? She’s never mentioned it, but she doesn’t talk about her brother. Not since he killed my father.
Sniffing, I wipe the tears away and go to put the letter in the pile to hand over to Frankie, but stop. Words are randomly circled throughout the paper. I blink back the remaining tears and bring the paper closer to my face. No, not random words.The same words. Over and over again. Guard and drug.
With my heart beating chaotically, I grab the next letter in the pile. It’s filled with along string of letters. It makes no sense. There’s a tiny scrawl in the very bottom corner that actually looks like words, but they are so small I can’t make them out.
Grabbing my phone, I bring up my camera and switch to macro view. The words on the paper suddenly fill my phone screen, and I have to back up a bit before I can focus.
“Wizard?” That doesn’t make any more sense than the rest of it. I lean closer, making sure I’m reading it correctly, but it’s most definitely the word ‘wizard’. Now I’m even more confused. Why would the entire page be covered in gibberish save for that one word?
Shaking my head, I put it in the pile I’m going to hand over to Frankie. I make my way through the last of the letters, sorting them based on how much I can decipher. Here’s to hoping Frankie’s boss has someone who can figure all this mess out.
When I’m finally done, I lean back on the couch, my back screaming at me from being hunched over for so long.
My stomach growls, letting me know it does not appreciate going so long without sustenance.
Honestly, it should not have taken as long as it did to go through a dozen letters, but most of them were so weird that I couldn’t stop trying to figure out what my uncle was going on about.
Especially the one that was completely filled with random letters.
It’s whatever. Not my circus, not my monkey.
Above my pay grade, not that I’m getting paid.
Whatever metaphor works for this situation.
I’m only doing this so my stalker stops stalking me.
And even that’s a big, fat lie because I don’t want Frankie to go away. Partly because I’m curious about him, but also because I really want to see him again.
With a groan, I get to my feet to get the blood flowing again. The letters keep drawing my attention back to the coffee table, like some weird siren call. There are clues in those letters, I can feel it. But I’m just not smart enough to figure it out.
With a frustrated sigh, I gather up the letters, sticking the ones I don’t think have any important information in them back into the shoe box.
The others I shove into a plastic grocery bag, cursing the fact that I don’t have any manila envelopes.
The envelope would have made it look all nice and tidy, but fuck it. I’m sure Frankie won’t care.
My stomach makes another desperate growl, and I pat it absently.
It can wait long enough for me to at least run downstairs to check my mail.
Stuffing my feet into my shoes, I take my time heading down to the main lobby.
It’s early afternoon, so most of the apartment residents are still at work, which means a quiet walk.
I reach the landing and veer left toward the mailboxes. I know it’s wishful thinking, but maybe one of the toys I ordered arrived early. I look up from the floor and come to a stumbling stop, heat flaring in my cheeks.
There are two people against the far wall.
The one with their back to me is dressed in dark jeans and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up their muscular forearms. Their hair is so black that it almost has a greenish tinge to it, and is styled in a short mohawk.
One hand is against the wall, and I’m assuming the other is on the person in front of them.
There’s a masculine gasp and some muttered words before the person in front of me gives a low chuckle.
Wait, was that a growl? Yeah, that was a growl and maybe a groan.
And I should not be here witnessing this.
Even though this is a public space, right now it feels way too intimate for me to be playing Peeping Tom.