Chapter 5 My Poor Angel
My Poor Angel
Eli's Search History: how many calories in a packet of hobnobs?
Emily
Walking into work on Monday, I’m immediately tackled by our receptionist, Kayla. Her tear-streaked face blinks up at me as she throws her arms around my shoulders.
“Oh God!” she sobs into my blazer. “Have you heard?”
Gently, I peel her off me and take a step back. “Heard what?”
“Tom’s been missing all weekend. His wife called the police.”
My heart thuds. One word clangs around in my skull.
“His wife?”
Kayla, oblivious to my reaction, continues quickly. “She was away Friday night, out of town. Got back Saturday—no Tom. He still hasn’t shown up.”
That cheating bastard.
A wife.
Jesus. I’m actually relieved I didn’t invite him upstairs to break my year-long celibacy.
But how the hell did I not know he was married?
As soon as I get to my office I slump down into my desk chair, my energy already drained and it's not even nine in the morning.
The workday passes in a haze, my mind fixated on Tom. What if I was the last person to see him alive? Will the police come asking questions?
I smile at my patients, ask the right questions, but my mind is elsewhere.
By the time I get home I’m a bundle of nerves.
I strip out of my uncomfortable clothes, pulling on some joggers and a hoodie, ready to curl on my couch.
I pause though, before stepping out of my bedroom.
Something seems off—
There’s a box on my chest of drawers. Wrapped in gift paper with a bow tied on top.
My heart is in my throat as I take a cautious step towards it.
With trembling fingers, I remove the wrapping paper to reveal a small, black wooden box, smooth and matte beneath my fingers. It’s heavier than I expected. There’s a silver latch on the front, and when I flick it open, I’m met with blood-red velvet lining.
Nestled at the centre like a treasured heirloom… is a finger.
I almost drop the box as I jolt in surprise, a gasp slipping from my throat.
The ping of my phone nearly sends me screaming.
I snatch it up with shaking hands.
Anonymous: You are mine. No man touches you but me.
Oh my God.
Who—
Tom.
This is Tom’s finger.
We went on a date. And now someone has cut off his finger as a message to me.
He’s not just missing.
He’s been taken.
Maybe he’s dead.
My fingers tremble as I type.
Emily: Who is this?
No reply.
I hug myself tightly, still staring at the box like it might come alive.
I should call the police.
But what if they think I did it? What if they arrest me?
My legs threaten to buckle, panic climbing my throat like it wants to strangle me.
I stumble into the kitchen, flinging open cupboard doors in a daze, desperate for something—anything—to make this feeling stop.
The first explosion of sweetness on my tongue dulls the panic, softens its edges. It’s still there, just… quieter.
I inhale the first biscuit. Then another. And another.
By the time I register what I’m doing, the entire pack is gone.
I stare down at the empty wrapper. That’s when guilt slithers in. Cold. Familiar.
My mother’s voice echoes through my head:
You shouldn’t eat that.
Gosh, you’ve gotten big.
Your ass is getting so fat—you should stop eating.
It won’t hurt you to skip a meal. You’ve got enough cushioning as it is.
Over and over. The same sharp words, dressed as concern.
She never meant to hurt me.
But she did.
I sink to the floor, tears falling faster than I can stop them, my body trembling with the weight of it all.
Eli
Emily hits the floor, her sobs violent and relentless, her body shaking as if every tear is ripping her apart.
I watched her open the box, enjoyed the fear that flashed across her face, her shock, the tremor in her hands.
But then I watched as she devoured an entire pack of Hobnobs in under ten minutes, her desperation palpable in the way she stuffed the biscuits into her mouth, her breath ragged.
And now, I can’t shake the restlessness in my chest, the urge to reach out, to stop her from falling apart.
I never meant for this to happen. I didn’t realise how deeply my actions would affect her. She’s a puzzle I’ve been obsessed with for so long, but I hadn’t considered this… The raw, broken side of her. The part of her that I didn’t want to see. And now it’s haunting me.
There’s an ache in my chest, a heavy pressure, one that refuses to fade no matter how much I rub at it, trying to make the sensation go away. I hurt her. I fucking hurt her. The realisation hits harder than anything I’ve ever done. She’s crying because of me.
I watch the camera feed, my pulse quickening as she picks herself off the floor.
She’s fragile—shaking, her hands unsteady as she reaches for a glass of water.
The way she moves, slow and cautious, tells me she’s still unravelling.
She pulls herself together only enough to get under the sheets, her face a mask of exhaustion and defeat.
Watching her through the lens, I feel something I’m not supposed to feel. It’s a fierce need to fix her, to make this right. But I don’t know how. I’ve created a mess, and now I’m standing in the middle of it, feeling every inch of it.
My poor angel.
She’s haunted.
I know what it looks like. This isn’t the first time she’s fallen apart this way.
This wasn’t just about the box. It’s something deeper, something more ingrained in her.
Her reaction wasn’t new. It’s a habit. A reflex.
She’s been here before. Maybe I’m the trigger, but there’s something in the way she spirals that tells me it’s not just me.
Four more days until I can see her in person. Four days of torturing myself, watching her fall apart, wondering how much of this I can take before I break too.
Perhaps I should request an extra session, stretch my control even further. Going so long without talking to her feels like a thousand needles in my chest. It’s fucking torture.
But I can’t fix this from a distance. Not yet.
I need to be closer. I need to watch her fall apart in front of me again, to understand why she’s like this. Why she reacts this way. It’s the only thing that makes sense now.