Page 53 of Freestyle
My grip tightens on the pen until my knuckles pale.
Professor Sharp clicks to the next slide, an MRI scan of a brain labeled with cold, clinical text. Orbitofrontal dysfunction. Emotional blunting. Impaired empathy.
But none of those words capture the look Alberto had in his eyes that day. Not the kind of blankness you’d find in a chart. No, his wasdeliberate, aware, calculated, cruel.
I’m not sure what’s worse.
A girl two rows ahead says something about rehabilitation. “People like that can change,” she insists, voice full of hope. I want to believe her. I really do.
But I keep seeing that smirk.
The way he twisted kindness into currency. How every apology he gave was scripted, strategic. A performance. And how I fell for it, again and again, because back then, I wanted to believe in change more than I believed in myself.
Someone laughs. The discussion has shifted to pop culture now. How the media gets it wrong, how villains are glamorized.
I stay silent.
Because in the real world, the villain doesn’t wear a cape.
He wears familiarity.
I shift in my seat, glancing around the lecture hall. Students are engrossed in their notes, oblivious to my inner turmoil. The professor continues, delving into the complexities of the brain then the bell rings.
“We willcontinue this discussion on Wednesday. Make sure you read the assigned pages before our next meeting,” she calls from the podium as everyone shuffles from their seats to the door.
The warm air does nothing to cool the inferno building within me. Maybe I’m just being dramatic. It’s easy to hear symptoms and try to self diagnose someone, even if said symptoms appear like red neon signs.
Since this was my last class of the day, I slink across campus hoping I don’t run into Gray or Phoenix on my way to the dorms. I need some time to think. Time where two men aren’t hovering around me like I’m suddenly their property.
Waking up to cum on my face and in my panties infuriated me. Of course they think they can take advantage when I’m asleep, but what pisses me off more is that a small part of me thinks I enjoyed it.What kind of sick freak am I? Why don’t I fight them more? Do I actually like feeling this used all the time?Maybe I should be the one under the microscope.
Willowbrook Hall emerges in the distance and I hold my bag tighter and speed walk the rest of the way. Entering the building, I jog to the elevator and slump against it once the doors close. I take a deep breath but a nagging feeling continues to plague my body.
The doors slide open and I’m barreling down the hall, needing to be in my personal space more than anything.Before I reach our door, I see something pink taped just above the handle.
Slowing my pace, I reach our dorm and see my name scrawled on the piece of paper. I look both directions to see if anyone is looking, but I’m eerily alone in the hallway.
Curiosity piqued, I peel the note from the door and unfold it carefully. The pink paper feels soft against my fingertips, and I can’t help but wonder who would leave me a message like this. As I read the words, my heart races.
Rowboat,
You are a naughty girl. Playing doctor with someone else is not how the rules go.
You don't want to end up like Pinkie
I'LL FIND YOU. EVEN IN THE DARK.
-A
A as in Alberto. He’s the only one that called me Rowboat, and he knew of my obsession with those damn ponies.
Shakily, I push the note into my pocket and head into my room, the door clicking shut behind me. The familiar scent of lavender from my air freshener calms me, but the tension in my chest remains. I toss my bag onto my bed and plop down beside it, staring at the ceiling.
What did he mean by “end up like Pinkie”? Does he mean the one I found in my pocket?My mind races with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched, that he is lurking just beyond the edges of my vision, waiting for the right moment to strike.
I try to focus on the ceiling, counting the cracks in the paint, but my thoughts spiral back to the note. Alberto had always been unpredictable, but this feels different. This feels dangerous.
I sit up abruptly, my heart pounding in my chest.What if he is watching me, waiting for the right moment to make his move?I glance around my room, searching for something, anything, that can protect me.
