THREE
The time has come for me to tackle this problem.
I’ve been avoiding it for too long, and at this point, my fears aren’t an excuse. No matter how much of a rabbit hole I may end up falling into, it can’t possibly be worse than the things I’ve already experienced.
Everything is perfectly laid out in front of me.
Each box I’ve received is filled with clothes that I haven’t worn. Each little red box is filled with jewelry that I haven’t touched or tried on, every pair of shoes that I got delivered at the restaurant, and every single letter that I haven’t opened.
In total, there are four letters. The first came with the first package, almost too long ago, and the last came the other day. The letters aren’t as consistent as the gifts, but I still can’t bring myself to open them; the unknown contents terrify me to the bone.
However, there’s only one thing that was consistent with every gift. A small audio recorder that can’t possibly be bigger than my thumb. On each recording, it’s nothing but piano music.
The pieces played are different, from soft, soothing sounds that I use to lullaby me to sleep to the aggressive and painfully loud keys that go hand in hand with the pain I’m feeling. They’re perfect – my most cherished possessions.
Still, I’m terrified of being discovered.
Aside from him, there’s not a single person to connect Amy to Blair or that knows that Blair survived the massacre. I don’t think he would care enough to constantly send gifts my way, let alone personalized piano music and expensive jewelry.
The thought of someone completely different knowing who I am is enough to paralyze me for a few minutes.
Not even Arson’s soft purring on my lap calms me down. It’s as if the orange ball of fur knows I’m in a state of distress and is trying her best to cheer me up. Taking her home with me was the best decision I ever made.
I found her in the alley behind the restaurant when I took out the trash after closing up late at night. The dumpster was on fire, and Arson was standing right next to it, looking at the fire as if she were admiring a piece of art. She either found the fire rather fascinating or she instigated it.
Either option freaks me out.
I debate internally which gift to open first, and I decide to start with the clothes. They’re all so fucking soft to the touch, and when I look up their price, my eyes almost drop out of their sockets. They’re more expensive than every item I own combined. Selling them isn’t an option. Someone had these precisely purchased in my size.
And that fucking terrifies my mind.
Ever since the bizarre encounters with one of the customers two evenings ago, it feels like I’m constantly being watched. Wherever I go, it feels like eyes are on me; however, the moment I turn around and try to see who is burning holes in the back of my head, I can’t see a thing. As if it’s all in my head.
Chills rarely leave my body, and goosebumps tug on my skin every once in a while, unprovoked.
To the rest of the world, Blair Hawke is dead, and there isn’t anyone who would stalk Amy Marshall. As Amy, I never stood out. I live a quiet life, never go out, and the only people I talk to are my coworkers at the restaurant and customers.
A couple of men did ask me out over the time I’ve spent in Long Grove, but I rejected them all. I know better than to act out, so my rejections are always over-the-top polite, with a smile of gratitude, as if I’m lucky to even be considered as their potential date.
Maybe someone did recognize me.
“No!”
I scream out, regretting it immediately.
Arson is startled, jumping off my lap. She lands on all fours and stretches before looking at me with a look of disbelief. She has the audacity to be offended that I woke her up, even though it was an accident.
I take a deep breath.
There’s only one thing that comes to mind as I lie down on the carpeted floor, staring at the ceiling.
A stalker.
The mere thought of having a stalker is enough to send a wave of dread down my body, goosebumps pricking my skin. I swallow a lump that forms in my throat and squeeze my eyes shut, covering them with trembling hands.
“No,”
I whisper to myself. “It’s not a stalker, Blair. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
No matter how much I want to deny it, the evidence is right there. No one knows about Amy and Blair’s connection, yet someone’s sending me gifts constantly, the contents aimed for Blair. However, the stalker isn’t violent. Almost as if his goal is to shower me with his affection.
Affection.
What a silly, little word.
I know the general definition of the word, but that’s about it. Perhaps it’s because I never knew what it meant to be showered with affection or love, or perhaps it’s because I’m incapable of feeling it.
Fear, terror, and agony are my best friends. We’re a package deal. But love and affection? Even if I want to love, I don’t know how. No one taught me, and no one loved me enough to show me what true love feels like.
“Should I get a gun?”
I mumble, sitting up from the floor, my back cracking with the motion.
I lean against the couch, with Arson softly purring from behind me.
Briefly, I close my eyes.
Ever since I escaped the terrible fate that my fellow inmates suffered, all I could think about was revenge. The thought of trying to overcome the trauma I was put through without them suffering at least a fraction of what I was feeling angers me beyond words.
My blood runs cold as the memories replay in my mind on repeat, and not even the voices are loud enough to block the images. My throat tightens, my hands shaking as I hug my legs, burying my face in my knees.
The day it all started was the day I lost my soul.
The day my mother, the woman who gave birth to me and the woman that was supposed to shield me from harm, held my hand while a man twice my age raped me, all while telling me to stop crying and take it. It was the day I lost any hope things would get better.
They never got better.
My heart threatens to burst, the pain shooting through my body. The memories themselves are too painful to remember, yet each night I close my eyes, they’re right there, following, haunting me. The nightmares haven’t stopped over the years, only serving as a reminder that I’m not safe.
I was never safe, not even once, and trying to think otherwise is just a pathetic excuse for lying to myself.
Once I get pulled in deeply, I can barely get myself out of it. Despite no longer being in prison, I’m still in my own prison that resembles Hell a little too damn much. The suffering, the agony, and the screams are always there, a daily reminder that it’s not over.
It won’t be over until they pay for what they did to me.
It won’t be over until I bathe myself in his blood.
Stop it, Blair.
A humorless laugh slips from me, and I peel my eyes open. My hand reaches for the bottle of wine that I opened before taking the gifts out of the closet, and I take a big swing of it. Having a stalker should be the least of my concerns, yet here I am, thinking about the possibility of someone caring about me even remotely that he’d stalk me.
It’s fucked up – but it gives me solace, a peace of mind, even if it’s a fleeting emotion.
“...was found early this morning behind the hotel Astor. The attack was brutal, and until we know more, the police urges civilians not to leave their residence after dark. This was the second attack this month, and we may have a serial killer on our hands.”
Immediately, my eyes are glued to the news on the TV as I sit up and straighten my posture, gripping the bottle of wine in my hands. I was never the one to watch television. Hell, I think I’ve seen perhaps eight movies and a handful of shows in my entire life. However, the channel that’s constantly on is the local news. In case anyone connects the dots between Amy and Blair, I have to see it first.
“What the fuck?” I mumble.
My mind only registers the last bit of the report, and I quickly walk over to my dresser, grab my laptop, and sit on the king-sized bed. I open the device, tapping my finger against it while it turns on.
As soon as I connect to the Internet and open the browser, I start looking through the articles of the local website.
A month ago, a murder had taken place.
My brows crease as I read out the name, and an audible gasp slips my lips.
The man was a regular at the restaurant. I wondered why he hasn’t been around as much, and since his body was discovered only a few days ago, it’s no wonder why I haven’t heard about it yet.
He was loud, obnoxious, and rude. If he didn’t get his food and alcohol within the first five minutes of ordering, he’d throw a fit, create issues for everyone, and often try getting away without paying for his meals and drinks.
And now, the rude bastard that spilled beer all over my head a little over a month ago is dead.
The other victim, the recent one, is Simon.
The same motherfucker who couldn’t take no for an answer. The same man who promised he’d be back to the restaurant until I said yes to going out on a date with him – which would never happen regardless.
Although it’s a long shot, there’s a possibility of the police knocking on my door.
I’m connected closely to both victims prior to their deaths. In fact, the old man poured beer on my head the same night he was killed, and Simon was killed shortly after my shift the night he tried asking me out.
Especially if the police ask for a DNA sample, I can’t refuse them. However, Blair Hawke would pop up in their system, and it’s not something I can afford.
What if my stalker got rid of them for me?
My fingers hover above the keyboard of the laptop, unmoving as the thought comes to mind. Something twists and turns inside of my stomach, creating a feeling I’m not familiar with.
“No,”
I whisper.
Because now, stalker or not, I no longer feel safe in Long Grove.
After three years, it’s time for me to move again.
By noon the following day, I’m ready to leave.
I spent the entire night packing essentials and burning everything else in the backyard. The things that I couldn’t burn or take with me were left at the doorstep of the donation center first thing in the morning.
However, the hardest part is getting rid of the evidence I was ever at Long Grove.
Setting the entire house on fire would’ve raised a lot of eyebrows, especially with the ongoing murder investigations happening currently. Instead, I opted for thoroughly cleaning the rooms of the house I used. I don’t even know how much bleach I used, and now, before leaving with Arson and three pathetic suitcases, I leave two windows open, allowing the stench of bleach to leave the house.
Carol, Stanley, and Layla are the only ones I graced with a goodbye. Although it’s over a phone call, they aren’t too upset. I make up a story of a relative needing someone to care for them in a time of illness and that I’d be leaving for a long time.
They are understanding, don’t pry too much, and made me promise I’d call once in a while.
And once I hang up the phone, I turn my attention to all of the gifts the mysterious person gave me.
A part of me wants to throw them all away, but the other part yells at me to bring them along, not knowing when I might need them. My savings are decent for a while, but if I’m in desperate need of some quick, easy cash, I can always sell the jewelry.
The destination is still unknown to me, but the nagging part of me tells me to return to the city of my nightmares – New York. It’ll bring me a step closer to creating a thoroughly plotted plan on how to get my revenge on all of those pigs.
However, I’m still having doubts.
Laying low until the murders in Long Grove are solved is the best option. I’m not someone who gets grossed out easily, but when I looked up the crime scene photos, I recoiled physically at the gory images.
The old man who spilled beer over me, Richard, was, for the lack of a better word, tortured to death. It’s a miracle that no one heard his screams, though it could’ve been that his tongue was the one to be pulled out first.
All of his ten fingers were broken, snapped in two places, and it was done while he was still alive. His torso was brutally stabbed over eight times, and they found traces of beer in his hair. That’s enough proof that the murder has something to do with me.
The other man, Simon, eventually had his penis cut off and eyes gouged out, and they were neatly laid next to his body. For that murder, it’s concluded to be an overkill, given that half of his wounds are done post mortem.
None of this makes any sense.
I would never connect the two murders. Hell, neither would the cops have had it not been for a single, white hair on the scene.
It was placed in a very visible spot at both crime scenes. It’s labeled as a signature, given that the hair was found on the darkest parts of the victim’s clothes, deliberately put there.
For now, no DNA traces have been found, and I doubt they’ll find anything.
The white hairs aren’t spoken about in the media a lot because it’s not a solid lead to track the killer down. And somehow, I doubt the killer will ever be caught.
Because he will follow me.
Maybe he’s in love with you, Blair.
The thought itself is ridiculous. I don’t know who he is, but I’m desperate to find out. Why would someone go to such lengths to salvage the little dignity I have left? Why would he go out of his way to get rid of the people who humiliated me, one way or the other?
All the shitty things that happened to me weren’t my fault – but it doesn’t change the fact that I feel dirty. It’s an obsession of mine to take four showers a day, to try and cleanse my flesh of their touches, yet I still feel them on my skin, inside me, breaking me to pieces.
I chortle a dry laugh, gripping the steering wheel. Arson is in the back, purring softly as she nuzzles into my jacket, making herself comfortable for the long journey ahead.
My hands start trembling, and with a sharp turn to the left, I park the car for a moment.
Bitter, rough tears coat my eyelashes as I lower my head on the steering wheel. The tears slide down my cheek, falling onto the dark material of my pants, creating wet patches. Even the voices in my head are silent, not daring to interrupt the tears of pain that don’t seem to be stopping anytime soon.
I take a deep breath, lifting my head up and leaning back into the seat.
Right now, my mind is made up.
I’m going to New York. I find the nearest airport and make my way toward it, with determination flowing through my veins.
William Emmerson will regret the day he dared to touch me; the day he started paying my mother and stepfather to use my body. And every single man that came after him, I remember them all. I remember their faces, their jobs, and their names. I remember every time they’d come to my room, ignore my cries and pleas, and use me the way they wanted to.
They will never do it again. I’ll make sure of that.
Amy Marshall was lovely. She gave me some peace for a while and provided me with a job, a safe environment, and a roof over my head. She gave me a clean slate, and although it wasn’t forever, the three years she gave me were the safest I’ve ever felt. I’ll never forget what it’s like to be Amy, and wherever the real Amy ended up in the afterlife, I hope she’s doing okay.
The plan starts to form in my mind.
It won’t be easy. It’s not perfect, and I need to work on it, but the general idea lingers in my head.
The girl that killed her mother and stepfather at eighteen, after years of assault, torture, and abuse they put her through, is the only one that can do this. The girl that had her innocence, childhood, and sanity forcefully stripped away from her has been asleep for too long.
The thought of bathing in their blood, of having all of them on their knees, begging me to spare their lives, is exhilarating. It gives me a profound need to live; and oddly enough, the effects are immediate.
I can almost feel their agony on my fingertips. I can almost imagine the taste of their blood on my tongue. The picture appears behind my closed lids, and it’s enough for me to push forward.
It’s time to awaken the girl that spent the last three years locked away.
Blair Hawke is back, and may the Lord help those who stand in her way.