Page 8 of Psychotic Faith
I place the grainy photo on my nightstand before climbing into bed. The sharpened knife goes back under my pillow. I lie in the darkness, hyperaware of every sound, every shadow.
"Good night," I whisper to the darkness.
The darkness, of course, doesn't answer.
But when I wake at three to use the bathroom, stumbling back to bed in the dark, my hand brushes something on the pillow that wasn't there before.
Another Polaroid. The image is so dark I almost can't make it out—me, asleep in my bed, taken from the angle of my bedroom window. He was OUTSIDE watching me sleep.
My hands shake as I flip it over to read the message on the back:
"SLEEP WELL."
Two words that feel like a claim. Like someone stood over me while I slept, close enough to place this beneath my head without waking me. Close enough to see the nightgown I chose, to watch my chest rise and fall, to own these dark hours when I'm most vulnerable.
I should be terrified.
Instead, I place the Polaroid carefully beside the white one on my nightstand. Two picture guardians watching over me as I slide back into bed.
This time, when I whisper "good night" to the darkness, I swear I feel it listening.
4 - Faith
The alarm goes off at 5:30 a.m., but I’m already awake. Been awake since 4:00, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the second Polaroid from last night. My running clothes are laid out on the chair—black leggings, purple Northwestern hoodie, the same Nikes I’ve worn for three years.
I dress quietly in the dark, muscle memory guiding me through the routine. Running started as therapy. Now it's how I think, how I plan, how I escape the dreams that won't let me go.
The November air bites at my face as I step outside, still fully dark at this hour. I like it this way—honest darkness instead of pretending dawn. My usual route takes me north on Sheffield, but today I'm heading to the cemetery first. Mom deserves roses, and I need to talk to her.
The cemetery gates are always open, a fact that used to comfort me. Now, knowing someone might be watching, it feels like an invitation.
The yellow roses feel heavier than they should, twelve perfect blooms. Morning mist clings to the cemetery grounds, November cold seeping through my running tights as I navigate the familiar path to her grave. My breath creates small clouds in the air, each exhale visible evidence that I'm still breathing when she isn't.
The gravestone stands exactly as it has for over a decade: the dates that bracket her life seem too close together, forty-one years not nearly enough. I kneel on the damp grass, cold seeping through my leggings, grounding me in the physical world whenmy mind wants to drift into memory. The roses smell wrong against the cemetery's earthy decay, too alive, too bright, like bringing sunshine to a tomb.
"Hi, Mom." My voice carries louder than necessary in the empty cemetery. If someone's watching, and my skin prickles with the certainty that someone is, they need to hear this. "I've been working to keep my promise."
I pull the worn leather notebook from my running pack, the one I've filled with observations, patterns, evidence. My pulse hammers as I place it deliberately on the gravestone, pages falling open to reveal Trent Neumann's name circled in red ink. Dates. Times. Locations. Patterns I've tracked for so long they feel like breathing. I leave the notebook where anyone watching can see it. My test, my dare, my confession all at once.
"Neumann trusts me now," I say, still speaking louder than I need to for a conversation with stone. The invasion of being watched at my mother's grave should disgust me. Instead, heat coils low in my belly. Someone sees all of me, the good girl facade and the darkness beneath. "Can you believe it? He actually trusts me. His wife thinks I'm sweet. Invites me to their charity events."
My fingers find the cold granite, tracing the grooves of her name. "His children love story time at the library. They have no idea what their father is."
The wind picks up, rustling the pages of my notebook. Photos tucked inside threaten to escape. Images of Neumann at various events, his family, his business associates. Careful documentation, all laid bare on this grave for my watcher to see.
"I'm so close, Mom. A few more months and I'll have everything I need for court." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "Legal justice. Through the system. That's what good girls want, isn't it?"
"The law has to work this time," I tell her gravestone. "Has to. I've learnt every statute, every precedent, every loophole. Building something airtight."
But even as I say it, something violent twists in my chest. The dreams I can't talk about, not even here. The ones that wake me in the middle of the night, shaking and sweating and ashamed.
I don't tell her about those dreams. Don't tell her what happened that made me start having them. Some things are too dark even for graveyards.
The wind picks up again, colder now. I pull my hoodie tighter, but don't lower my voice. Let my watcher hear this too. Let him know exactly what kind of darkness he's been protecting.
"Father Molina says vengeance belongs to God. That earthly justice is enough. So I'm doing this legally. Building a case. Documenting his crimes, the tax evasion, the bribery, the assault charges he's paid to disappear." I touch the notebook, trace his circled name with one finger. "I need him alive for this. Need him functional. Need him to face a courtroom and a cell, not… not what my dreams show me."
The admission makes my chest constrict. I shouldn't be doing this, leaving confessions for someone who breaks into my apartment. But whoever left those Polaroids, whoever's been watching… he's protecting me in ways the police never could. In ways that make my dark dreams seem less monstrous.
