18. Lilith
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
W hiskey.
Stale cigarettes.
Sweat.
The smell slams into me before his boot does.
A blinding flash of pain, my ribs fold, my lungs seize.
I can’t breathe.
Another kick. This one’s harder.
“Stop! Please! Stop!”
He’s laughing at me. Why’s he laughing at me?
Another blow makes my skull rattle.
The taste of pennies floods my mouth.
Darkness pulses. The walls are breathing. The shadows twist and stretch around me.
“Little crybaby,” he spits. “Always whining. Always crying.”
Another kick and my body splits in two.
Vomit and blood dribble onto the dirty linoleum.
“Look at me,” he slurs. “Look. At. Me.”
My head’s yanked by an invisible chain.
She’s stood there.
“Mom,” I croak.
She doesn’t blink.
“Please,” I sob, blood and spit trailing down my chin. “Please, help me.”
Nothing.
She’s letting it happen.
Another kick and my ribs cave like dry twigs.
She steps closer.
“You deserve this,” she whispers. “You always did.”
I gasped awake, lungs locking mid-inhale.
Move. Move. Move.
Stumbling to my feet, I made it three steps before the floor tilted beneath me. The bedroom blurred at the edges, dark corners reaching, stretching—
Not real. Not real. Not real.
I crashed into the bathroom, catching myself on the sink as my knees buckled. The first heave came fast and violent, a raw choke of bile and nothing else.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
It wasn’t working. Each inhale was like sucking air through a straw, my chest cinching tighter, ribs caged in iron.
Fighting. Failing. Twitching.
I wiped a damp hand across my forehead, fingers slipping slightly against my clammy skin as my reflection caught my eye.
Wide, wild eyes, pupils blown so dark they nearly swallowed up the grey.
Shadows bruised beneath my eyes, sinking deep into my cheekbones.
Dark hair clung to my forehead in damp, curling strands.
Get out. Now.
I grabbed a jacket, shoving my arms into the sleeves as I flew down the stairs, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape first.
Keys. Where the fuck were my—
My hands trembled as I yanked open the drawer by the door, fingers closing around the keyring.
I shoved my boots on and bolted out the door. I needed to move.
The cold bit at my cheeks—sharp and grounding after… whatever fresh hell had just happened. My breath puffed out in front of me, small clouds vanishing into the night.
Buzz.
It was late. Too late for cars, too late for people.
Just empty streets and dimly lit windows.
The panic still simmered, but it wasn’t boiling over anymore.
Walking helped. Fresh air helped. My thoughts were still tangled, still snagging on old memories.
The nightmare clung to me, sticky and stubborn, like a second skin.
Whiskey, stale cigarettes, sweat. The scent of my past had bled into my sleep again.
I knew it wasn’t real. But it still felt real.
Every damn time. Would I ever stop waking up gasping for air, waiting for something that wasn’t coming?
Would my brain ever stop replaying old footage, long after the director had called cut?
It had been over a decade since he’d laid his hands on me. But here I was, still dealing with the aftermath. Dragging around the ghosts of people who couldn’t even haunt me properly.
And for what ?
Because some random guy came into the store and he had a voice that sounded a little too much like Wayne’s? Because the cadence of his words had wrapped around my throat like a noose, squeezing just tight enough to knock the air from my lungs?
It was just a voice. Just a moment. Just a stupid, fleeting thing. And yet, it had taken me out completely, left me stranded in my own body for the rest of the day, floating somewhere outside myself, unable to focus on a damn thing except forcing a fake smile for customers and trying to breathe.
I’d ignored Molly. Hell, I’d even ignored Mr. Stalker.
I hadn’t answered either of them. I couldn’t. If I opened my mouth, I knew I’d crack and melt into a puddle of disrepair onto the floor. I was a mess. A pathetic, spiralling mess.
I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets, fingers brushing the cool metal of the self-defence keychain. My grip tightened around it. Something solid. Something real. Something I could hold.
Buzz.
I wanted to believe that time would dull it all. That one day, I’d wake up and it wouldn’t feel like they were still under my skin, stitched into my viscera like old wounds that never healed right.
I blew out a heavy breath, shaking my head hard like I could physically dislodge the thoughts. Jesus . This is why people went to therapy.
The fluorescent glow of the convenience store sign flickered in the distance. Had I really been walking that long?
The tight coil of panic had loosened, but exhaustion had settled deep into my bones.
I needed caffeine. Sugar. Something to kickstart my system and keep me from collapsing into a heap of under-caffeinated trauma on the sidewalk.
Pushing open the door, I stepped inside. The scent of burnt coffee, plastic wrapped pastries, and the faintest trace of floor cleaner filled my nose. It was empty, aside from the guy behind the counter who barely looked up from his phone as I wandered toward the self-serve coffee station.
My fingers fumbled slightly as I reached for a cup and poured in the steaming liquid, the warmth seeping into my fingers like an anchor. My body was still operating on autopilot and my brain was sluggish, but at least it was working. I wasn’t shaking anymore. Wasn’t spiralling.
Progress.
I reached for the sugar packets, ripping one open and dumping it in. Then another. And another. At this rate, I was either going to cure my nightmares or give myself diabetes. Worth the risk.
Buzz .
The first sip was a betrayal. Scalding hot, too bitter despite the mountain of sugar, but I swallowed against the burn, letting the heat settle deep into my chest. It wasn’t good, but it was doing its job. That’s all that mattered.
Tossing a crumpled bill on the counter, I gave the cashier a nod, then stepped back out into the quiet night.
The walk home was slow, less urgent than before. My pulse had evened out, limbs no longer feeling like they were filled with lead. But the thought of going back inside, back to my too-quiet house, to my empty bed… I wasn’t ready for that.
So, when I spotted the small park tucked between two residential streets, I veered off course, making my way toward the worn wooden bench that overlooked the tiny playground.
Buzz.
I lowered myself down, coffee cradled between my hands, the warmth biting against my fingers.
My breath curled in the air, pale and fleeting before vanishing.
It was freezing, and my jacket was doing little against it.
So I pulled my knees up, tucking my feet onto the bench, curling tighter around the cup for warmth.
One of the swings rocked ever so slightly, the chain straining as the empty seat swayed back and forth.
Parks had always been different when I was a child—bigger, brighter, alive with laughter.
A small smile tugged on my lips at the memory.
My fingers curled tight around the rusted chains, hair plastered to the back of my neck. The metal scorched my palms, burning hot from hours under the sun, but I didn’t care.
Mommy stood behind me, her hands firm on the chains, pulling me back so high my toes scraped the sky. “Hold on tight, Lilypad!” she laughed.
I squealed as she let go, my stomach plummeting before I soared forward, the whole park spinning into streaks of green and gold.
The breeze whipped through my hair as I glanced over my shoulder. Mommy was still laughing, dark hair bouncing wildly around her face, her smile so big it took up half her face.
“Higher!” I giggled, twisting my fingers tighter in the metal links.
“Oh. You want higher, huh?” She tugged me back again. “Alright, hold on!”
I giggled as my legs flailed, the wind rushing so hard it stole my breath.
We’d gone for ice cream earlier, and the faint taste of chocolate still clung to my tongue. I remembered how she’d grinned at me when I’d dripped it down my wrist, teasing me as she wiped my face with her thumb. “You’re a mess,” she’d said, laughing as she kissed the top of my head.
I couldn’t stop staring at her—the way her eyes glittered like silver coins in the sunlight, the way her smile filled up the whole park. I couldn’t imagine her being anything else. She was all fire and warmth and endless, bottomless love.
“Okay, last one, Lilypad!” she called now, her voice light and teasing.
She pulled the swing back hard, so high my stomach flipped. Then she let go. I flew forward like a slingshot, legs pumping at nothing, air rushing so fast my face stung.
Untouchable.
By the time I swung back down, her hands were already curling around the chains, slowing me down.
“Ready for ice cream round two?” she asked, winking.
She laughed and scooped me off the swing, arms wrapped tight around my body as she spun me around, my feet kicking helplessly through the air.
I’d loved her so much before everything changed. Before the bruises. Before the silence. Before she stopped being—
Brakes screeched, shattering the silence. A jolt of adrenaline shot through me, and I twisted around so fast my coffee nearly sloshed out of my cup.
A sleek, black beast of a car sat idling at the curb, all sharp lines and impossible curves.
It looked like something straight out of a high-stakes heist movie—dangerous, expensive, and way too clean for a place like this.
The headlights cut through the dark, casting long shadows across the pavement.
And the low, steady rumble of the engine was almost vibrating right through my bones.
A figure sat in the driver’s seat. Hood drawn up. Scarf pulled high. Just a sliver of face visible, but enough to catch the gleam of dark eyes locked onto mine.
So, Mr. Stalker was hot.
Impossibly tall.
And apparently drove the kind of car that said, ‘ I have more money than sense.’
So not only was he probably unhinged. He was more than likely attractive, and maybe rich?
Was I hallucinating?
Had I hit my head in the convenience store?
Was I in a coma?
What was going on?
A long moment stretched between us until he flung his hands up, a clear ‘what the hell are you doing?’
I tilted my head, eyes narrowing, mirroring his silent question with a deliberate raise of my brows.
He leaned over the driver’s seat, one hand gripping the wheel while the other popped the door open. No words. No beckoning gesture. Just the quiet creak of the hinges, and the space waiting for me .
I should’ve turned and walked away. Maybe even run. But instead, I just sat there, half-twisted toward him, knee drawn up, fingers clenched tight around my coffee cup.
A sigh escaped my throat, body operating on something outside of logic as I pushed myself up from the bench and tossed the cup into the trash.
And then, without hesitation, I turned and walked straight toward the car.
I didn’t know what I was doing.
I did.
God, I knew exactly what I was doing.
I reached the car, breath shallow, fingers twitching at my sides.
Then, without a word, I got in.