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I’m not acting like it now, though. There could be consequences here. Emerson could be angry about the windows and the wasted paint. I stifle the urge to undo it so he doesn’t see. If he never knows, he’ll never have the chance to retaliate.
No point, in the end. I’m not leaving, my heart says. It beats it out again and again under that concrete weight. I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving.
The only way out is the ocean. The ridiculous, unreachable ocean. I couldn’t jump into the icy water if I tried. Can’t break the windows. Can’t sidestep Emerson. He’s too strong and the house is a fortress.
Unless…
It’s not.
The lock on the door didn’t seem fancy. It seemed like a pretty normal lock. Connected to his phone, somehow, but there weren’t any cameras on it. No complicated hardware. His brother just flipped it shut and locked me in.
I could unlock it.
A ribbon of lime green follows the path I’d take once I stepped through that door. Straight to the gate. That’s how far I’d get. Emerson would know. The lock might not be anything special but he’s got alerts. Alarms. Heading toward the road would be the same as running right into his arms.
In the other direction is a cold, forbidding sea. It’s not good when your only option is a winter ocean. In this fantasy, I’m a good swimmer. How long would I have to swim, really? Only far enough to find a phone.
The real issue is Emerson. In order to pull that off—nevermind the swimming, and the fact that I might freeze to death—is that I’d need him to be distracted. I’ve never seen Emerson distracted. I’m not sure he can be distracted.
He’s obsessed.
A stalker.
A terrible, evil man.
My thoughts put up a little fight about that one. He hasn’t exactly hurt me. Or tortured me. Emerson refuses to let me go hungry. That could be a form of torture. Keeping me alive to endure this.
Endure getting fucked, a voice taunts. The way you like.
“Well,” I say to nothing, to no one, “how would I know? He’s the only one I’ve ever done that with.”
The only man you’ve ever wanted enough.
Jesus. I hate this voice, whoever she is. She’s too honest and right. It’s not like I haven’t had invitations over the years. Boys asking me on dates. None of them rose to the level of Emerson.
The ocean’s receding now. I’m concealing myself from it. Putting a wall between us. It doesn’t get to watch me anymore.
“Fuck you,” I tell the waves. “You’re not looking now, are you? Can’t see a damn thing.”
Talking to the ocean is definitely a sign that I’m losing it. Water isn’t sentient. It’s not the swells that have been watching. It’s just Emerson. The worst, lowest admission is that I like when he’s watching. The warmth and the hot focus of it. I like it. I want it. I wish he was watching me now. The sickest, most twisted thing I’ve ever wanted.
I’ve never wanted to be a captive. I wanted to be free. That’s why I came. I thought this was freedom, but it’s a cage.
A frame in a gallery. Nailed to the wall.
“Why?” I can’t make my voice go above a whisper. “Why would you think I’d want this?”
What I’m really asking is, how did you know? How did he know I would love this room? That I would seethe at this room? That I would, in spite of myself, long to be at a canvas here? How did he know that about me? I’ve never said that to anyone.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Paint upon paint. Formless shapes.
I don’t look for Emerson.
I don’t so much as turn my head.
If he wants to see me, I will. If he wants me to see him, I will. That’s what I’ve learned about Emerson. If he wants me to know he’s here, I’ll know it.
He waited for me outside my apartment. He came inside my apartment. I can feel him waiting here, too. In the house.
