Page 11 of Playing with Fyre

Charlotte

Iwake up with a pounding heart. For a second, I think I’m still trapped in my nightmarish past. Someone holding me down, theclick-click-clickof a camera nearby. But the sound isn’t coming from my memory-dream. It’s coming from my living room. And when I sit up in a rush on my bed, I can see a pale glow under my bedroom door.

Someone’s in my fucking house.

There’s a scream bottled up in my throat, held captive by a sudden restrictive terror that refuses to let me go.

Click. Click.

No.

Please God.

It’shim.

It’s the man who locked me in his special room for seven days. The one who stole my freedom.

Not just my freedom—my life.

I choke out a sob before I can stop myself, and then clap my hands over my mouth. The light winks off. There’s sudden quiet in my home. The only sound is my hitching breath.

Then footsteps.

Heavy. Hollow. Footsteps.

My hand darts out. I barely manage to control myself before sliding open my nightstand drawer.

He’s getting closer.

Oh my God, he’s almost here.

My hand quivers, knocking around the various knick-knacks inside my drawer as I search for the knife I’ve kept in there ever since I was released from the hospital.

Months it’s been, and I still can’t get to sleep without it. It doesn’t matter where I live—I’ve been hopping from apartment to apartment like a fresh set of walls around me is all I need to stop replaying my week of hell.

Seven days. Almost, nearly, seven nights. But he made a mistake, and I gathered every iota of courage I possessed, and I escaped.

Malnutrition. Shock. Cut and bruised all over. Internal damage. I almost didn’t make it to safety. He was on my tail for the last mile I had to run. But then there was a car, and the middle-aged couple stopped for me. I would be dead if they hadn’t stopped.

Or even worse…I’d still be in that tiny, special room.

My heart shudders in my chest as I wrap my fingers around the knife’s handle. I draw it out and slide my legs over the side of the bed at the same time. I try and move fluidly, like a snake, so nothing creaks or squeaks, or groans.

Hand tight around the knife.

Thump. Thump. Footsteps right up to the door.

The handle turns.

I slip under the bed in a rush as the intruder pushes open my bedroom door. I clamp one hand over my mouth, the other holding the quivering knife beside my head. Ready to jab out at his ankles if he comes close. Ready to stick it right through his fucking eye if he bends down to peek under my bed skirt.

This time, I’m ready tokill.

But he just stands there by the door. Not moving, not coming closer. Is he looking for me? Wondering if I’m in the closet or under the bed? Those are the only two options. I couldn’t very well have climbed out of the fucking window.

I barely hold back a manic cackle.

It’s as if I didn’t take my medication. As if I didn’t smoke that joint. I’m right back there on the edge of the world, rocking, rocking, rocking as I stare down at the black abyss of my hollow mind. It would be so easy to tip forward and just let go. Just let whatever is going to happen, happen. It’ll be over soon anyway, won’t it? One way or the other.

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