That secret Achilles keeps isn't his.
It'smyshameful secret.
What he knows is that his actions excite me, that the fear he incites makes me feel alive. And that he's the only one who fits with my type of fucked up.
Chapter Eleven
Achilles
UNDRESS - WesGhost
Parking by the entrance of the trailer park, I put my hood over my head as I exit the car. I had a busy afternoon. When I left Nyx, I went to buy a used car that would make me a little less conspicuous on the North Shore, and that would also mean she has no idea when I follow her. Then I parked in front of The Basement, that diner she works at, and waited for her to reappear after her shift. When she headed for her car, I sped through town to come and wait here before she gets back.
I walk through the park until I recognize her home and go to the back of it. She and her two protective neighbors are at the far end, and there's a large field of long grass and some trees until it becomes forest again. In the dark of the night, all I have to do is sit there, and I know she won't see me. I have a perfect view of the windows on this side of the trailer. One is the window above the kitchen sink, and one is a bedroom, which I want to assume is hers. Or at least I hope so.
While I wait, I scroll through some videos on my phone. Videos I can't let anyone see. There aren't that many, but there’sone from earlier this week. Nyx might not believe me, but I did try to leave her alone. I went back to my old ways of getting inspired. But even watching this video of me slowly torturing some pedophile to death earlier this week isn't doing anything for me. Fuck, that used to be the way to write a few pages, and now I feel absolutely no excitement watching it.
Look at what you did, Nyx.
A man arrives a few minutes before her. Somewhere in his late fifties, he has the type of harsh lines, wrinkles, and eye bags that I'd associate with years of drinking. When Nyx gets home and tries to take the beer bottle from his hand, it only confirms my thought.
Her hair is in a high ponytail, her big brown eyes pleading with her dad. She disappears and reappears through the second window. With the light on, I can tell it's her bedroom. Her violin case is in there, along with piles and piles of music books. She opens a small closet, and there's a few taped pictures in there that I vaguely recognize. Unable to see clearly, I approach slowly until I'm close enough to make them out.
I have to press my fist against my mouth not to explode with laughter. They're three online pictures she must have found of me when she was a young teen. I recognize them from the performance of my first composed concerto. I was seventeen back then, so she must have been fourteen. Exactly the age you print images of your idol to stick on your walls or the door of your closet. I narrow my eyes to read what's written in red marker on one of them and can barely contain myself.
Achilles + Nyx = <3 4ever
"Oh, Nyx." I laugh softly.
And the brat dares to push me away now?
She gets rid of her jeans and bra, switching them for a pair of leggings and a large black hoodie. That was too quick. I barely caught her pretty pink nipples.
Her eyes catch the pictures, and she throws her head back. In a split second, she takes them down and rips two of them in pieces, apparently deciding to keep one intact before throwing them on the mess of a tiny desk next to her bed. The two are so close that it looks like she usually uses her bed to sit at her desk.
My eyes go back to the other window, and I watch her dad opening her large bag. He pulls out her wallet, grabbing a ten and a few singles before pushing it back into her bag. The light goes off in her room just before she reappears in the kitchen. A minute later, her dad leaves, and she falls onto a kitchen chair with a huff. She undoes her hair from its ponytail, puts it in a bun, and opens notepads at the kitchen table.
I watch her work for around an hour, tapping rhythms on my knee, remembering what I already composed and trying to imagine what comes next. I'm so focused on my new favorite activity that I don't check the time. It's only when her phone lights up on the table and she gets up to open the door that I come up for air.
Here he is. The new character in my concerto. The boyfriend.
With two hands holding her head, fingers tangled in her hair, he kisses her possessively. He does it long and hard, and I watch with unexplainable jealousy as her knees buckle.
She's flushed when he pulls away, a blissful smile lighting up her face. My eyes narrow as I watch him walk to the couch like the house belongs to him. He's a big guy, and he's got that scary look about him. Dark hair, dark eyes, tattoos covering his arms. He carries himself like people should jump to the other side of the road if he's coming their way. And yet I'm pretty sure he's got nothing on me when it comes to crazy.
That's the problem with those big guys. They always think there's nothing more dangerous than muscles or the weapons they carry on them. But those who meet my brand of insane often learn better.
She brings him a beer and pulls food out of the fridge. Opening the window, she starts cooking, and I use the occasion to get closer. I can finally add sounds to my observations.
She's telling him about her shift at the diner, nothing about me or that I drove her back from SFU today. She doesn't mention the threats I made toward her.
Is she not taking me seriously? Because she will by the end of the night.
When they sit down to eat, she twists her hands in her lap for a few minutes while he inhales his food. Once she's gathered some courage, she finally talks again.
"The worst thing happened today."
He drops his fork, pushing away his empty plate, and relaxes back in his chair.
