Page 9 of The Road Less Traveled By

Chapter four

— I DON’T LIKE DARKNESS BY CHASE ATLANTIC

Just when I thoughtI was falling asleep for the first time in a week, I’m startled awake by a loud noise. Soft white light filters in, and the silhouettes of my furniture and personal items surround me.

There’s nobody in your house, Bree. You’re safe.

I glance over at the clock, and it reads three in the morning. Wonderful. I fumble for my phone on my bedside table and immediately open my last text thread.

Bree: Are you awake? I think I heard something.

Vince: On my way.

It should only take a few seconds since Vince is just down the hall from me, and sure enough, I hear his heavy footsteps come towards my room before my door opens.Dear lord.He’s wearing black sweatpants, no shirt, and his hair is all messy, as if I woke him up from a deep sleep. He does a quick sweep of my room, closet, and bathroom before he comes over to my bed, checking underneath it as well.

My room is big, but I keep it simple. My furniture is all white, including my bed frame, vanity, desk, and bookshelves. My walls are light gray, but you can barely see them since my shelves cover most of the space, and my carpet is light pink because that’s my favorite color. Blankets cover my bed since I’m a cold sleeper—when I sleep, that is. On the other side of my bed is my closet, and through it is my bathroom. All the rooms connect, which brings more terror for me when I think someone could be hiding, watching me while I sleep.

I shake out of my haze when his hazel eyes meet mine as he sits down on the edge of my bed. “No sounds anymore, just the light?”

He was never one to beat around the bush. “Both, actually. My noise machine has a timer on it, and it turns off after two hours when I’m hopefully asleep.”

“Ah.” He glances around my room. “Your room is clear, Bree. Where did you hear the noise?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’m going to sweep the rest of your house. Will you be okay while I’m gone?”

I nod at him before he gets up and calmly walks out of my room, shutting the door behind him. I take a deep breath before I get comfy, yanking my light pink blanket up to my chest, trying not to panic.

But trying is not the same as succeeding.

Vincejustgot back here. It’s not even been one full night, and I’m already freaking out about a noise I heard and sending him to check my whole house. God, I’m a fucking mess. When will I be able to hear loud noises without thinking of my front door being slammed open? When will I be able to stop looking over my shoulder? When will the fucking noise that clouds my brain stop?

I’m trying not to fall apart. I’m trying to pretend like I’m going to be fine and that this will be over soon, but deep down, I don't believe it. I’ll never escape this fucking torment that my own mind conjures up.

A loud noise equals someone coming for me. Small spaces lead to me trapping myself in my closet before he opened the doors and grabbed my ankles. PR packages turn into notes detailing all the things he wants to do to me. Whistling leads to remembering how he whistled while he touched me that night.

A full shiver passes through my body before I feel myself slip into the overwhelming panic.He’s here. He’s coming for me. I’m not safe. I’ll never be safe ever again.

He’s going to kill me.

This is how it starts—the notes. Finding one on my front porch was just the beginning. He’ll only get angrier, more agitated, more terrifying. At least this time, I know who he is and what he looks like, but I don't think that's enough.

I’m fucking terrified every second of every day. Since I heard he was getting out, I don't think I’ve taken a full breath. I don't know what to do because I’m not in control. He is. He’s the one who calls all the fucking shots.

And then, there’s the part where I try to grapple with what he did to me. I don't feel like I deserve to be upset about it. He didn't rape me, so why do I still feel the way I do? Why does hearing one little sound scare the fucking daylights out of me?

God, I can’t breathe. I can’t do fucking anything except trust the people around me to keep me safe.But what if it’s not enough? What if he still finds me? What if they get hurt trying to protect me?

Fuck, I can’t do this. I slither out of my bed and literally crawl to my bathroom, hoping I can get there without collapsing in on myself. My therapist taught me a trick to help get me through these attacks. She recommended a few things, but cold water—splashing it on my face, dipping my feet, hands, or neck in it, drinking it—has been the only thing that works. It gets me out of my head enough to ground me, helps my body recognize that I’mstill here, still alive.

I get into my bathroom, chest still heaving, sweat dripping down my skin. I’m almost to the sink before I feel a pair of arms wrap around my middle and place me on my countertop. I try to swat them away, but a voice permeates my head.

“It’s just me. It’s Vince. You’re safe, Bree. I’m just trying to help.”

“P-Please help,” I choke out.

“Tell me how, angel.”

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