Page 11 of The Hitch
A moment passes, and she curls into herself, still deep in sleep. She mumbles nonsense under her breath—dreaming, no doubt. What kind of dreams roll around in your pretty little head? What violence awaits you in sleep?
As if possessed, I tentatively reach a hand out and stroke the soft skin of her cheek. I trap my lower lip between my teeth. The warmth of her body feels… comforting. Oh, yes. She's mine.
Melody
For the second day in a row, my head is killing me. The pain feels like an ice pick lodged in my skull, and the rest of me isn't faring any better. Rubbing my face, I roll over in bed and feel a depression in the mattress.
Like someone was lying there. Still warm.
Wait, what? My eyes pop wide open, and I snake a hand to the dent in the sheets. It'sdefinitelystill warm. Could it have been me? Did I toss and turn through the night?
My lungs burn for air, but I didn't even notice I'd stopped breathing. Gasping, I slowly sit up. Someone was in here. Charlie's family? Why would they lie in my bed? Why wouldn't they just kill me in my sleep?
Maybe they're trying to terrorize me before the kill,a tiny voice echoes in the back of my mind. Fuck. That has to be it. I close my eyes and try to think. Did I dream anything strange? Everything from the past, oh, however many hours is a black void. Pressing my hands into my forehead, I strain my thoughts.
A man. I think I dreamed of a man, tall, in a dark suit. Someone I've seen before, but I can't place him. Black hair. Piercing eyes. Haunting tattoos peeking from the collar of his dress shirt. Faces. So many faces. Warped and blurred, like someone smeared their hand through an oil painting.
The man who's going to kill me. A prickling sensation washes over me, as if I'm being watched rightnow.
I yank the covers up around me and panic. Fuck.Fuck.I knew I wouldn't get away with it forever, but I didn't think they'd catch me this soon! Shit. My hands are sweating, and I can't grip anything tight enough. I think I have a knife in the kitchen. I just have to get there.
"One, two, three!" I count to myself and leap out of bed, sprinting down the tiny hall, frantically searching for the knife. But what I see on the kitchen counter stops me in my tracks.
Another goddamn rose. As if it's a bomb, I scurry backwards and keep myself pressed up to the walls, sidling along to my front door. It's locked.
It's fucking locked. Someone was in here, and they have a key. Charlie's family has a key to my apartment. The one shitty building I could find that didn't do a background check, that didn't demand payment via bank transfer, that allowed me to live out my life in obscurity.
And it's no longer safe.
Steeling myself, I begin my search to see if anything is missing. I don't have much money, and I definitely don't have that many possessions. But I can't afford to lose what Idohave.
Taking care not to disturb the rose, I open all of the kitchen cabinets. Nothing is missing. In fact, the opposite is true: there are five boxes of assorted energy bars from my favorite brand. In my fridge, I find a gallon of milk, expensive-looking cheese, whole wheat bread, and a slab of salmon wrapped in butcher paper. Fresh-cut herbs sit in small jars of water, looking as healthy as if they were still on the plant.
"What the fuck?" I whisper. What kind of game is Charlie's family playing? They're… feeding me?
Charlie's voice echoes through my mind."Fat cunt. You shouldn't be eating that. You could stand to go hungry once in a while."I shudder and slam shut the cabinet doors. This has to be some kind of mind game they're playing. It's probably poisoned.
I won't touch a single thing.
Making my way back down the hall, I check the bathroom. Nothing looks out of place, but a new unopened bottle of my shampoo rests in the shower caddy. A chill runs down my spine.
They've been watching me. They know what I like. They know what I buy. And they're lulling me into some kind of false sense of security, leaving gifts for me. Ithasto be some kind of fucked-up ploy to keep me complacent. Let my guard down, and then they strike.
Fuck that.
Back in my bedroom, I turn the place upside down, searching for anything either missing or new. Tears bubble up behind my eyes, but I won't let them fall. They're probably watching me, even now, and I won't give them the satisfaction of breaking me.
I sift through my clothes. Shirts, fine. Pants, fine. Socks, fine. I take the time to fold them nicely so that if—god forbid—this happens again, it'll be immediately apparent. The tears threatento fall again as I work. I can't afford to move again. I can't afford to pay a security deposit. And I seriously doubt I could find another place like this—pure anonymity.
The mailboxes in the lobby don't even have names affixed, just apartment numbers. It's perfect.
Just as I finish up my folding, I can't find my favorite pair of panties. Black cotton with little white skulls, cheeky boyshorts, with lace around the hems.
No, they wouldn't… would they? Why would Charlie's family take myunderwear?They want to kill me, not fuck me. Right?
My skin is slick with cold sweat, and my heart hasn't stopped pounding. I triple-checked the bathroom laundry pile as well, but no dice. I think I have to call the cops.
I'm not under any delusions that they'll be helpful, but if I get a paper trail going, maybe Charlie's fucked-up family will see some time behind bars. A giggle forces its way out of my throat. I killed him, and I want his family to do jail time. His sleazy nephew always looked at me like I was a rat, something to crush under his shoe. Phil. I think he had some tattoos, and his hair was definitely dark.
