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“Great. My ghost is a Victorian pervert,” she mutters, and I bite down on my bottom lip until I taste copper just to keep from laughing.

When she turns off her lamp, I check to make sure the hole is closed up, then pull up my jeans. Kneeling, I sweep my hands over the floorboards, searching for my dropped phone. As soon as I make contact with the warm case, I grab it and use the flashlight to find my way back to the stairs.

I read the words again, the ones that have my stomach turned inside out and dread coursing through my body. I’m unable to focus on them; my body reacts before my brain can even comprehend the message.

My phone displays a number I don’t recognize, but I know exactly who he is. He was released less than a year ago, and at first I was afraid he would reach out, but he never did and I assumed he moved on. He’s someone I’ve worked very hard to keep in my past and even that’s being generous. My thumb hovers over the screen, trembling like it’s a bomb that might explode, or maybe my life already has. I read the text.

I’ve been feeling nostalgic.

Two days ago I was on my date with Casper, literally and figuratively on top of the world. I was excited about my future; in fact it wasn’t until this text that I even stopped smiling. For the first time my life felt new and fresh, and like things were finally falling into place and moving forward.

My glance strays from the screen, focusing on the candle flame dancing in front of me on the coffee table, the one I lit because apparently I thought today was going to be peaceful. This was one of my “good” candles, one I was saving. However, today I lit it, because recently a man I like taught me that life should be lived in the present. Enjoyed . . . even celebrated. Life is short, why not treat every day like a special occasion?

My phone buzzes again and I startle at the harsh sound. I hardly recognize the woman in the photo. I’m sprawled on a filthy mattress that sits directly on top of piss-stained carpet. My thinned, mousy brown hair is a tousled mess, I don’t remember having that many bruises. Sunken eyes gaze unfocused and glassy, fixed somewhere out of frame, like I’m staring at nothing.

The photo doesn’t show the window. It was small, and someone had stapled a blanket above it like a curtain. Over time, two of the staples came loose, leaving a narrow gap where I could see a slice of sky and the branches of a tree. The leaves would come and go, and I admired it in every season. Spring buds. Summer leaves. Autumn turning those leaves fiery reds, oranges, and golds before falling away.

The damn thing kept growing every year despite the phases of inhospitable conditions: bitter cold winters, hailstorms, long stretches without rain, and summers that were so hot they turned the leaves brown and brittle. I admired the way it was stubborn enough to keep living.

My phone buzzes again. The second photo is still me, but this time with grabbing hands that aren’t mine; they aren’t his either. My fingers go numb around the phone and I attempt to swallow down the shame, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen that room. Since I’ve looked like that.

It’s no surprise that photos and videos of me exist. I recall the phones and cameras pointed at me when I was barely eighteen years old, but I have always told myself that if I changed my appearance with hair dye and tattoos, it wasn’t me anymore. Pink is my fun thing, but before that I colored it blond. What else could I do? It’s not like I knew where to track down the images; the names of these men are unknown to me, and my memory has blurred their faces. Another text.

Does the new boyfriend know what you used to do for rent money?

Casper’s face flashes in my mind. The way his mouth curves when he smiles, how fucking handsome he is all the time. The light in his eyes when he told me how proud of me he was for taking the leap out of the plane. The way his thumb lingered on my lips two days ago, and had me wanting—for the first time in years—a man to touch me and keep going.

Casper Carrows, the artist who has created the beautiful piece to cover the ugliest parts of my past. The first man I’ve trusted since recovery. He freely offered friendship and company so I wasn’t alone. No judgment, no pity, no obligations.

He’s nothing like Steve, my ex-boyfriend. Ex-dealer. Ex-abuser.

Another message pops up.

We should catch up.

My anger flares, causing my fingers to respond before I can stop them. I type out No and hit send.

He replies.

Oh, come on. I miss you. Remember how much fun we used to have? Remember how much money we used to make?

I scoff. Fun for who? And I never saw a penny of that money.

Text me again, and I’ll contact the police.

The threat doesn’t deter him.

We both know why you won’t ever do that.

My heart pounds. I shoot to my feet, pacing the floor. I refuse to return to that dirty abandoned house that smelled of sweat and burning plastic and cigarettes and misery. Back when every creak of an opening door was another hour taken off my life. Back when Steve would smile at me and tell me how much I mattered. He was the only one who told me that, and I was so desperate for those words I stayed just to keep hearing them—and because the drugs helped erase the pain of feeling nothing and feeling everything. He offered them to me like they were a mercy, and truthfully, they were.

Another photo appears on the screen, this time I’m pushed on my front.

It was taken before my back was carved up.

I picture Casper again, watching his reflection in the mirror at his workstation. Sleeves rolled up, leaning over my scars, a humming tattoo machine in his steady hand. His gaze focused and calm—safe.

Another buzz. This one is a link to a video. I know better than to press play.