I turn from the pathetic excuse for a man and stroll out of the alley between the two derelict brick buildings on Cooper Street. Despite my eagerness to get to Abigail, I keep a leisurely pace as I make my way across town to the market. With each step, anticipation coils my muscles, until my entire body thrums with the thrill of the hunt.
In a matter of hours, Abigail will be mine.
Then I can punish her for shutting me out last night. She’s never been scared off by my perverse messages as GentAnon before; she thrives on the dark thrill of the fantasies we share online.
But she logged off and refused to respond to my demands for a reply.
An echo of the frustration that’d clawed at me all night rakes my insides with an aggravating sting.
She refused a date with me when I asked her out at the café yesterday, and she denied me as GentAnon last night. We’ve been messaging for months, and I can’t bear the wait to claim her in every way.
It’s time for me to escalate my plans to possess Abigail.
9
ABBY
Franklin shoots me a broad grin from across the bustling market aisle. I force my lips into a semblance of a smile. They twitch at the corners, but long practice allows me to keep my appearance outwardly cheery. I learned at a young age to remain poised under the most stressful circumstances.
I feel my back going ramrod straight, adopting the perfect posture that was enforced at my mother’s dining table. I’m determined to overcome my social anxiety so that I can sell my art.
No matter how shaken I am after my awful nightmare and sleepless hours at my canvas.
I straighten my bright pink t-shirt, reminding myself of the bold black words emblazoned on the front:ON WEDNESDAYS WE SMASH THE PATRIARCHY.
It’s Saturday, but that doesn’t bother me. It’s the overall, confident vibe of the outfit that counts.
I offer Franklin a little dismissive wave, encouraging him to focus on his sales. My friend’s gaze turns back to the tourist who’s admiring his sculptures. He’s so much more skilled atselling his art than I am. Maybe if I were less socially awkward, I would earn enough to cover my rent.
As it is, I can’t survive without my barista job.
Selling my work is stressful, but it’s the only way to share my art. My landscapes will have to be enough to leave my mark on the world in some limited way.
In an attempt to be more personable, I gather my courage and step around to the front of my stall, just to the right of my paintings. I make deliberate, friendly eye contact with a potential customer. The elderly man returns my smile before his gaze skates over my work. He offers me a kind nod of acknowledgement but keeps walking through the market.
My heart sinks slightly, but my smile remains fixed in place. Franklin captures my attention again and gives me a thumbs-up.
Then his eyes slide past me and widen.
“Abby!” he exclaims, pointing to something behind me.
I whirl, and my heart leaps into my throat.
A man is behind my table. He’s clutching my secondhand purse. The purse itself is too worn to be worth anything—the pale yellow, quilted fabric is wearing thin, and the bluebell pattern has faded over time. There’s not a lot of cash inside. I’ve only made fifty dollars from selling one painting this morning, but I need that money to buy food this week.
“Hey!” I shout, instinctively lunging for my purse to save the precious funds.
The man’s brown eyes meet mine, wide and a bit wild. His brow is creased with anxiety, and his shaved head is shiny with sweat.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say quickly. “Just leave it. Please.”
His jaw firms, and his fist crushes my purse.
I’m blocking his way to the exit. Not out of bravery; the market is busy, and my stall is at the end of the row.
“Please,” I repeat, more desperately this time. “I won’t call the cops if you just?—”
He surges toward me, and I stumble back. Rough hands shove my shoulders, forcing my falling body out of his way. Stinging pain scrapes my palms as I hit the concrete floor.
