Natalie
One
S omeone is screaming at me. Sirens blare in my ears.
What is happening? I can’t breathe. Flames lick up my arm and chest. Blankets get thrown over me.
I’m being lifted onto a bed. White ceiling lights flash past my vision as I am rushed into a room.
A mask gets put over my face. “Count backwards from five.” I hear a voice say and then everything goes black.
I wake up screaming, sweat drips down my face and I throw the duvet off my overheated body.
Not again. I hate these nightmares. I hate not knowing what happened.
It comes to me in pieces, yet I still have missing memories.
Where was I beforehan d? Why did the doctors ask if I was with a man?
Why did the police ask me if I had any sexual encounters that night?
And finally, why was I even in that area?
I couldn’t answer any of the questions, still can’ t , because I lost all memories of what happened six months before that accident.
The accident that left me with burn scars all up my right arm, chest, neck.
And just under half of my right cheek. Luckily , I can cover most of it with my work uniform.
That doesn’t stop my colleagues saying anything though.
“Freak.”
“Ugly.”
“Scarface.”
“Quasimodo.”
And the worst one,
“ Slut .”
Granted, I wasn’t a virgin before the accident, but I sure didn’t sleep around.
I’ve never had a one night stand, I had long term relationships.
Well, until they left me because they couldn’t handle my baggage.
Not like I blamed them. I have a lot of baggage.
The abuse, the fact I’m an orphan, the constant nightmares.
I should have died that night, the night at the lake.
But the note scared me. Who left it? Who brought me back home?
Why was my home completely furnished again?
I know now of course, but I was so confused at first.
When I finally got out of bed that day, I realised that most of my belongings were back.
My clothes, artwork, books, everything, and more.
There were more clothes, new cooking equipment, food in the fridge, some special edition books from one of my favourite authors - books I would have loved to have had but couldn’t afford.
I even had to get another bookshelf to fit them all in, which of course was built and filled by the time I woke up the next day.
I stretch out my muscles, God that feels good, and twist my hair into a claw clip to get it out of my face.
I wonder if he’s still here? Getting out of bed I go to the corridor and stare up at one of the framed photos that appeared that day.
It’s one of me on a beach, I remember that day well.
It was the day that I found out I got the job at the bank.
I was so happy, happy enough to take a bottle of wine to the beach to celebrate - alone.
Because I was always alone. I was sitting watching the sunset, my shoulder length, dirty blonde hair blowing in the wind.
I never realised anyone else was there, especially with it being the middle of November and quite cold so the beach was empty. Or so I thought.
I was a little freaked out when I saw the photo.
Just a little. Because then I realised that I wasn’t alone that day.
I mean, it could have been a stalker wanting to kill me, it could have been a creep wanting to kidnap or rape me.
But I wasn’t alone. Someone was there to celebrate with me, even if I didn’t see or speak to them.
Is it fucked up to say that made me feel content ?
Probably. Do I care? Nope. Why don’t I care?
Well because I’m waiting for death to find me, so if the grim reaper has sent one of his cronies to follow me and finish the job then so be it.
I n the meantime if said crony wants to sneak in while I’m asleep and cook me a meal (which unfortunately hasn’t been poisoned yet), or do some housework then I’m not going to complain.
I smile and look around the corner to the living room, he’s not here today which means he must have left early.
A sharp sting of disappointment crosses my chest. I was too tired last night to have a proper conversation with him and I wanted to feel his hardened body against mine this morning.
You may be wondering what’s wrong with me, yeah I’m fucked up alright.
I crave my stalker. I love the attention he gives me.
When I hear his deep accented voice, my heart yearns for him to just take off the fucking mask and press his lips to mine.
See, I’m fucked up. And no, it’s not because I’ve read and enjoyed every stalker dark romance he bought me. I stroke my fingers along the spine of the new addition I saw added to my never ending Tbr yesterday.
I shuffle into the kitchen, my tired brain begging for caffeine. I wonder what he made for breakfast this morning ?
Since that night, I have woken up to a breakfast - everything from pancakes to scrambled eggs and bacon - a packed lunch to take to work with me, and some sliced fruits.
Every day, without fail. Well, apart from a few weeks every year - once in June and again in November - I guess even stalkers need a break from work sometimes.
Not only does he cook - but he also does my laundry, and I’ve come home from work many times over the last three years to my housework completed .
Candles lit and a nice hot bubble bath ready, as well as a meal either being cooked in the slow cooker or already cooked and waiting for me in the cooling oven.
Sometimes a full blown letter with either stories of what he did as a child or saying how much he is in love with me will be left on my coffee table for me to read before I sleep.
But most of the time it's a small note to tell me to be brave, or have a nice day. My equivalent to a good morning text from a boyfriend. Maybe I don’t mind having a stalker, whoever they may be.
Brand new book releases have been left on my table , every now and then it will be fresh flowers or pastries from the local bakery.
Most people would be scared. But I’m not most people.
No matter what the stalker does to me, I’ve survived worse.
But I’ve never seen his true face. He always wears his mask around me.
I can trace his tattoo without looking, I’ve felt his arms embracing me tight after waking him up numerous times after a nightmare.
I’ve seen his muscled torso with the small patch of chest hair and a happy trail leading to below his boxers.
He has small scars scattered around here and there - from chickenpox apparently.
I’ve seen nearly every part of his body apart from the important bits.
HIS SMILE AND EYES YOU DIRTY MINDED PERVERT!
I chuckle and roll my eyes. Although, I wouldn’t mind seeing that part of him.
And he knows that. The amount of times I have thrown myself at him is at a disgustingly high number.
Most of the time I was drinking when I did, and each time he has just tucked me up on the sofa - literally tucked, including my hands so I couldn’t keep trying to touch him up - and sat on the floor all night to make sure I’m okay in my sleep.
What a gentleman.
It’s frustrating though, because I know he wants me back. He’s told me, I’ve felt how much he wants me. I’ve felt small kisses against my shoulder many times whilst he’s embracing me.
So why won’t he just give in and give me a chance to love him back? To give us a proper chance at being together.
The clean smell of his body wash engulfs my senses as soon as I step foot into the kitchen, which means he hasn't long left. I pout to myself.
He has a life outside of you, Natalie. Stop being so clingy.
After breakfast and two cups of the sweet stuff, I check the time on my phone. I don’t have any clocks in my home. Not when the tick, tick, tick of the hands bring back awful memories, and realise that if I don’t start getting ready soon I’ll be late for work.
I manage to step into the building three minutes before my shift starts, only to be met with a barrage of insults.
Nothing I’m not used to. The building is nice and fresh out the front, a pure white building amongst all the grey.
Inside is similar too , all the walls are painted a crisp white.
The wooden furniture is all a light coloured oak.
Even the chairs are made from white leather.
Everything is perfect, if my boss sees a speck of dirt in the place it’s like the beginning of world war three.
He’s even fired people for not cleaning up some crumbs fast enough in the break room at lunchtime.
Yep, that’s how much of a clean freak he is.
Being in a small town, we are the only bank here and my boss, Mr Howard Shaw, likes that fact.
He holds loans over peoples heads and makes them beg - literally beg - for the loans to save their homes, their livelihood a nd then adds on extra interest whenever he can, because he can.
And no-one says a word against him seeing as his brother is the head of the local police department.
Howard, or Mr Howard as he prefers to be known, is one of the richest men in town. And he loves to lord it over us.
I press the power on button to my work computer when I hear my intercom buzz.
“ Natalie. My office. Now !” My boss screams down the device, already sounding pissed off.
Great . I trudge through the door and make my way down the hall to where Mr Howards office is and knock on the door that’s been left ajar like always.
He only closes it fully when having a meeting.
The white wooden door with pure gold accents and his name carved into an ivory plaque - told you he was rich .