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My nerves were as good as fried as I started the climb to the treehouse. One wooden step at a time, I ventured upward, my ears not detecting a single sound. The further up I went, the more my heart ached.
How could I explain the way I felt? It made no sense to me. Trying to put words to it would only make me feel more useless than I already did.
I crawled up into the treehouse, and the moment I did, I saw nothing. Nothing more than a pile of clothes and everything else he’d left here. My stomach tightened, a queasy feeling surging through me as I studied the abandoned items.
Brett wasn’t here. He really did leave. I didn’t know why a part of me had hoped that he’d come back, why I wanted to see him again. Our whole relationship was based on lies, lies all around, lies to everyone.
But not ourselves—or, at least, that’s what I’d foolishly thought. Now he was somewhere out in the world, doing whatever, and I was so alone I could feel it in my bones.
Well, there was no point in lingering, so I crawled back down, returned to the house, grabbed my bag, and went to class.
Tried to, anyway. Didn’t get far once I got to campus. I parked my car in the lot and turned her off. I was seconds from getting out of the car when my whole body was wracked with an uncontrollable urge to cry.
For someone who was sad practically all the time, I really didn’t cry that often. I used to, but eventually those tear ducts of mine had dried up, no longer able to produce any salty tears. As I leaned back in the driver’s seat, I closed my eyes.
My first mistake, because when I closed my eyes, the first teardrop fell, cascading down the curve of my cheek and clinging to my jawline.
Once the first tear fell, it became all too easy to drown in them, easier for more to follow. More water escaped the corners of my eyes. I cried. I let myself be swallowed up by the emotions waging war inside me, the helplessness that battled with the depression. The regret, the guilt, the longing.
No one ever really told you how hard it was to keep going. To keep living when all you felt like doing was giving up.
I didn’t know how long I sat there, with my head leaning back against the headrest, with tears falling down my face, but it was a while. Long enough that I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it to class. Long enough that I decided to sit there in my car and not move. After all, what was the point?
I got the tears under control—that, or I’d cried out all of them. I didn’t go to wipe my face; I left the dried-up water on my skin, a reminder of how broken I was.
Brett obviously never cared. I was so dumb for thinking he did. He was a serial killer who’d only stuck around because I’d helped him. A quid pro quo situation. The moment I’d told him to leave, of course he’d gone. What else would he have done? Fought to stay around? Declared his eternal love for me, some random girl who was obviously fucked up in the head, who’d hit him with her freaking car and planned on leaving him there?
Yeah, there wasn’t much to love.
Time was a funny thing when you were depressed. Sometimes it passed so slowly it was like you watched eternity stroll on by, while other times you blinked and it was gone; dissociation for the win.
Today was one of the latter, because when I opened my eyes next, I saw it was past lunch time. I didn’t know if I’d fallen asleep for a little while since I hadn’t gotten a wink the two nights before or what, but it was clear I couldn’t go to my afternoon class like this. I had to go home. Go home, clear my head, try to get back into a routine.
And wait for my stalker to make his next move.
It was funny. Not in the ha-ha kind of way, but more in the ironic sense: right when I had that thought, my phone rang. I knew who it was before I reached for it, and I didn’t need to look at the screen to know who was calling.
I answered it, whispering, “What do you want now?” My voice came out soft and faint, but a deadly sort of calm.
The low, altered voice spoke on the other side, “Well, well. Someone’s cranky today. Didn’t get much sleep after you broke up with your boyfriend?”
“Fuck you.” And then I ended the call and threw my phone onto the passenger’s seat. It bounced once, and as it slid into the base of the seat, I saw the screen lighting up again, flashing with the word RESTRICTED on it.
I turned my head, glancing all around, half-expecting my stalker to be nearby, on the sidewalk that surrounded the whole parking lot, somewhere close. But I didn’t see anyone. It was a dead zone—maybe because classes were in session and campus always got quieter during those times.
I ignored the call as I turned my car on and backed it up out of the parking spot. I got on the road and drove home, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. My stalker may have called again, but I dutifully ignored that call, too.
When was the asshole going to realize I didn’t want to talk to him? When was it going to sink into his thick skull that he’d never be able to have me? No one could. Someone else had already taken too much of my soul years ago, and the parts he’d taken were not parts I could ever reclaim.
I made it home and I left my bag in my car. The only thing I grabbed was my phone—right as the asshole called me yet again. I went inside the house, pushing my back against the front door as I answered it, “I’m not in the mood today. In fact, I’m not in the mood at all for your stupid games. Why don’t you come to the house and show yourself, hmm? You know where I live.”
All he said was, “Tempting.”
My chest got tight at that, and suddenly it felt hard to breathe. I pushed off the front door and stormed into the kitchen, pulling out the biggest knife in the silverware drawer.
Could I kill someone? I didn’t know if I was capable, mentally or physically. I wasn’t that strong. Weak as a cat. Could I physically plunge a knife into someone’s neck? Into their chest? Could I stab them while going for the kill and be mentally sound afterward?
I think we all knew the answer to those questions. That was why I’d wanted Brett to do it. Killing someone with the intent to murder and accidentally hitting someone with your car were two very different things.
