Page 60 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

My heart will disintegrate.

As I watch myself in the mirror, I slip off my top. I stare at the seventeen red lines that cover my stomach and sides. Then I twist so I can glimpse the two wider and longer red slashes on my back.

Seventeen cuts from a blade.

Two long whip marks.

The Director didn't just leave internal scars.

Chapter 19

LONDYN

I GLANCE UP AT THE CAMERA for the fifth time in twenty minutes, feeling a rush like crackling fire.

Is he watching right now?

My fingers hover over the keyboard, forgetting the expense report I'm supposed to be compiling. I've mistyped the same number sequence three times, my concentration shattered by the constant awareness of that small black dome in my ceiling.

I stand abruptly, needing to move and distract myself from these thoughts. I move to the living room window and twist the blinds open just enough to peek outside at everyone going about their normal lives.

It's actually nice working at home today since the past few days I've gone into the office. My commute isn't long but it's still exhausting. Though I do have less anxiety now with Sean and Mike following like invisible shadows.

The past few days have been pretty routine. I wake up at six, do some cardio, eat, ride the subway, stop at my favorite coffee shop, go to work. At the end of the day, I ride the subway most of the way home. It's the same routine I've had for years.

The office itself has been mundane, like always. Yesterday, Josh cornered me by the coffee machine to tell me about his girlfriend's birthday surprise.

"I actually baked her a cake," he'd said, grinning. "From scratch! And it actually tasted good."

I smiled and congratulated him and, for the first time, continued with some banter. "Was the cake shaped like yoda?"

He laughed and said, "No. Just a square. But I wish!"

It was a pleasant interaction, but my mind had still been thinking of Sean.

He and Mike haven't given me any updates about suspicious people. They haven't said they've seen anyone stalking me, which means I was probably imagining it. That should be a relief. It is a relief. Mostly.

Guess I really am crazy and maybe it's time to return to therapy to talk about my paranoia.

Outside my living room window, life continues its New York rhythm. A woman pushes a stroller while talking on her phone. A delivery guy chains his bike to a lamppost. An elderly man shuffles past with his grocery cart.

A man in a navy baseball cap stops directly outside my building entrance. He just stands there, hands in his pockets, looking up at the building. Is he waiting for someone? A friend? A delivery?

He tilts his head back and our eyes seem to meet through the glass. But he can't possibly see me from this distance, through these barely-open blinds. Regardless, I duck back, my pulse hammering.

When I dare to peek again, his head is tilted back higher, like he's studying the sky or architecture. Just as I'm about to grab my phone to text Sean, another man approaches. The new guy is also wearing a navy baseball cap. They greet each other with that easy familiarity of old friends, laughing about something before walking off together.

I exhale slowly, feeling ridiculous. It was only two guys meeting up. Nothing sinister. Nothing to do with me.

I close the blinds and return to my desk, but my concentration is completely gone now. I glance back up at the living room camera.

With Sean's eyes on me, it's like I'm center stage again.

Maybe I shouldn't like this so much. Maybe I should feel nervous or shy.

I've spent six years avoiding this kind of attention, because every lingering look felt like a blade against my skin—men's eyes dissecting, evaluating, wanting. Always craving.

Sean's gaze is different.

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