FIVE
I have a lot of things on my mind right now.
One of them is my new roommate, Wren. She’s not much younger than me, and she’s filthy rich. Her father is some sort of a high politician with a lot of influence, so it makes no sense to me that she’s renting instead of owning. It’s in the safe, good part of the city, but given the generational wealth, she can afford much, much more. She claims she wants to gain her independence, which is admirable.
That is, until she told me that her parents are paying for everything. So much for being independent.
She’s nice enough. She’s polite, keeps to herself, and rarely uses the common areas of the apartment. At one point, her boyfriend came over.
They probably thought I was asleep, then had sex in the living room. Unfortunately, I could hear all of it through the thin walls, and it’s not like they tried to keep it down, either.
That’s when I first started thinking about sex in a while.
Wren sounds like she enjoys it when they do it.
What’s it like to enjoy it?
From Layla’s stories, it’s supposed to be painful only the first couple of times, and even then, the pain is supposed to morph into pleasure beyond my knowledge. She often says how good it is to have an orgasm, especially after a stressful day.
She told me about various toys, too. It’s not like I can just trauma dump on her, so I lied and told her I was very inexperienced. It’s easier to lie than to even start remembering the nightmares.
Layla suggested masturbation, and I did give it a shot.
The moment I touched myself for the first time, bile rose in my throat, and I rushed to the bathroom, vomiting all over the cold tiles, puking my guts out.
Even my own touches felt invasive, dirty, and disgusting.
That’s the only time I did anything remotely sexual. I’m broken, and there’s nothing that can fix me. I’m bound to a lifetime of suffering because of what I was forced to endure.
I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away.
The other issue is the auction I managed to find online.
It took me a while to even land on a page that was maybe selling the tickets, even more to find a legitimate one where I could purchase it. Some motherfucker beat me to it, messing with my head as he continuously offered a mere hundred dollars over me.
I’m not surprised the tickets were being sold left and right for that much money. It’s no secret that politicians have a lot of enemies, and just like all other social gatherings, this one can very well be another money-laundering scheme, or worse.
Until the very last minute, I thought I had a chance of winning.
However, as soon as I saw the message on the screen with my name on it, I froze. The tears came quickly after that, and no matter how much I tried to make the situation even remotely reasonable, there was no logical explanation.
All I can think about, even now, days later, is that it could be the stalker.
With a groan, I roll over on my stomach, burying my face in my soft pillow. The duvet covers me entirely, with my head peeking through it, uncovered. My breathing is shallow, my mind trying to make sense of it all.
Someone knows about me, and he is not shy to show it.
Why would he snatch the ticket right out of my hands? In fact, why not offer an insane amount of money immediately? Why play around with me?
The thoughts of the unknown man don’t leave my head.
For now, he isn’t dangerous. In fact, if he did kill those two men back in Long Grove because of me – for me, and given the extravagant gifts he’s been sending, I don’t think he’s dangerous for me.
The reasonable part of me wishes to listen to the stalker. He’s never shown anything malicious toward me, and if he says that it’s dangerous for me to be there, it probably is. But he doesn’t know why I’m going, why I’m so determined to see it for myself.
Why does the thought of going there and seeing the stalker for myself give me butterflies? Why does it make me feel safe?
I sit up in the bed, straightening up. My hair is messy, sticking every which way, mouth parted. I grip the thick duvet, hugging it closer to my body and clinging onto it for warmth.
The only reason I’ll go to the banquet is because I know that the monster of my nightmares will be there.
You barely have basic survival skills, Blair. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.
I scowl, closing my eyes.
It’s true.
I may have killed my mother and stepfather, but it took me a whole year of planning and a while of gathering the courage to put the plan into action. I haven’t hurt a fly after that. Even in prison, if an inmate wanted a fight, I’d just let them beat me.
The mere thought of a crowded venue with unknown people is enough to send a wave of terrifying chills down my body.
My solace is something I value, and there are no words to describe how much it means to me. Being surrounded by people is something I loathe, but it’s been avoidable since I left prison.
The same can’t be said for my mind.
I’m rarely alone up there, and it’s driving me insane.
Luckily, over time, I learned how to shut them out, even if for a little while.
Reluctantly, I get out of the bed and start a steaming, boiling shower. My mind works overtime while I shower, and once I’m done, dressed for the day, it only pauses momentarily when there’s a knock on the front door.
I open the door, and it’s a mailman. We exchange pleasantries, and he hands me the package, then leaves. The door shuts behind him, and the moment my eyes flicker to the name on the box, I almost faint.
As in, I fall flat on my ass, with the box dropping out of my hands, landing on the floor in front of me.
It’s addressed to Blair Hawke.
Wren is out for the day, and I’m all alone with my thoughts, a racing heart, and this mysterious box. I swallow the knot in my throat and hesitantly reach to grab the box again, my hands shaking and bottom lip trembling.
The first thing I see after I take the lid off is a neatly folded black piece of paper. My heart rate is high, almost hitting the roof as I take it out, blinking and taking in a deep breath, then opening the note.
“My lovely butterfly,
I’m terribly sorry for scaring you. It was never my intention to make you fear me or to fear who I am. As of right now, revealing myself is impossible. You’re not ready for that. To show you just how sorry I am, I’m willing to compromise. If you promise not to attend the banquet, and if you willingly agree to stay away from that place, I will come to you. I vowed to protect you.
It will be filled with dirty politicians, and given your history, someone might recognize you. That’s something I’m not willing to risk. I cannot allow anyone to take you away from me or to compromise your hard-earned freedom. This little gift is for your protection and your protection only. Please be careful not to hurt yourself. Seeing you hurt terrifies me beyond words.
If you choose to attend the banquet regardless of my warning (although I will do everything in my power to prevent you from going, sorry – not sorry, butterfly), we will meet inevitably.
However, that is when I will whisk you away and keep you all to myself to ensure your
safety.
Are you ready for that?
Yours always,
Arlo.”
I reread the letter over and over again. In fact, I’m not sure how much time I spend;
sitting on the floor in the hallway, with a blank stare. I read it once again, this time out loud. My heart rate spikes up with each word that leaves my mouth, and I struggle to comprehend how to proceed.
“Now, who the fuck is Arlo?”
I voice out my thoughts, the words echoing in the silent apartment. Do all of his letters have the same contents? Could I have found out his name earlier if I’d just read the damn letters?
I lower the paper, then take a glance at the gun that rests in the box.
It’s small, and it has a spare bullet clip. It’s not something I know how to use, nor have I ever used. I don’t dare touch it; instead, I close the lid and pick up the letter along with the box, getting off the floor.
I can’t have Wren entering the apartment and seeing me on the floor with a gun in a box. It’s something I wouldn’t know how to explain even if I wanted to.
And what the fuck does he mean he’ll whisk me away?
I’d like to see him try. I won’t go down without a fight.
My legs drag toward my bedroom, then immediately come to a stop.
Slowly, I turn my head to the small table in the living room, an envelope catching my attention. With narrowed eyes, I approach it, noticing it’s addressed to Wren. I shouldn’t snoop around, but my curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it.
My heart skips a beat.
An invitation for the banquet.
Without a second thought, I grab the invitation and head to my bedroom. I hide the letter and the gun beneath the pile of clothes in my wardrobe, then inspect the invitation thoroughly.
I’m sorry, Wren, but I’ll be the one going instead.