I swipe away the news app notification and open VidTok. I have 200+ new followers and more than 99 notifications. I weed through the comments and tags, replying to some people, and then move on to my inbox. I get at least a few messages a day from followers showing me love, or from haters telling me how horrible a writer I am or how much they hate me. It’s mostly men in my inbox calling me every name in the book because my female maincharacter, Vera, is an unapologetic man-hater, so they assumed I am, too.
But in real life, I don’t hate men at all, even after everything I went through. I just wish they were better humans—a pipe dream, I know.
My inbox is unusually quiet today, with only one message from a person called ‘Sir,’ and their message reads:
I reply, thanking them for reading, and send well wishes for their inspiration to write. It’s my general reply to these types of messages.I click on their private profile, which has no profile picture or posts, but that is not unusual—most people on this app don’t post—they just consume it. I close out the app, finish breakfast, rinse my bowl, and say goodbye to Binx.
I leave my apartment on the third floor, locking the door behind me. I head down the stairs to the parking garage to get in my car, and I blast Sleep Token as I drive to the gym to scream my heart out to.
When I arrive at the gym, it’s empty except for one other person on an elliptical. As a courtesy to the other person, I pick a treadmill at the opposite end of the gym. I turn on my music, do some stretches, and hop on the treadmill for some light cardio to ease myself into the gym life.
An hour passes before I know it, and I finish up my workout. The gym is busier now, and I think I’ve hit my social quota for the day. I wave goodbye to the front desk attendant as I exit the building, and as I walk to my car, I pull out my grocery list to double-check it before heading to the grocery store to finish my errands for the day.
I walk up and down the aisles, getting what I need for the week and what Binx needs. “Box of mac and cheese, check. Yogurt, check. Canned cat food, I can’t forget it. Binx would eat my toes in my sleep, check. Milk, eggs, lettuce, ham, chicken, salad dressing, and cheese, check.” Staring at my cart now full, I silently thank myself forbringing my car, because there’s no way I could have carried all this back to my apartment.
I wait in the long checkout line since only two cashiers are working today. I'll be here for a minute, so I pick up a magazine from one of the front displays and start reading. I get two pages in before this sinking feeling washes over me that I’m being watched. I try to ignore the feeling, since I’m in public and can’t control who stares at me, but this feelsdifferent. It’s nothing I’ve ever felt before, and I don’t know if I’m scared or just paranoid about Greg finding me.
I look up from the magazine, slowly looking over my shoulder, not drawing attention to myself. I act as naturally as possible, given my inner feelings. I saw no one looking at me. Everyone’s either busy on their phones while waiting for the lines to move or looking elsewhere that wasn’t in my direction.
Get it together, Luna. You’re a paranoid mess.
I place the magazine back on the rack, move forward with the line, and try to shake off the feeling.
I need a bath and a giant glass of wine tonight. Before I head home, I'll stop by the corner store near my apartment to pick up some essentials.I take a deep breath to calm myself, and the feeling soon fades as I enter the checkout.
I hit ‘post’ on my video, and my stomach immediately sours. I decided to take a break from social media, and I just posted a video to my followers letting them know I won’t be online for a while. I know my followers will understand, but I feel like I’m letting them down. I’ve built a strong community on the app, and I hate it when I can’t give one hundred percent of myself to them, but when the comments start pouring in, all full of love and support, I breathe a sigh of relief.
I close the app and set my phone to do-not-disturb mode. I get up from my desk in my room to go to my kitchen, and I grab the jumbo wine glass I bought for my first night here, pouring about half the bottle of my favorite Riesling into it, and head for the bath.
I set the wine on the sink counter, turn to face my tiny shower-tub combo, and turn on thewater, adjusting the temperature toscalding.I remove my clothes and turn back to the pedestal sink adjacent to it. In the mirror, a cathedral-style stained glass window across from the tub catches my attention. The walls around the window are painted black, with wood accents scattered throughout, lending the room an overall Gothic feel. The window sold me on choosing this apartment. It was all I could think about after touring the place. It’s three crows sitting on tree branches with a blood-red background that swirled to the pointed peak of the window.
It’s a murder.
The realtor who showed me the apartment mentioned she had trouble leasing it because of the issue, but I think it’s perfect. The stained-glass window's edges are transparent, letting in natural light during the day, but the room is cast in a blood-red hue at sunset. I decorated it with fake plants and little knick-knacks I picked up at thrift stores when I first moved here, adding my own touch, and it’s quickly become my sanctuary.
It’s the spooky, gothic, dark romance bathroom of my dreams.
I toss my clothes into the hallway, grab my glass of wine, and step into the boiling water.
I’m going to be red like a crisp Maine lobster, but god, it feelsgood.
I set my wine glass on the side of the tub, leaning forward to grab my lighter to light the candles I keep in here for nights like this. I lean back slowly, letting the hot water soothe my achy bones.
I bring my glass to my lips and sip the sweet wine as I sink lower into the tub. I look out my window, watching the sunset; the blood-red atmosphere in my bathroom slowly fades, and the only light in the room comes from the candles I have lit.
Peace.
I take another large gulp of wine and set the glass down again. I swirl the water with my arms, sinking into the tub.
That is, until that same fear-inducing feeling I had at the grocery store today washes over me again. I pause my movements and lie still,waiting to see if I can hear anything.
When the silence of the room drags on, I feel safe enough to move again, and that’s when I hear a sound from my window. My head snaps over to it, and I catch a glimpse of an eye peeking in between the clear edge of the stained glass window.
I scream, sitting up so fast that I slosh water all over the floor, knocking my glass of wine over. I grab my towel from the rack and run into my bedroom, where I grab my phone from the nightstand to call 911.
“Hello, 911; please state your emergency and your location.” The dispatcher says.
“Hi, I live at the Ozark apartment building on 48th Street. Floor three, apartment twenty-three. I think I saw someone peeking at me through my window.” I whisper, afraid the person outside can hear me.
