“Leave me the hell alone,” I tell him. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
He tries to climb on top of me. And this time, he’s taking it too far.
I knee him in the balls, and he doubles over, coughing in pain when I shove him off of me. I bolt from the bed and out the door while he screams after me.
But he’s too drunk to follow.
I make it down to the lobby and manage to flag down a cab.
I don’t know where I’m going. I’m supposed to attend a party tomorrow. I’m supposed to do a lot of things that I really just don’t give a fuck about anymore.
The cabbie asks me where I want to go.
“The bus station,” I tell him. “Just take me to the bus station.”
Chapter Three
The housethat once seemed quaint and homey now sits stagnant. Brown patches of grass stain the formerly pristine green of our lawn. Dirt gathers in corners and crevices, and dust visibly lines the window sills from the outside.
But on the front stairs, a flurry of crimson rose petals blows in with the breeze, settling against the door frame.
Always the withered roses.
I don’t know where they come from. I only know when they arrived. The day of my father’s disappearance, these rose petals greeted me at the door.
There is solace in the dead beauty of the dark crimson. I collect them and keep them in a box above my closet.
I don’t know why.
I only know that somehow, they share in the pain of my grief. I hope they never stop coming. And I always wish they would.
I check the mail.
Three more letters wait for me there too. Always from a different city. Always anonymous.
The first is a charcoal drawing of a raven perched on a windowsill. The moon is eclipsed in the photo, and dark, ominous thunderheads line the sky above. A sliver of lightning pierces the center of the image, so real it looks as though it’s split the paper in two.
The eery scene sends a chill up the back of my neck.
The photos are always somewhat abstract. A message that often leaves me bogged down in the onslaught of disordered emotions they evoke. The lines are exacted so precisely. The artistry is pleasing to my eye in a way I can’t explain, except to say that I am drawn to the darkness of these photos.
I am drawn to everything he sends me, and I don’t know why.
I open the next letter, and I am confronted with a recurring sense of déjà vu. It is the same beautiful scrawl, only this time, it is words.
The same words he always sends me- this stalker of mine.
Sing me a song, beauty.
With words only I can hear.
My fingers mapover the lines while I try to understand. I haven’t told Luke of these letters. I haven’t told anyone.
I’m not entirely sure why.
Only that it feels private. And I have not yet decided whether they are dangerous or simply innocent flattery.
The third and final letter contains the lyrics of my first song.