A shriek leaves me at the end of the call. My fingers are in my hair, pulling at the roots so hard I think I might rip it all out. I can’t stop rocking, can’t stop the flooding recollections of someone’s unwanted hands, the lights, the blood, the—
“Rockstar—”
“Don’t touch me!”
I scramble to my feet and grab the nearest thing to me on the counter—a small, dull knife. I don’t care what it is. I don’t feel safe. I don’t trust her.
Where were you…
Where were you…
Where were you…
“Don’t fucking come near me,” I manage, pushing my hair out of my face.
I can hardly see her through my tears, barely able to stand on my wobbling knees. She has her hands up defensively.
“Bonnie.”
I’m struggling too much to take an even breath.
“Where have you been?!” I shout. “Where were you?Where were you—I thought—You said you’d be there—”
I shove her. Hit her. Slap her.
She braces her arms up against every fight and shove, and still, she doesn’t give up.
“Youlied,” I cry out. “You lied. You lied. You weren’t there.Why weren’t you there?”
Beep.
Fuck, not now.
Not that noise now.
“You weren’t there!” I screech. “You said you had me. You lied!”
Beep.
Somehow, I’m back on the floor. Somehow, the knife is on the ground nearby. There’s a woman screaming in the distance. She sounds like she’s hurt. Scared. I should help her. I should get her off the floor. She shouldn’t be covered in spit, blood, and—
Someone get her up.
Someone help her. She can’t talk. She can’t move.
Why isn’t she moving?
A hand touches my arm that brings me out of the memory, and I realize it’smescreaming, it’s my memory, it’s my body.
“Rockstar,” I hear my stalker call me. “Rockstar, please—”
I swing at her.
I swat her away because right now it feels no different from theirs. It isn’t intimate. It isn’t safe.
She advances, and the more she advances, the more I sob. She’s crouched in front of me, her arms on my wrists. I think she’s saying my name. I can’t hear. I can’t breathe.
Fuck it.
