Page 7 of Hunting Harbor

“Hello, Harbor.”

That’s what he’d say when he caught her.

And I don’t even care how crazy it sounds, but I’m starting to think...

...she wants to be caught.

The girl in the story… I mean.

My hand is cramping from how fast I’m writing, so I pull out my laptop and start typing. Slowly at first, hesitantly. Like writing about this shit will bring it to life, but then I remind myself that it’s just a fantasy and that’s all it’ll ever be.

It’s like my whole life is...

...a stalker at the window.

...a hand on my throat.

...a bruise where no one can see.

But the cursor keeps blinking, and the words—oh god, the words—fill up the screen.

My best friend, Lila, will be furious that I’ve stopped my cowboy series to write this, and I quote, dark smut garbage, but she secretly loves it. I know she just wants what’s best for me, but clearly, that’s this. Right now, at least. She wants me to finish my series because it’s on the cusp of breaking out, but it doesn’t matter because it’s not cowboys filling my thoughts.

It’shim.This, tall, dark and handsome, fictional masked man who whispers dirty things to me and makes me come on command.

Well, almost.

So, I ignore the nagging in my head that she’s going to have something to say when she calls in the morning, and keep typing.

The world outside dims to a deep gray-blue, like the whole universe is holding its breath with me. I’m hunched over my laptop, fingers cramping from the strangest and most wonderful thing in the world: actually writing. It’s odd. Usually I get a text from my father and my brother, wishing me happy birthday on my day. Nothing this year.

Not that it matters since I fucking hate them anyway.

I shake off the memories and bury the reminders as deep as I can.

They don’t matter anymore. Neither of them.

My own pulse taunts me, the jagged snow globe rhythms from that scared little girl who still hides in the corners of my mind, whispering that nothing will ever change. That I can’t write my way out of this one.

But I can. And I will. I am a writing goddess with so much to say, so much to unravel, but first…

I crack open a bottle of wine. The cork, the glass, the first tiny sip... they all bring me a whisper of comfort in this sudden, dreadful quiet.

I force a wobbly smile as I lift my glass in the air.

“Happy birthday to me,” I say to the empty room.

I say it louder, as if I’m not afraid. As if I’m not terribly, painfully alone.

So, I write. I write because now that the words have started, there’s no stopping the flow, the rhythm, the beat that lives inside me, pounding out on this keyboard…

The first scream never leaves her lips.

The forest swallows sound like it swallows light—whole and greedy. Cold air burns her lungs as she runs, thorns clawing at her dress, at her legs, at her sanity. Somewhere behind her, boots crush leaves and break twigs with deliberate menace. He's not running. He doesn’t need to.

He’s hunting.

She doesn’t know his name. Only the mask—black, carved like bone, with a crooked smile that shouldn't make her heart pound the way it does.

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