She shakily turns her phone over, looking at the message. Dots appear and disappear as she paces back and forth in her kitchen, knife clutched tightly in her free hand. Her fear palpable through the camera.
Dare
She types back, and I find myself smirking. I’m not surprised that Hazel keeps picking dare. She always did the same back at Kingston. We didn’t have much to entertain ourselves back then, but Truth or Dare kept us occupied. A stupid game filled with endless consequences.
I dare you to dye your hair back to its original color. Then send me a picture showing that you did it. You have three hours.
You know what will happen if you don’t play along.
She tosses her phone in anger or fear, I can’t tell. But it’s clear I’ve rattled her.
Good. That means she’s feeling something.
She continues her pacing before she rushes to where her keys are hanging on the wall. I watch, rapt as she leaves the house.Good girl, I think. We’re making progress.
CHAPTER 10
HAZEL
27 YEARS OLD
This fucker.,I growl in frustration at the farce that has become my life. Not that it was so spectacular before, but still. Clutching the steering wheel, I whip my car onto the main road that leads to the grocery store. Normally, I’d order something like hair dye to my house, saving me the trouble of having to leave me house. But with the time restraints put on this newest dare, I don’t have time to wait for a delivery.
This morning has already been a mindfuck, since I woke up with something sticky plastered to my chest. I shiver to think of what it could be, and instead focus on the task at hand. Because, if I think too hard about it, I know exactly what the mystery substance was. And that would mean that whoever is taunting me is still finding a way into my house and doing things to me while I sleep. I should be more upset about it than I am, but in reality, a part of me feels exhilarated, and a tiny bit turned on. I’ll file that little thought under things I shouldn’t tell my therapist.
The store is mildly busy for a random Monday afternoon, but I make myself go inside despite my building nervousness. The fluorescent lights practically burn my retinas as I walk through the opaque automatic doors. I’m immediately greeted by a fake smiling employee with bright orange hair and lipstick to match.Her eyes though, her eyes scream “get me the hell out of here” as she welcomes me to this fine establishment. Her words, not mine. I nod politely, ducking into the aisle I need, only to find that they’ve changed their layout since the last time I was here.
Fucking hell.
Dodging several carts, and a few wobbling toddlers holding their mother’s hands, I find the one I need. Fingers flying over the many boxes of color, I land on the one the dare demanded of me.
Auburn.
The girl on the cover looks as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. Promising that if I change my hair to her color, that I too can be this happy. Her wide, toothy smile and bright eyes selling a lie.
I grab the box and stride to the one-person checkout counter on unsteady legs. The weight of being out in public begins to press in on me from all sides. This unexpected trip is triggering the hell out of me, thrusting my anxiety front and center. A tingling sensation in my fingers grows from clutching the box too tightly. I switch hands and shake out my fingers, hoping that I can keep myself from a full-blown spiral.
There’s an elderly woman in front of me handing over a thick stack of coupons that makes me want to die a little inside. I’m barely holding it together as it is, and now with having to wait while every paper is scanned, a wave of dizziness claws at me, making my hands shake. My fingers dig into the strap of my purse as if clutching that thin strip of leather can keep me from the panic attack that’s gaining momentum. A wave rises up inside of me, begging for me to get out of here.
The extreme sensation of not being safe overwhelms me and I feel like I’m seconds away from passing out in the middle of this store. Outwardly, I know that I appear completely fine. Ilook like I’m waiting patiently for my turn to check out. But inwardly I’m battling a raging storm.
I haven’t taken my pills yet today, I realize. Having been too preoccupied by the sleep deprivation and fucked up messages I’m 98% sure are real. I check my phone and take a screen shot of it just in case it disappears again. I’m not crazy. I know someone is messing with me. Taking advantage of my weaknesses and exploiting it for their own sick enjoyment.
When the woman eventually takes her bags and change from the cashier, I’m a puddle of nerves on the brink of combusting.
I answer the perfunctory questions the cashier throws at me with curt simple yeses and nos. I’m sure they think I’m being rude, but I don’t care. It’s taking everything in me to stay standing, pretending like I’m perfectly normal and not panicking on the inside. Everything feels too loud. Too close. Too much.
I grab my receipt and walk as fast as I can back to my car. Laying my head on the steering wheel and breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, while my heart beats wildly against my ribs. I’m acutely aware that time is ticking away as I grapple with my flight or fight response. I need to move. I need to drive home. But I feel physically stuck. Unable to make my hands release the wheel.
The leather digs into my palms as my breathing steadies and my heart returns to a normal pace.
It would be so wonderful if my body didn’t act like I just dogged a lion attack when I’m doing perfectly normal activities. Somehow, I manage to start my engine, rushing to get home. These streets are still a little unfamiliar, so I rely on the wonky GPS that seems to go in and out of service on a whim. It ends up adding an extra ten minutes onto my route, and by the time I pull into my driveway, my anxiety is at an all-time high since I moved here. This feeling is why I seek to numb myself
I manage to run inside and start dying my hair with time to spare. Every stroke I make is erratic and hurried, leaving splotches of it to gather across my forehead like tiny flecks of blood. They just had to choose red.
Checking the time, I decide that whoever’s been sending me these messages will have to settle for a slightly wet hair selfie because, there’s no way to get this done in time. The smell of ammonia permeates the air. Time ticking dangerously closer to this stalker’s demands.
As I dry my hair looking in the mirror, a version of myself emerges that I’ve tried to hide for years.
