Page 55 of Shattered Obsession

Nights are the hardest. The world quiets, and the thoughts get louder, images replaying in my mind like corrupted film. Sometimes I hear footsteps that aren’t there. Sometimes I taste blood and don’t know why. Even when nothing is wrong, my body reacts like everything is. Trauma rewires you. It teaches your nervous system that safety is a myth.

“You didn’t break anything,” Xander says, but he doesn’t see what I see when I look in the mirror: a girl who flinches at sudden sounds. A girl who doubts her own sanity. A girl who still feels like property. I grip the fabric of my shirt, desperate to anchor myself.

“Maybe you’re right,” I whisper. “Maybe I’m not broken.”

But I don’t believe it. Not yet.

Xander presses his forehead to mine, a silent urge to connect. “You didn’t ruin anything. You gave me the truth, and that means everything.” I nod, exhaling like a balloon slowly deflating. He leans in to kiss me softly, an unhurried, tender promise that declares I’m safe, that I am right here beside him.

Xander leaves briefly to shower, and I find myself sitting at the table with an empty notebook. I’ve read online that trauma therapists recommend journaling as a coping mechanism. They say to put the fear somewhere and get it out of your body. So, I try.

I saw the silver car. I don’t know if it was him. But I felt him.

My pen digs so hard into the page that the tip tears through paper. My handwriting dissolves into scratches, like my panic is spilling out faster than ink can keep up. I flip the page and try again.

Xander is installing the locks now. He wants me safe. He calls me strong. But I don’t feel strong. I feel watched.

The next night, it begins subtly, as nights often do. Another evening blurred by the routine shifts of headlights gliding past my window. But this time, I sense the difference. The car doesn’t sail by; it halts, lingering in the stillness. I freeze where I stand at the edge of the curtain, heart pounding, scarcely daring to breathe as the engine hums ominously below. My phone trembles in my hand, ready to slip from my grasp, my finger hovering over Xander’s contact like it would save me from the impending dread. Before I can summon the courage to press call, a new text arrives, slicing through the tension.

Unknown

You look good in the dark.

A sickening lurch takes residence in my stomach, and the phone slips from my grasp, crashing onto the floor with a sharp crack that echoes like a death knell. My body locks, an icy grip tightening around my chest, the air disappearing as realization blares through my mind. The number is unfamiliar, unsaved, but I know who it belongs to.

Damian.

I scramble backward, pressing myself against the wall, shaking uncontrollably. I want to scream, to flee, but my legs are heavy and unresponsive.

I grab my phone and call Xander. He answers immediately. “Thal? Baby, talk to me.” But all I can get out is a choked sob, muffled and worn-out.

Then, in a break between ragged breaths, I say, “He… texted me.”

“What did he say?”

I whisper faintly, “That I… look good in the dark. I think he’s outside.”

All Xander responds with before hanging up is, “I’m coming.”

When I finally hear Xander’s truck pull up, I run to the front window of the apartment.

From my vantage point behind the curtain, the scene unfolds like a nightmarish blur. I see Xander’s powerful figure as he lunges forward, his hand fisting Damian’s shirt, slamming him hard against the hood of his car. Shouts explode into the night, sharp and violent, reverberating around me in a chaotic symphony of anger. My chest constricts painfully; this is no longer just a shadowy threat but a very real confrontation. Flesh and bone, raw and visceral, are about to clash in a storm of pent-up rage. Someone is going to bleed.

By the time I wrench the door to my apartment open, I can already hear the sickening thud of flesh against metal. Xander has Damian pinned against the hood of the silver car, his fist crashing into his jaw repeatedly. Blood sprays with each strike, bright under the parking lot lights.

“Xander!” My voice cracks as I run barefoot across the pavement. My heart hammers, throat tight, the air filled with grunts and curses.

“Stay inside, Thalia!” he barks, never looking at me, his knuckles splitting as they slam into Damian’s face again. But I don’t listen. I can’t. I skid to a stop a few feet away, my chest heaving. Damian’s laughing, choking on his own blood.

“What’s the matter, lover boy? Scared I’ll take her back?”

Xander roars, grabbing him by the throat, squeezing until Damian’s face turns red, then purple.

For a terrifying moment, I realize he’s not going to stop. He’s going to kill him. I lunge forward, clutching at his arm. “Xander, no! Please! Don’t!”

His chest heaves, muscles trembling under my grip. His eyes are wild, almost feral, but when they flick to me, when he sees my tears, they soften just enough. His grip slackens, and Damian collapses against the hood, gasping.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Xander snarls, shoving him toward the driver’s side.