Page 194 of Heart So Hollow

Because when I step out onto the tile, I see my phone light up in my pile of clothes. And when I pluck it from the folds of my jeans to look at it, any semblance of emotional restoration quickly fades.

UNKNOWN (6:24PM): Do you miss me yet Honeybee?

What? How…

I stare at my phone, utterly stunned. It’s like…how is he sending me this right now? Does he know what just happened? How does he know? Did he…

No, that makes absolutely no sense. I shake my head in disgust as more tears well in my eyes. I don’t even care that Colson texts me from some stupid hidden number anymore. It’s just a game to him and I’ve gotten used to it, like every other creepy, inappropriate thing he does.

I start tapping my screen furiously as more tears begin to fall.

ME (6:25PM): Fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

The Hollow Watcher

One Year Ago

It’s a surreal feeling being inside his house. And what better way to spend a Sunday afternoon?

Based on his recent behavior, I should’ve started visiting much sooner. Because that’s the last fucking time I let him get away with treating Brett like his own personal cum dumpster.

Sometimes I want to shake her, scream in her face, and demand to know what the hell she’s doing. But then I remember she doesn’t know the whole story.

Not yet.

I can’t be too angry because she doesn’t know who he really is and what he’s done. But she will, soon enough.

Chess, not checkers.

But, I swear, if he gets rough with her again—like I do—I’ll scrap this entire plan and burn his fucking house down with him inside. I bet his poor little sister will really cry over him then.

She’s going to pay for this, too. All of them are going to pay for what they’ve done.

I can’t dwell on that, though, I have work to do. I’m busy admiring what he’s done with the place. It almost makes him seem half normal. I start in his bedroom, slowly taking in every single item, one by one. I wonder if he was always this clean or if he had to adapt out of necessity. You can’t attract someone of Brett’s caliber by being any old slob. As I sweep my hand along the edge of his bed, I wonder how dark he likes it when he sleeps. I hope he likes it pitch-black, because that’s where he’s going to end up by the time I’m through dismantling and laying waste to his entire life.

After making my way back to the living room, I walk the perimeter, examining every single thing on the walls. His dog peeks around the corner of the sofa, having just come from the kitchen. He lumbers over to me for another scratch behind the ears. Hopefully he’s not supposed to be a guard dog, because if so, he’s a pretty shitty one. When I popped the door to come inside, he looked more excited than anything. But he’s cute as hell, so I sat down and petted him for a while before taking my tour.

I’m in no rush—I know his master will be gone for a while and my phone will go off if the cameras I have outside detect anyone who crosses the driveway.

Continuing along the wall, I pause at a photo sitting on one of the shelves. I recognize the people in it. In fact, when I glance around the room, I recognize everyone in his photos. They’re more or less all the same people. But there’s a stark difference between their faces before and their faces after it happened. So stark, in fact, that I freeze when I come to one particular picture on his wall. I stare at it, not moving, for I don’t even know how long.

That. Fucking. Psycho.

How fucking dare he have this picture hanging on his wall, in his house, so he can look at it every single day.

In one instantaneous jerk, I slam my palm against the picture, breaking the glass. Slowly, I lift my hand from the frame and let the pieces fall silently to the carpet. Then, I reach into my pocket and take out my knife, flipping open the blade with a satisfying click.

I wasn’t the craftiest kid in school, but today I’ll do some of my best work just for him. After I finish cutting and pasting shapes, I move on to some painting. I reach into the front pocket of my black hoodie and retrieve a can of spray paint. Red seems the most appropriate for the occasion.

I stroll around the room, searching for the best canvas, until I decide on the strip of wall above the hallway leading to the front door. After dragging a chair over, I start swishing the paint spray over the wall in smooth, curvy motions until I’ve spelled out the two words that will, no doubt, land like bombs in Dresden in his living room. I step down from the chair to admire my artwork. It’s pretty impressive, and I wish I could be here in person when he sees it, along with the wreckage of memories I’ve made into custom artwork just for him.

I can’t wait to see their faces. Maybe I’ll pop some popcorn and have a good laugh. I can’t imagine what he’ll be thinking, what’ll be running through his mind when he sees my gift to him. His reaction will be gold. Granted, it could never be as bad as mine was years ago, but nothing can ever come close to that. I have a good imagination, though, and that’ll have to do.

The beauty of it is, when he sees it, he’ll know it was me who did it. And he won’t be able to do a damn thing about it. I turn back to the wall and glare at each of their faces.

Nothing but lies and deceit.

---