Page 9 of Psychotic Faith
"Legal justice," I repeat, louder this time, standing on unsteady legs. "Through the system. The right way. Even though every night I dream of the wrong way."
I leave the notebook on the gravestone for another moment, evidence of my obsession laid bare. If my mysterious guardian is watching, let him see. Let him understand that Trent Neumann is mine to destroy.
Even if my dreams suggest darker hungers than any decent human should have.
I check my watch—6:45 a.m. If I run hard, I can still get five miles in before work. The cemetery path leads directly to Lincoln Park, my usual route. I tuck the notebook back in my pack and start running, needing the burn in my lungs, the ache in my legs, something physical to chase away the ghosts.
Someone's following. I can feel it even though I can't see them, a presence keeping pace despite my speed. I'm fast for a civilian—sub-eight-minute miles even after three years. But my guardian isn't civilian, is he?
I push harder, taking a sudden left, doubling back through an alley. Testing. The presence stays with me, patient and persistent as shadow.
The sun sets as I return to my apartment, exhausted from memories, confessions, and the longest run I've done in months. Last night's discovery of the blurry Polaroid at 3 a.m. still unsettles me. Someone so close while I slept, placing paper prayers on my pillow. On my doorstep now sits another one, this one pristine white against the dark paint. My heart races as I pick it up, finding an image of me walking outside the library with a pensive look on my face. Inside, under better light, I flip it over with trembling fingers. A single word in those same precise block letters: "WHY?"
He was there. Watching. Saw the notebook, heard my confession.
The picture feels warm in my hands, as if he just developed it. I imagine him watching the ink form on the paper, creating my image out of nothingness. The same hands that might have sharpened my knife, that fixed my blanket while I slept. A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with fear.
I fold a square from newspaper, pressing it in half. Inside, I write simply: "Justice."
The window by the fire escape becomes my messenger point. I place the message there, visible from the street, from rooftops, from wherever he watches. Then I wait, too wired to even attempt sleep.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he understands. If he judges me for my violent dreams or my need for legal vindication. The thought of his eyes on me, knowing my darkness now, makes heat pool between my thighs. I shouldn't feel this pull toward someone so dangerous. Shouldn't imagine what kind of man leaves something as delicate as a Polaroid while watching from shadows.
At exactly three a.m., I hear it. The whisper of paper sliding under my door.
Another picture waits on my floor, red paper borders this time, me in sharp focus wearing my favorite green jacket. My hands shake as I flip it, already knowing this question will be harder.
"Justice or revenge?"
Such a simple question that cuts straight to the bone. I think of the promises I made. Of Neumann's crimes. Of dreams where justice looks different than courtrooms. Of the notebook full of evidence. Of prayers whispered every Sunday to wash the violence from my thoughts.
My hand moves without conscious decision, writing a single word on white paper: "Both."
The admission makes my chest tight, like confessing my deepest sin. When I write it, my hand trembles not with fear but with the thrill of being understood by someone dangerous enough to appreciate both sides of my hunger.
I place the folded square in the window and return to bed, knowing sleep won't come. Knowing I've just admitted something to a stranger I've never admitted to myself. Something that makes me press my thighs together against thebuilding heat, wondering what it would feel like to belong to someone who understands that church girls can dream of blood.
Morning light filters gray and hesitant through my window, exactly how I feel after confessing my darkness to a stranger. The folded square with "Both" written inside still sits in the window, waiting. I dress mechanically. Cardigan, skirt, the uniform of a harmless librarian that hides what I really am.
The square is gone.
My breath catches, and I push open the window, cold air hitting my heated skin. There, on the fire escape, sits a new Polaroid. White this time, pristine against the rusted metal, showing me with my back turned to the window, inside my apartment. I climb out carefully, the frozen metal burning against my bare feet, and retrieve it.
Inside, two words that make my heart race: "I understand."
His words feel like a claim. Like he's seen my darkness and decided it belongs to him now, just like the rest of me apparently does. He understands. This stranger who breaks into my apartment and protects me from shadows, he understands the duality of wanting justice and revenge, of being good while dreaming of violence.
I place my own crude folded square on the fire escape where he left his message, a simple exchange that feels like so much more. Like accepting something I can't take back. Whoever he is, he knows things. The perfect framing, the careful timing, the ability to move unseen. This isn't some ordinary person. This is someone with skills. Someone who operates in shadows like they belong there.
Inside, I face myself in the bathroom mirror. Same face I've always worn. Same careful smile, same innocent eyes that fool everyone. But something's different now. There's knowledge in my reflection that wasn't there yesterday. Someone knows my darkness exists. Not all of it, not the full scope of what I'veplanned, but enough. Someone has seen the violent dreams I carry and responded with understanding instead of judgment.
"Someone knows," I whisper to my reflection.
5 - Luca
The folded paper square sits between my fingers like a confession, her handwriting pressed deep enough into the paper that I can trace each letter’s indentation. “The dreams are getting worse.” Five words that make something violent twist in my chest, that same feeling I get right before I make someone scream. I smooth the paper against my desk, adding it to the collection of six others, each one a piece of her soul she’s trusted me with.
The surveillance feeds glow across my monitors, showing her apartment from six different angles. Empty now, while she's at work, but I've memorized how the afternoon light hits her kitchen table, where she'll sit tonight to fold another message for me. My response already waits in my pocket: "Dreams or memories?" Because I need to know if she's haunted by what was or what could be.
