Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
JULIET
I shouldn’t pry. I shouldn’t pry. I shouldn’t pry. But oh, do I have the need to dig. My skin prickles like it needs to be burned off my body, and my nails break under the pressure of my fingers digging into the island. Fuck. Another chipped manicure.
Diora’s been gone for thirty minutes. She left. She went from never leaving the house to leaving almost every night. It’s outside her pattern. It’s not her normal.
People change, though? Yes. People change. Maybe Dee has some friends who actually understand her. Maybe she has found someone better than me. Not that it’d be hard, but she wouldn’t leave me forever, right? She wouldn’t. She loves me no matter what. No matter what.
I grab the kitchen rag from the sink and cleaning off the counters again.
The counters could be considered clean, but I can’t help but clean the entire counter again, even though my nail polish chips could’ve been cleaned by swiping them off the counter.
But then, I’d have to sweep the floors again today, which doesn’t sound like a bad idea, actually.
But what is she hiding from me? Why is she hiding something from me? After… everything, what would she need to hide from me? Would it be triggering? Is she… I don’t know. I don’t know.
I need a shower. I need one now. I stop mid wipe and trail into the more than needed shower. The water’s hottest setting barely soothes the itch over my skin. Minutes pass and steam starts to revert my straight hair back to curly, and I can’t seem to find a care. Not at this moment.
Stepping out after soaping up, I watch as the steam follows me through the bathroom as a whole.
The mirror is completely fogged up, and water droplets cover the floor.
Drying off, an eery feeling spreads across my back, and I rush out to the living room.
Towel wrapped around my body but gripped together in my shaking hands.
I’m scared. At least I can recognize it now. Six months ago… Five months ago, I couldn’t.
I have a routine. I follow a routine every night. It gives me control. I have control. My stiff back hits the wall beside the bathroom, wishing for protection that isn’t there.
What if someone is on the other side of this wall? With a knife? What if they get me this time? What if they kill me—
I slam my eyes shut, shaking my head. Move, Juliet, move. I have to move or I’ll be stuck here all night. Prying open my eyes, the light of the hallway flutters in my system. I don’t look down the hall, I don’t look toward the kitchen, just straight to my room.
I see the light green painted door and dart toward it. Hastily grabbing the handle, I yank the door open, then shut it behind me, gripping my towel to my body.
I’m okay. I’m safe. I’m okay.
Swallowing the fear left in my throat, I move through my room. I can never stay naked for long. Not unless I’m in the shower. I need coverage. Whether it be water or clothes, I need coverage. I need to be safe.
I’m alone, though. I’m not safe when I’m alone. I’m not safe? No. Stop.
I may be alone, but they are not here to hurt me. She is not here to hurt me.
I am safe.
A text comes through my phone, sitting on my nightstand. Curling my trembling fingers, I reach for it. Sliding to sit against my headboard, I open the text.
Unknown
All clear.
Two words from a virtual stranger. I don’t know who they come from, but they always follow an anxiety attack.
It’s an unknown number, maybe a number I forgot to save? I don’t know. I shouldn’t even believe the text, or give it another thought, but I can’t pretend it doesn’t soothe my mind when they come. Almost like someone is watching over me, no matter where I am. That even if I am alone, I’m not.
Of course, it’s not true. I’m the only person here, but it… helps. Getting lotioned and dressed in my coziest pajamas, I make my way to the living room. I’m able to move freely now after the text. I can relax. Calm down.
Sitting down on the couch, I click on the news. Being in the know is the one comfort I can give myself. I need to know everything. Any and all crimes, world news, wars. I need to know what’s going on so I can see. Truly see what’s going to happen. Watch my own back.
“The deaths of these four officers is a tragedy, and while it has been labeled a case of misfortune, some still believe this was a planned attack.”
“Thanks for the update, Jim. Please keep the families of these officers in your prayers.” The news woman stares at the camera, but the four pictures that come up shoot a bullet of dread down my body, and I can’t feel anything anymore.
The pictures of the four officers who blew off my rape report that night come across the TV screen one by one, and I can feel the tears I constantly hold back drop one by one.
Josh Panko, Kyle Montery, Lewis Karplie, and Orlando Jones are dead.
Since when? Dead? All four? On the same night?
Oh fuck.
Oh.
Fuck.
Diora.