Page 31 of Scaredy Cat
“I’m going home now. Thanks for this. And for last night.” This time I’m the one to initiate the hug, and Madison grasps my shoulders for an extra moment before letting me pull away.
Back in my car, I wait until Madison leaves, watching her drive away as she waves at me in her rearview mirror. I do the same, and then I open my phone, as if I’m magnetized to it.
I don’t go tohiscomment, no matter how much I want to. Just like always, I navigate my way back to the two comments that had hurt, reading over them too many times before I notice there are now replies to each of them.
God, I can’t handle people dog-piling me in the comments. Not today. But I can’t stop myself from tapping on the little arrow, and I try to brace myself for the two of them ganging up on me. Expecting their opinions to become more caustic and vehement once they’ve found they agree with one another.
It’s only entertaining if you fall for set up jump scares and overdone folk tales, sweetheart. Did you really believe that was real? Or are you just all twisted up because you’re hoping one of them will notice you for insulting her and fuck that bitchiness right out of you?
I…can’t believe what I’m reading. No matter how many times I read it, the comment by the same anonymous account as my stalker doesn’t make any sense.
So I do the sensible thing, and move to the next one.
I’m sure she’s been called worse by better. But I understand that originality probably isn’t your strong suit.
The defenses of my level of interesting and my looks are maybe a little too aggressive, and I should probably delete the comments or say something about toning it down.
But again the knots in my chest loosen, most of the hurt from the two commenters has been soothed away by my stalker’s replies. It’s not okay, and I shouldn’t be glad that he’s here, standing up for me like he really cares. That’sdangerous, I remind myself while screenshotting the comments like a stupid, lovestruck teenager about to print off her favorite online conversation and hang it on her mirror.
He’s dangerous. Madison is right, and I can’t let myself forget that. Obsession isn’t true affection, after all. Even if it tastes better on his lips than any affection I’ve ever known before.
14
“Power bank,power bank…wherefore art thou, power bank?” I nearly trip over my backpack as I walk back through the living room, stopping to look in the drawer of the little table by the door. But still, no power bank. I swear whenever I’m looking for something, it’s like it just walked the hell away. Especially lately. First my phone, then my headphones when I was about to stream. Now my power bank I’m absolutely sure was sitting on my table.
Not that it’s going to help much, even if I do find it. I have a sneaky suspicion that I didn’t plug it in last night before falling asleep after streaming, and the last time I used it to charge my phone on the go, I sucked all the juice right out of it.
Stressful anxiety stirs my stomach. I really can’t have my phone die tonight, and with all the pictures I want to take, along with some video, it’s a real possibility. The battery has definitely seen better days, and my power bank is a necessary lifeline.
“Fuck.” I stand in the middle of my living room and run my fingers through my hair with my eyes closed in frustration. “Fuck!”This is so frustrating, and I don’t know what else to do or say. I’m running late, though, and there’s no one to call me on it, given that the Mill House has been abandoned for years and isnow owned by some family that took three months to email me back to give me permission to visit. Still, I don’t want to be there all night if I can help it.
For a moment, I just stand in the living room with my glare fixed on my backpack. I’m going to have to leave, but I decide quickly to do one last walkthrough of my little house. Even if it’s not plugged in, I could get it charged up a few percent on the way if I plug it into my car.
It’s definitely not in my room, I decide after I’ve pawed through my desk drawers and my nightstand. It’s also not in my bathroom, or my living room. I’m about to walk out the door when I turn to circle through the kitchen on a whim, eyes darting to the counters I know won’t hold my?—
The rose-gold power bank is sitting neatly on the corner of one cabinet, plugged into the wall, with the lights flashing to show that it’s fully charged. I stare at it, nonplussed, like it’s somehow magically appeared, sent by alien technology to my countertop.
“That’s not…” I reach out for it, my fingers brushing the cord. It’s clearly been plugged in for hours, meaning I must have done it last night. Only, I don’t remember doing that.
At all.
Last I knew, my power bank was in my desk drawer, deader than my love life. Not out here, fully charged and ready to save me from my phone dying halfway through my little adventure. “Okay.” I curl my fingers around it and pick it up, my movements automatic, before walking over and dropping it in my backpack beside my flashlights.
This isn’tright. While I’m definitely good at putting things where they shouldn’t go, thinking that later I’ll remember, this doesn’t feel the same. No matter how much I go over the events of last night in my memory, not once do I remember plugging my power bank into the wall.
Especiallyin the kitchen. How would it end up there, anyway?
My hands feel numb as I slide into the driver’s seat of my car, my backpack on the seat beside me, but for a few seconds I just sit there.
Why would I have plugged my power bank into a wall in thekitchen? Being that I’m a shitty cook, I never spend a lot of time in my kitchen. Most of what I eat are things I can just reheat or warm up. Or food that doesn’t involve being cooked at all. I’m more likely to find cobwebs in my kitchen than the electrical device I’ve been looking for.
But surely I must’ve done it sometime in the night. Maybe in my sleep, if nothing else.
The alternative, after all, is terrifying. The idea that someoneelsedid it, someone who knew I’d need it and knew where it was, is something that’s both frightening and impossible. Even Madison isn’t that aware of where I keep things, and she certainly doesn’t know what I take with me on trips I’m using as blog content.
Besides, she hasn’t been to my house in over a week.
“Stop that,” I whisper to myself as my hands grip the steering wheel. “You’re going to freak yourself out over nothing. Just…stop it.” But it’s not that easy to juststopthinking about the idea of someone being in my house, moving things around while I’m asleep.
