Page 22 of Stalker's Toy

My scream curdles into London's damp twilight as I bolt upright.

Sheets slither off sweat-slicked skin, my right hand already fumbling for phantom flames licking bedroom walls that stopped burning years ago.

Silver scars glint under the bedside lamp's jaundiced glow as tremors rack my collarbone.

Mini-bar bottles clink like wind chimes made of bone when I kick open the cabinet.

Absolut Citron burns hotter going down than any house fire, liquid courage scalding away the taste of charred photo albums.

Second shot: tequila stolen from Larsa's birthday stash.

The worm at the bottle's bottom resembles a spinal column.

"Fuck."

My phone screen mocks me with the time glowing blood-red.

Ugh, I need to get up.

I don’t have time for mid-day naps, especially now that I’m at college and working two part-time jobs.

I muster myself up out of bed and head into the walk-in closet.

It smells of cedar and regret.

Fishnets snag on thumbnail crescents as I yank them up scarred thighs.

Black velvet dress with mothwing sleeves—armor disguised as mourning clothes.

Combat boots lace themselves through muscle memory while my mind replays paramedics shouting over triage assessments.

Larsa's painting her toenails bright evergreen when I emerge, probably to stick with the Christmas theme. "Christ, you look like death's mistress," she says around a cigarette dangling from coral lips.

Her kimono slips, revealing a fresh hickey blooming above her left breast.

"Compliment taken." I stab earrings through lobes—obsidian teardrops that once belonged to a great aunt who drowned herself in the Hudson.

"You seeing that sculptor bloke tonight?"

"No, heading into work."

She snorts. "Got another job? Dang.”

My choker needs adjusting and I realize how much focus I’m putting on this damn outfit, when I’ll be taking it off for him at some point.

“Yeah, well it’s not exactly affordable around here, is it?”

Larsa laughs. “Touché.”

I'm not exactly best friends with Larsa, but she's the closest thing I have to one.

I don't really go out of my way to be social by any means.

I grab my purse and glance back at her. "I'd better get going. See you later."

She waves dismissively. "See ya!"

Once I’m out of our flat, concrete kisses my boot soles with each step toward Dean Street.

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