AllFreeNovel
Share Us
26
Sky
My phone buzzesdragging me out of dreams about stalkers breaking into my flat. In my dream, I escaped with Dylan, and we sat outside the beach house reading until the house was struck by a tsunami. Bizarre. Tsunamis aren’t a feature of the English climate.
Opening an eye, I pull the phone into the bed. A text from Tara.
Still lying down, I hit the screen to dial her number. "What? It’s Saturday and early."
"He stepped things up."
My half-asleep brain struggles to catch up. "Who? What? Tara, I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well last night."
"I’m texting you a picture. You really need to start watching social media and looking out for yourself."
"At this rate I’m going back to Cornwall, or emigrating. What now?"
I put the call on hold and wait for the beep from Tara’s text message, a screenshot from Twitter, time stamped around 3A.M. this morning. More drunken Dylan antics?
Beneath the Twitter profile of @Real_DylanM:
Underneath, a long list of tweets profess love for him; other responses bitch about me.
The phone beeps again. Another picture. Another tweet. This is a picture of Dylan uploaded by someone else—not a paparazzi picture because the shot of Dylan and the band looks staged. They’re conversing, heads together but Dylan stares into space with the lost look of a love-struck teen. A tweet attached from profile @DMfanforever:
Again a list of replies, some questioning why he’s so cut up about me, when I'm clearly not worth his love, while others suggest they should find and talk to me.
Panic seizes my chest.Talk to me. Does Dylan know what he’s doing? Of course he does. I climb out of bed and throw on my robe, dragging fingers through my mess of hair. My bedroom window overlooks the street and with trepidation, I open the curtains a tiny amount and peek out.
Then wish I hadn’t. There are at least twenty people hanging around the garden, sitting on the wall or doorstep, waiting. Holding the windowsill, I stare in dizzy disbelief at the unreal scene below. Me. They’re waiting forme.Tears prick my eyes and I sit on the floor, back to the wall.
I startle as my phone rings again.
"I hope your accounts are private," says Tara, my social media guru, "because they’ll dig up any dirt on you they can. He’s confirmed you’re in his life now, whether you like it or not."
“Dylan can’t do this," I say hoarsely, "why is he doing this to me?"
"Because he’s in love with you?"
No. Because he’s accustomed to people doing what he says, and always gets what he wants. Instead of letting go, he’s outing me. This is fucked up.
"You don’t do this to people you love. He’s trying to manipulate me."
Tara doesn’t respond.
"There’s a crowd of people outside my flat. How do I get out? He’s trapped me!”
"Really?" The excitement in her voice pisses me off.
"This isn’t a game, Tara. This is my life. Fuck." In anger, I hang up and throw the phone across the room. How could he do this to me?
I’ve no idea whether the fans outside are friendly or not, but I sure as hell don’t want to be photographed. As I shower, I mull over my options. Run? Stay? Talk to him and call him an unpleasant and choice name I reserve for those who are above and beyond dickheads, one he’s joined the ranks of.
