I’ll have to make it a point to check the cameras before I get home to make sure his car isn’t there. If he’s home, I can try staying gone until he’s asleep or just rush straight into my library like before. What a way to live! Usually, when he gets wound up like that, he leaves for anywhere from 3 days to a week or even two. God knows where he goes.
10
Lila
The words on thepage blur as I sink deeper into my lavender chair. This horror novel should terrify me, but compared to what's been happening, fictional monsters seem almost comforting. My library wraps around me like a cocoon. The one place in this house where I can breathe. Eli’s been gone for a few days now, disappeared after our fight, just like I predicted. A few days of blessed silence, of sleeping without one eye open. But as I turn the page, a flicker of movement outside my window catches my eye, and every muscle in my body tenses at once.
I freeze, book forgotten in my lap. The dune grass outside my window sways in the evening breeze, backlit by moonlight. Nothing there. Maybe it was just….
There. A shadow shifts, too solid to be grass, too deliberate to be wind. I squint, leaning forward in my oversized chair. The silhouette of a man emerges from the darkness,standing perfectly still among the tall grass. My heart hammers against my ribs. It’s him. The masked man.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t try to hide. Just stands there, watching. Even from this distance, I can make out the dull green X’s over his eyes, the exposed lower half of his face. The mask that haunts my dreams now. A small blue glow illuminates the bottom edge of his face, his phone screen. My breath catches in my throat.
Is he... is he watching me through the cameras? The same cameras Eli uses to control me?
I grab my phone from the side table, fingers trembling as I open the security app. The feed is crystal clear. No static this time. From the camera angle, I can see myself sitting in my chair, book open, hair falling wild and all over the place. I look small. Vulnerable.
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. He’s hacked into our system. He’s watching me through Eli’s cameras. I check the other angles: living room, kitchen, upstairs hallway, all functioning perfectly. Has he been watching me all this time? While I sleep? While I shower?
I should call the police. But what would I tell them? That a man is standing in the dunes on the outskirts of my property? That someone might have hacked my security system? Last time they came, they found nothing. Told me to call if “anything else happens.”
My mouth goes dry. I know this isn’t normal, isn’t right. But there’s something about the way he stands there, so patient, so still. Not trying to break in, not threatening me directly. Just... watching. As if he’s content just to see me.
God, I must be losing my mind. This is exactly how women in horror movies end up dead.
I set my book aside and stand, my legs unsteady beneath me. The smart thing would be to block the window again, hide in the darkness. But I’m tired of hiding, tired of being afraid. If Eli has taught me anything, it’s that showing fear only makes things worse. I mean, I like it. But not Eli’s variety. He actually hurts me and won't stop, no matter how many times I tell him to.
The kitchen is dark when I enter, moonlight spilling across the marble island. I move toward the butcher block, fingers wrapping around the largest knife. The one with the black handle and a blade that gleams even in the darkness. The weight of it is reassuring in my palm.
I glance at the nearest camera, mounted in the corner above the refrigerator. Its dim red light blinks steadily. Watching. Recording. I lift the knife so it catches the moonlight, making sure it’s visible to the camera. I want him to see it. To know I’m not defenseless.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.
I wave the knife slowly in front of the camera, a clear message. Then I turn and walk back to my library, knife clutched tightly in my fist. My heart still pounds, but there’s something else mixed with the fear now, a strange, electric thrill. For once, I’m the one making someone else nervous. I’m the one with power.
Back in my library, I approach the window cautiously. He’s still there, still watching. The moon highlights the strong line of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest. I can see the slight tilt of his head as he studies me. Does he know I can see him too? Does he want me to?
I reach for the lamp beside my chair and switch it off. The room plunges into total darkness, my eyes taking amoment to adjust. But now I can see him more clearly without the glare of interior lights on the window. He hasn’t moved, but his posture has changed somehow. More alert, more intrigued.
We stand like that, separated by glass and distance, watching each other in the darkness. Minutes stretch like hours. My arm grows tired from gripping the knife so tightly, but I refuse to set it down. If he makes one move toward my window, I’ll—what? Scream? Attack? Run?
His shoulders move slightly, a silent laugh. As if he finds this little standoff amusing. As if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. The blue glow of his phone lights up again, illuminating the bottom half of his face. I catch the hint of a smile and a dimple in his chin.
My phone buzzes on the chair where I left it. Without taking my eyes off him, I reach back with my free hand and grab it.
Unknown Number:You’re beautiful when you’re angry.
The words send a chill down my spine. I glance back up, and he’s holding his phone, watching for my reaction. I should be terrified. I should be calling the police right now. Instead, I feel something unfamiliar unfurling in my chest. A dark, hungry curiosity.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly. Before I can talk myself out of it, I type:
Me:Who are you?
I watch him read the message, watch his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. He types something, then pauses, then deletes it. Typesagain.
Unknown Number:Someone who sees you. And not just through your window.
The simplicity of it, the truth in it, hits harder than any threat could. When was the last time anyone truly saw me? Not as property, not as a responsibility, but as a person? I type back:
