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He never liked that my father named me Rhett. He said I needed a woman’s name, a softer name, a more feminine name.
Looking back, that should have been the first red flag, a sign of what was to come. Him slowly, methodically doing everything in his power over time to make me softer, smaller, until I cowered.
He calls me Betty. Betty Boo, Betty Cakes, or when we’re tangled in bed, my least favorite, Sweaty Betty.
Never by my name.
“I know you’re here. Somewhere. Come out, come out, wherever you are, Betty Boo. I just want to talk to you.”
Talk… Yeah, right.
His idea of talking is using deadly words in that sultry-syrupy tone that first melted me. I still remember the first time I locked gazes with his bottle-green eyes.
Hey there, pretty girl. Name’s Trevor. What’s yours?
His velvet voice once made my insides warm. Now, I cringe at the sound as he calls for me again.
“Let’s talk.”
Talking… probably while holding a metaphorical dagger to my heart. And a knife to my throat. The cold metal blade of the knife? Not a metaphor.
I’ve felt it once before.
The tiny thread of comfort I cling to is the knowledge he doesn’t actually know whether or not I’m here.
I left one week ago.
After the knife incident.
It was an empty threat. He let me go afterward, laughing as he released me. He’d found my limit.
I’d laid in bed, trembling, waiting for him to fall asleep. Grabbed my purse and the few clothes I could hold in my arms and ran to my car. Tore down the road with tears blurring my vision and my heart beating out of my chest.
But there’s one precious item he knew I would come back for. One thing worth the risk. He must be leaving work from time to time to come back and try and catch me in the act.
Today, he has.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight. If I can’t see him, he can’t see me—right? I’m hoping the old suitcase I’ve slid in front of me is enough to hide me. I tuck my face between my kneecaps, wrapping my arms around my legs tight, an attempt to hold myself together.
Bootsteps…
Heavy. Determined. Slow-moving. The pace reminds me of a sleek black panther stalking his prey.
They grow closer.
With each echoey step, my breaths grow sharper, shallower. My head goes light from lack of oxygen. The thrumming heat of anxiety sickens me. I squeeze my legs so tight my arms ache.
He’s coming closer. He’s in the bedroom. “Betty Boo. I know you’re in here.”
The tone is low, laced with the promise of violence.
No need to scream for help.
All the neighbors that Trevor’s friends with are your woman, your business kind of men. What I wouldn’t give to have a cop for a neighbor right now.
Part of me wants to just give up. Crawl out of this closet. Stop this horrible feeling of being stalked.
The terrible dread of waiting to be found is almost too much. Almost. I know I need to stay strong and stay hidden. It would be stupid to show myself now.
