Chapter 6
Chapter six
My back presses up against the wall so hard it’s as if I am trying to embed myself inside of it, while trying to rationalize with myself.
You fell asleep watching a show, you’re just not fully awake.
The thought helps me slow my breathing down and calms my racing heart, but doesn’t quell the edge I’m teetering on.
It makes sense. I’ve read somewhere that your body can be awake and moving but your brain is in a sort of transition stage.
I looked into it when I first arrived in Oregon due to the countless nightmares I kept having.
Maybe I’m hallucinating.
It’s so dark outside there’s no way you’d even be able to tell if someone was out there.
That thought does not settle me at all. Gathering a bit more courage, I finally push to my feet and peek out of the blinds again—it’s an obsessive compulsion at this point.
I scan the area but I can’t see anything at a first glance.
The night sky is a bit cloudy, giving the moon a chance to just barely shine bright enough to cast a dim glow on the otherwise pitch blackness of the back yard.
Squinting, I blink rapidly so my eyes will focus more and that’s when I see it again.
Movement. Fifty feet out from the back deck, lingering at the tree line, I barely make out a silhouette.
My heart feels like it is going to beat right out of my chest, but I stand frozen in place, watching the silhouette shift closer to the house slowly. I take a few cautious steps away from the door before I sprint out of the bedroom. I need to make sure everything is locked.
Skidding across the floor in the living room, I quickly check the knob and deadbolt of the front door.
Then, tentatively shift the drawn curtains on all of the windows, double checking the fastenings there too—they're already locked. The lights are off inside the house, blanketing everything inside in darkness since I forgot to turn the stove light on tonight. It’s an advantage, helps me stay hidden in the shadows.
After I have made sure every lock is secure, I race back into the bedroom and grab my phone off the nightstand.
Lowering myself to the floor beside my bed, gripping my cell like it’s my only lifeline tucked away from the view of the doors I suck in a deep breath and hold it.
The hairs on the back of my neck slowly begin to stand on end then a wave of nausea hits me again so hard I think I might double over right here.
Unlocking my phone, I dim the backlight to its lowest setting, so as not to cast a glow in the room, before I unlock it.
I hurriedly open the app for the security system and begin checking each and every one of them—starting with the back yard.
Camera after camera, I come up with nothing.
How is that possible?
I know without a doubt that I saw someone. And that creepy feeling that I am still being stared at has not gone away.
With slow and cautious movements, I reach into the night stand and grab my Ruger Security-9 and a magazine.
Shakily, I load the magazine as quickly and quietly as I can, click off the safety, and pull back the slide to chamber a round.
My right hand squeezes the grip with my trigger finger braced against the side of the gun as my other helps support it and keep it pressed close to my chest, I exhale a choppy breath.
Sweat beads on my forehead as I listen for anything else out of place.
I sit like this for several minutes before I lean my head back on the side of the bed, finally focusing on slow deep breaths versus holding one. I stare up at the ceiling, waiting, willing whatever is out there to fuck off. I might not be able to hear anything but I can still feel something.
Come out mother fucker.
After what feels like hours of waiting and anticipating the worst, I feel my limbs begin to relax—my heart rate slowing to a normal pace.
Before I know it, my eyes begin to feel like weights are attached to the lids.
Then I lose my fight against sleep and let them flutter closed, the last thing I remember is the silhouette.
Six years ago
The front door slams shut with a force that rattles the walls all the way up to the second floor.
Shaking the foundation where I’m currently laying in the guest bedroom, the flimsy door locked—a poor excuse for a barricade.
Turning on my side to face the wall, I hike the covers to my chin and do my best to even out my breathing.
Maybe, if he thinks I’m sleeping, he’ll leave me alone. I think to myself.
Has that ever worked before?
There’s some more unmistakable banging around downstairs and his muted voice joins in with the racket forcing me to listen. It’s hard to make out exactly what he’s saying, but I hear something along the lines of.
“Lazy fucking bitch!”
“Can’t even keep the house clean?”
“Of course she would make some shit I don’t like for dinner.”
I did clean the house today, from top to bottom because what else am I going to do?
I also cooked a meal that Preston has never complained about any other time I have made it.
It’s currently two-thirty in the morning, much later than when he’s typically due to get home.
Which is usually around seven. I know better than to call and ask where he is by now.
When he wasn’t home by nine, I cleared the table, put a plate of leftovers for him in the refrigerator, and made sure the entire house was spotless.
Then, I went into the guest bedroom and locked the door, but I haven’t slept a wink.
I hear his footsteps come up the stairs then turn into our bedroom across the hall. When he doesn’t see me he lets out a dark laugh. He knows I’m hiding in here, I have nowhere else to go. If I did, he would find me—he will always find me.
“It’s cute how you think you can hide from me, Butterfly.”
I cringe at the nickname he gave me when we first met—when I was fourteen.
What I once found endearing, because butterflies are beautiful and unique, I now despise.
Butterflies wings are paper thin, easily demolished, leaving them helpless.
I’m not any of those things, at least that’s what I tell myself.
The doorknob to the room jiggles as he attempts to open it, another sinister laugh leaves his throat. It’s low, rumbling deep in his chest similar to the grumble of an alligator or some other sort of monster out to devour me.
“Open the door Lizzy, I know you’re in there.
This never works out for you, haven’t you learned that already?
” He says mockingly, almost singing it. But I don't make a move for the door.
My breathing becomes staggered and my heart is in my throat as he continues to try the handle.
Just when I need my fight or flight to kick in, it refuses, leaving me in this terrified heap in the bed.
BANG! I jump and cover my mouth, swallowing down the scream as he slams what I assume is his fist against the door, over and over again.
“I just want to talk, Butterfly. Why do you have to be so fucking difficult?” He growls, the impatience in his voice rattling the door. “I know you’re awake.”
SLAM! I squeeze my eyes shut as tears begin to seep out of the corners of my eyes and drip down my face.
Within seconds following another loud crash, the door flies open.
I can't help the shriek that leaves my lips when the door slams against the wall.
Preston storms to the side of the bed, grabs a fist full of my hair and yanks me out of it.
My feet struggle to grab purchase on the hardwood floor beneath me, but that’s quickly resolved when he abruptly drops me.
Landing hard on my side, the air is knocked out of my lungs, but there’s no time to fight for another when he’s coming for me.
I roll to my stomach and try to crawl as far enough away from him as I can.
I need to run, but it’s no use. He grabs me by the leg and flips me onto my back, halting my attempt at escaping.
Preston crouches down to look at me, a smirk plays on his smug face—it’s revolting. He tips his head to the side, cold blue eyes as dead as I may end up if I don’t get the hell out of here, stare at me. Judging, disapproving, and filled with disgust.
“Now tell me Lizzy, why are you hiding? I only want to talk. To find out why I had to come home to a trashed house and a meal that isn't worth feeding to a stray dog.”
I don’t respond, instead I look away from his stare and focus on a ball of lint under the bed.
Wishing I were that insignificant dust bunny, something he wouldn’t think twice about ignoring.
No, I’m his—his—and he makes that known by force.
My refusal to respond only makes him angrier.
Preston harshly grabs at my face, contorting my neck and head till I am forced to look at him.
A bone chilling chuckle breaks free of his chest, sending a riot of goosebumps across my skin as he tilts his head further to the side.
“Now, let’s go downstairs and get this house in order.”
“Preston, the house is spotless. I cleaned all day today.” I murmur, because I know what’s coming. His violence.
“That’s not what I saw. Now come on and get up.” He pats the side of my face twice, hard but not quite a slap. A warning in its own nature.
Standing to his full height, leaving me in a heap on the floor, he steps over me and saunters for the door.
With distance between us, I sit up but don’t anticipate the pain that shoots through my side making me wince.
Lifting my shirt, needing to see what could be causing the ache, I find a bruise already forming along my ribs from how I fell a moment ago.
Reaching a shaky hand to the marred skin, I hiss in a breath as my fingers make contact.
The sharp inhale alone was painful, but the bruised skin stings when I touch it, adding another layer of pain that’ll I’m sure to carry around for the next few days at least.
“Oh Butterfly, so sad.” He says uncaringly. “Now come on let’s go, I’ll help you.”
I know better. He won’t be helping, and I will not be sleeping tonight…again.
My head lolls forward and I wake with a jump.
Taking in my surroundings, I see I’m in my room.
In Oregon. Alone and safe. After a few minutes, I finally gathered my bearings.
I’m still using my bed as cover with the Ruger in my hands.
Looking at the clock on my nightstand, I see it’s now nine in the morning and let out a groan.
Well fuck. Not again.
Getting up, I pull back the slide to make sure the bullet is still in place.
Seeing that it is I let out a sigh. Rolling my eyes I carefully put the slide back in place and click the safety back on, then put the weapon back into my nightstand and make my way to the bathroom.
In front of the vanity, I place my hands against the sink and look at myself in the mirror.
My hair is in a messy bun which is now hanging off the side of my head, making me look like I've been sent through the wringer.
Then there are my eyes, haunted, and sunken with dark circles staining the soft tissue under them. I look like hell. Feel like hell.
“He’s dead. It was just a dream.” I attempt to convince myself.
Not just a dream, a memory.
I shower, get dressed, and then shuffle my way into the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
Leaning with my back against the counter I reach up to rub my neck and roll my head side to side, trying to massage away the ache from sleeping sitting upright.
Or maybe it’s my body reliving the trauma of how Preston wrenched me around, either way, the muscles are tight and bothersome.
Twisting to my right, I reach into the cabinet above the sink to grab a bottle of painkillers, shake three into my hand, then set the container on the counter.
Like music to my ears, the coffee machine finishes up, the last few audible drips of brew dropping into the carafe and puts out the heavenly-fresh scent.
It permeates the air and wakes my senses.
My favorite coffee mug is sitting to the side, on a carefully folded napkin and a designated stirring spoon, but I’m still missing the creamer.
Grabbing it from the fridge, I pour some into the cup then greedily take the medicine and chase it with a gulp.
It burns my taste buds in the process but I groan through it, as the godly nectar finally puts me in a better state of mind.
Cup in hand, I make my way to the couch and pull out my phone which I shoved in my back pocket once I was dressed.
I check the camera feeds again from last night neurotically.
Finally, I believe I spot the time the figure in the trees showed up, but it’s so far from the camera I can't tell if it's what I saw or an animal passing through.
Aggravated, I let out a loud sigh, nearly deflating.
It had to have been a deer or something.
Placing my coffee and phone on the end table, I adjust myself on the couch and find a comfortable position.
I have work tonight but not until nine, a nap is in order if I want to make it through my shift.
Like the professional avoider I am, I put the images from last night's dreams out of my mind again and close my eyes.
Allowing my body to relax and sink into the plush cushions.
A far cry from sleeping propped against my bed like it would ever save me.