Page 20 of Phantom
I guess it doesn’t. Objectively, both have major stalker vibes, but I’ve never felt creeped out by the roses, notes, and sheet music from my demon. They’ve felt more like love letters than messages from a villain, like delicate promises instead of the alarming threat Monty received.
And while I should be feeling upset over Jacques’s death and the fact that Monty accused me of threatening him, my chest actually feels lighter knowing that I haven’t been making my own notes. Our letters have gone on for so long, a defeatist part of me was beginning to think they were a figment of my imagination to deal with the guilt of my dad’s murder last year.
Even though my logic says I couldn’t have written them myself, it’s validating to know thatsomeoneis actually behind them. My brain has played tricks on me for longer than I’ve been medicated, and even though I haven’t had an episode in months, enough insecurity can make even the strongest mind question reality. But I got definitive proof tonight that I’m still sane. I also have proof that I have a real-life pen pal who is admittedly on the stalker side of secret admirer, but I’m still sane nonetheless.
As soon as I finish scrubbing off my stage makeup in my en suite bathroom, I return to my makeup counter to find my pills… only they’re not there.
I scan my desk, cursing myself over the untidy mess I’ve always maintained and groaning at the prospect of trying to find my medication among the many bottles of foundation, eyeshadow pallets, and hair accessories. I always put them in one specific spot for this reason, but the aftermath of the show caught me out of my routine. When I finish searching the surface, my drawers prove just as fruitless. I render my organized chaos into a tornado of disaster, until I finally give up. Resigned, I turn to my last resort. Old meds.
I’ve been on a journey to control my inner demons for the past year, ever since I was hospitalized for my manic episode. Even after I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, it still felt like my psychiatrist was guessing at what meds would click for me. Some were worse than others, sending me straight to sleep, making me gain weight, or turning me into a raging bitch. One even changed my vocal cords and I stopped that one immediately, despite the fact that it worked in every other aspect. My psych and I have finally nailed down a combination of meds that works for me.
Normally, I wouldn’t go back to the old meds, especially not the ones that make me feel worse. But after all the events of tonight, I can’t deny that my mood is elevated and I want to cut off a manic episode before it starts.
My thoughts are racing, I’m energized, and the urge to go downstairs and do something reckless—like, I don’t know, confront Sol and his piercing midnight gaze—is nearly overwhelming. It could all be totally harmless, normal emotions.
But it could be the beginning of the end of my sanity.
Especially considering thetriumphI felt over Jacques’s suicide? It’s not lost on me that as someone who experienced terrifying suicidal thoughts for nearly a month after my dad died, I should have more compassion for someone who likely ended theirs.
Maybe I’ll find empathy tomorrow, but I can still feel where his hands groped me so brazenly last week, like he’d done it hundreds of times before. What if it wasn’t suicide at all? I can’t help but think he might’ve gotten what he deserved from someone less cowardly than me.
That last self-righteous thought makes me pause, solidifying my decision to take an old medication tonight and calling my doctor about getting new prescriptions tomorrow. The drug knocks me out and gives me bizarre dreams, but next-day grogginess is better than winding up in a psych ward after failing to stave off a manic episode.
Anything but that.
I go to my small bedroom and dig in my bedside table through the many old orange medicine bottles I should’ve thrown out months ago. My fear of getting sick again due to this exact situation made me keep them in the bottom of my drawer, so once I find the right one, I pop a pill into my mouth and sip from the water bottle that stays on my nightstand.
I quickly finish my nightly routine, knowing I don’t have long until the drug will quite literally make me pass out wherever I stand.
One time, months ago, I curled up on the floor of my dorm room, not caring or lucid enough to drag my ass to bed. Thank goodness Jaime has a key. I’d texted him earlier in the night and he must’ve picked me up and carried me to bed. I was tucked in all nice and cozy the next morning, but I was too embarrassed to confront him about it and he’s too much of a gentleman to bring it up.
I toss on a thin white T-shirt and slide underneath my plain pink quilt with my Kindle, eager to read at least one chapter before I pass out. Until I remember that I left off on a steamy scene.
Oh shit.
It’s a particularly sexy scene between a vampire king—my favorite—and the woman hetechnicallykidnapped. A few lines in and I’m already squirming under my sheets, trying to resist the urge to live vicariously through the heroine and pursue my own pleasure. But I’m weak and before long, my free hand is trailing down my torso toward my cotton panties.
Midnight eyes blink in my vision as the need to create my own fantasy takes over.
“Sol…” I breathe.
My nipples harden, begging for attention, and I answer their call with my other hand, letting my Kindle fall to the bed as I pinch each peak over the fabric of my shirt. Arousal floods my panties and my fingertips finally find their way to the elastic and dip underneath to find my clit. The pebbled peak between my thumb and forefinger tingles as my mind conjures up Sol’s broad and powerful form stepping through my mirror.
A part of me—the very small, stupid, prudish side—nags me to stop, telling me that something isn’t right. But the saner part of me knows the medication is only beginning to run its course, probably because I haven’t taken it in a while. And after this lucid dream, I’m going to crash and wake up feeling hungover at eight a.m. on the dot.
My index finger zeroes in on that small bundle of nerves. If I had more time, I’d bring out my vibrator, but I don’t know how long I’ve got until I succumb to sleep. Using my pointer and middle fingers, I quickly caress my clit until I find the rhythm that sends a jolt through my body. My left hand molds and teases both breasts and my body undulates under the covers as I begin to race toward my finish, tantalizingly close, but just out of reach. In my mind, Sol stares at me from the mirror and I reach out to him.
“Come, please. Help me. I need you,” I plead with my mysterious phantom.
His movements seem hesitant as he steps closer. Or is he gliding?
“Are you real?” Knowing somewhere in my psyche that I’m talking to an empty room, I giggle. “Are you my demon of music? Or the Phantom of the French Quarter?”
No, he’s a figment of my imagination, is what he is.
My eyes widen when he opens his mouth.
“I am your Sol.” His voice is deep and rich, just like it was earlier tonight. He spoke with only a hint of a whisper but it resonates loudly in my mind.
