Page 2 of Their Darkest Needs

I grab the soap and rub it over my skin, the smell of lavender filling the space around me. Whenever I feel stressed, this is one of the things I do to make my mind quieter. The other thing is listening to music, but this is definitely what works best for me. I relax into the water, breathing in the scent and just letting all the stress go.

When I’m done soaping up, I grab the showerhead and hold it closer to my body, making the soap—and metaphorically speaking, the bad energy of today—drip down my body, into the drain. Once all is successfully removed, I up the stream level and guide it towards my pussy. There’s nothing that helps me sleep better than a good orgasm.

The feeling of the pressure of the water against my sensitive spots makes me moan instantly. I grab my breast and pinch my nipple while thinking of my stalker breaking into my bathroom while I’m in the shower, watching me play with myself. I imagine him wearing some creepy hockey mask. He pulls out his huge, hard cock and starts to stroke himself while staring at me with an intense gaze. I bite my lip and give him a show, only our grunts and moans filling the room. He stops his strokes and walks into my shower, grabbing the showerhead from my hand, and pushing me up against the wall with one hand against my throat, while he puts the stream at a maximum against my throbbing pussy. My moans are getting louder and I can feel thepeak of my orgasm coming. “Oh fuck!” I lean my arm against the wall to steady myself and take a couple of breaths. It should be dangerous, thinking of my stalker that way, who knows who this person even is, but I’m too tired right now to think about any of that.

I place the shower head back and step out to dry off and go to bed.

BANG!

I jump up at the loud noise and frantically search for and grab my gun that is hidden away in my nightstand. Whatever this is, it's not good. Am I going to get taken or worse? I try to hold back all the horrible thoughts. Panicking right now is not a good idea. I need to keep it together.

Loud footsteps stomp up my stairs, and my breath hitches while all my hairs stand up. Fuck this is bad, really, really bad. I unlock the safety of my gun and hold it out in front of me. I know I’ll only have a couple of seconds to make the shot once this person opens my door.

I quickly jump out of bed and run to the side of my door, right before it flies open and —BANG—the gun goes off, hitting the stranger in his leg.

I pull the trigger again, but an empty click sounds instead. I curse myself and try to hold back the feeling of impending doom that starts to take over. The huge bear-like man lying on my floor starts to laugh like some maniac. I can’t see his face because he has a balaclava over his head, but I’m imagining him being an ugly bastard.

“Your gonna regret that bitch!” he roars while getting back up like I didn’t just shoot him in the fucking leg. I scream while running away from the man. I think he likes it because I’m surehe’d been able to grab me over there if he wanted to. What if he gets off on this? There are a lot of sick people in this world.Shit, shit, shit!I knew something was up, I just fucking knew it! I should have just gone with my gut and called the cops or something. Why did he even wait this long to attack me?

My hair gets pulled back, making me yelp. I fly backward, my head hitting the floor. Hot searing pain temporarily takes over, and it takes a while for me to register what exactly just happened. I groan out in pain while the man pulls me by my hair back up onto my feet and starts to drag me to the living room. I wait until he lets go of my hair, and then kick him in his leg right where I shot him. He curses and doubles over. I use this as an opportunity to get the fuck out of here. Running to my kitchen—because that’s where all the knives are—I grab the biggest one I see. I don’t know if I’ll even be able to stab the man, but I gotta try, right?

I turn around, hoping I still have time to get to the back door, but my assailant grabs me and slams my head against the kitchen counter.

I think I drop the knife, my head is throbbing, and my vision is blurry. I can feel something wet and warm dripping down my face.

There’s a heavy pressure on my neck, making it hard for me to breathe. Why can’t I breathe anymore?

I frantically move, trying to get whatever is pressing on my neck off, but it won’t budge. Blackness fills my vision until it fully takes over.

Igroan, trying to open my eyes. They feel so heavy and everything hurts so bad. I feel like I got run over by a lorry. What the fuck happened?

“Taylor, it’s okay. Can you open your eyes?” I move my head to where the voice comes from and wince at the stabbing pain that comes from my neck all the way to my head. Slowly, I try to open my eyes, but the light is blinding me. I feel like I'd be better off just with my eyes closed and unmoving.

“I think it’s too light in here, close the blinds, Angelina.”

Who are these people? When the room is darker, I’m finally able to open my eyes without burning them, and I take in the scene before me.

The room is white, there are tubes attached to my arm, and a machine next to me is beeping

“Am I in the hospital?” I try to remember what happened, but it’s all foggy, and my head hurts too much. The last thing I remember doing is helping Mara move her stuff from her dorm to her place.

“What happened? Who are you?” I croak. Unease fills me, and I notice I have a tattoo on my left arm. It looks like angel wings. When did I get that?

“You were attacked. Your husband heard the commotion coming home from work and scared the man off, he’s talking to the police now. You have a concussion, but nothing severe. Just rest and don’t watch any screens untilyou're cleared — likely a few days, but it could be a couple of weeks. It’s mandatory.”

I look at the nurses and frown. My what? Since when am I married?

“I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong person. I don't have a husband.” Both seem worried when I finish my sentence.

“Taylor, do you know the date and year we're in?” the nurse, who I think is Angelina, asks while changing the fluid linked to my arm.

“I think it’s November 26th or 27th, 2019.” Angelina looks at the woman behind her. The nurse seems strained and has her lips shut in a tight line.

The older nurse opens her mouth, holding out a glass of water.

“I think you might be suffering from amnesia. You hit your head pretty hard, it’s not uncommon for it to happen.” Her eyes soften in what feels like pity. I hate it when people look at me like that. They must be mistaken.

“Well, what day is it then?” I demand, anger slightly seeping out of my tone.

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