Page 53 of Shattered In Darkness

I lose track of time.

It starts small, like it always does. Keys not where I left them, a favorite lipstick gone, a mug turned so the chipped handle faces the wall instead of the door. Stupid things, easy to blame on myself. I’m tired, I’m careless, I’m losing it again. Maybe it’s the drugs, or the sleepless nights. Maybe it’s Marcus, shifting things when he’s angry, silently punishing me for slights I can’t remember.

But the feeling lingers. The prickling on the back of my neck when I cross the living room at midnight, every muscle tight, waiting for a voice to cut the dark. The way the air feels heavier in my bedroom, like someone’s just slipped out as I step in. The silence that presses in after.

I keep busy. That’s what survivors do. I run errands for Marcus, ducking my head, pretending not to notice the way his friends watch me. I clean the kitchen twice, three times, until the smell of bleach stings my nose and makes my eyes water.

I snap at my reflection in the hallway mirror, “You’re fine, Lola. You’re not crazy.”

The mirror doesn’t answer. It never does.

Tuesday night, I find my phone on the windowsill, screen open to the camera app. I don’t remember putting it there. There are photos. Blurry, low light, the outline of my own sleeping body curled in bed. My stomach flips, cold and empty. I scroll back. The file info says 2:41 a.m. I don’t wake easily. Whoever took these had time.

I think about showing Marcus. My fingers hover over the door to his study, but I stop. He’ll blame me. He’ll say I left the window open, that I invited trouble, that a girl like me should expect to be watched. He’ll make me pay for it.

Deleting the photos, I turn the phone off and wrap it in a T-shirt at the bottom of my laundry basket. I won’t sleep tonight anyway. The next morning, I find a single black rose on my pillow. There are no words, no note, just petals, crushed and velvety, staining the white case with faint bruises.

I stare at it as my brain scrambles for logic. Marcus doesn’t waste time with flowers. He likes gifts you can’t throw away. Handcuffs, silk scarves, bruises that last for days. Someone was here. Someone close enough to stand over me while I slept.

I don’t tell Sophie; she has her own problems. I miss her. I miss the way she used to laugh, the way she’d make popcorn at midnight and drag me out of my nightmares with stupid movies.

Now I’m alone with the darkness, and it’s getting harder to pretend it isn’t alive.

I keep moving. I go to work. I pose for a new set of photos, the kind that make me feel like a cardboard cutout with tits. The photographer is new, hands rough, eyes bored. He doesn’t talk much; that’s almost a relief.

When I come home, the living room smells different. Like smoke, sweat, and a stranger’s aftershave. I pause in the doorway, heart pounding. The air is cold, the curtains shifting in a draft I can’t find. I push the window shut, lock it, check it twice. I check the bathroom: nothing. The kitchen: the same. My bedroom: bed made, pillow fluffed, black rose gone. I blink. Did I imagine it? Was it ever really there? I feel stupid for even wondering. My mind is a maze, and I’m lost somewhere in the center, walls closing in.

The next morning, there’s a note slid under my bedroom door. No envelope, just paper. Square, thick, expensive.

I see you.

You’re never alone.

My hands shake so hard I nearly drop it. I crumple the note and stuff it into my makeup bag, beneath the powder I never use. My lips feel numb, the room spinning around me. I check the locks again. Every window, every door. I want to believe I’m safe, but the feeling won’t go away. Someone is watching. Someone is waiting.

Every time I close my eyes, I feel breath on my skin, a weight at the edge of the mattress. I wake with my heart pounding, nails digging into my palms, sheets soaked with sweat. The dark feels crowded.

On Thursday, Marcus calls me into his study. He’s in a mood, suit crisp, cologne sharp enough to sting. He doesn’t look up from his laptop when I enter.

“Sit,” he says, voice flat. I sit, knees tight together, hands in my lap. He finally glances up. His eyes are black, unreadable. “You’ve been distracted lately, Lola. That’s not acceptable.”

I force a smile. “Just tired. Long week.”

He watches me, cold and slow. “Don’t lie to me. If you’re seeing someone, if you’re hiding something, I’ll know. You know what happens if you keep secrets.”

My pulse stutters. “I’m not hiding anything.”

He lets the silence stretch, a leash wrapped around my throat. “Good,” he says at last. “Because I’d hate to have to remind you what happens to bad girls.”

I nod, throat tight. When he dismisses me, I walk out on jelly legs. I check my phone; no new messages, nothing from the unknown number. I almost wish there was.

That night, the messages start.

The first one comes at 2:11 a.m. My phone vibrates under my pillow, loud enough to wake me from a tangle of nightmares. I blink blearily at the screen.

Your window is open. I could touch you if I wanted.

I bolt upright. The window is shut, locked. I can see my own reflection, mouth open, eyes wild with fear.