Page 21 of Possessive Doctor

“That we grew up across the street from each other and did not start dating until after high school. That’s weird, right?”

“No, it isn’t weird. We were friends and I was a little shy, but I think we always liked each other. I mean, why else would you have gone to the prom with me?”

“I did? I thought I went alone since the picture on my parents’ mantel doesn’t have you or anyone in it with me.”

“Oh, no. I was late and the photographer was set up right at the door, so you took the picture before I got there.”

“You were late to the prom? How does that happen? Why didn’t we go together?”

“I’m not sure why you’re fixated on this little detail. Do you think I’m lying?” His expression changes, and I see the impatience in his eyes. Interesting. Andrew has never lost his patience with me, not even when I’m bombarding him with questions.

“I’m sorry. I’m just trying to find something that might jog my memory.”

“That’s alright. Let’s get inside. I’m sure that once you’re inside, things will start coming back to you.”

He pulls his car into the garage, closes the door, and helps me out of the car. He unlocks the door that leads into his kitchen and helps me up the concrete steps where I’m confronted with a musty odor and the feeling that the house hasn’t been cleaned in a very long time.

“Are your parents here?” I ask him.

“No. They’ve been on holiday in Italy for the past two months.”

I guess that explains it. A young man living alone in a big house probably doesn’t even think about cleaning.

“The basement is where I keep all of my stuff from school. We need to go down there,” he tells me.

“I don’t know if I can climb all of those steps…”

“I’ll help you. It’s fine,” he insists. He takes me by the arm and leads me across the kitchen to the basement door. The staircase is steep and narrow. I don’t know how the two of us will get down it together.

“I’m not sure about this. Couldn’t you just bring the things up here?”

“I said it’s fine,” he says and holds his arms out, indicating that I should go first.

I take the first step and hold the railing tightly. As I lift my feet to take the second step, Michael shoves my shoulders, and I topple over and bounce down the rest of the stairs. The pain from my spine sends shock waves to the back of my head. I try to crawl to the stairs but each movement causes more pain.

“Stay where you are. I’ll come down and help you get comfortable soon,” he says. He slams the basement door and locks it from the outside.

The room goes dark as I slowly lose consciousness. Why did I do this? What was I thinking? I should have never left Andrew’s side. Oh god. I feel so stupid. I didn’t even leave him a note or anything about where I was going.

Is this it? Is this where it ends?

Flashes, photographs flip across the inside of my eyelids. I’m four years old. It’s my birthday. Next, I’m in a blue dress and my mother is taking me to my first day of school. Birthday parties, Christmas trees, school choir, horseback riding, the death of my grandmother, my friends from high school, the prom I went to without a date, and then, the crash.

I remember being thrown from the backseat through the windshield. I remember seeing my parents’ bodies covered with white sheets on stretchers.

Michael. What do I know about Michael? Boom, like a bolt of lightning, memories of my neighbor, Michael, crash inside my skull.

Memories of him peeping through my bedroom window at night, Mrs. Wilde next door accusing him of hurting her cat, and him pinning me down on the ground and trying to kiss me. I remember how we fought and I scratched his face so he punched me.

I open my eyes and find that I’m still alone in the basement. I crawl to the old, rust-colored couch that’s pushed against the wall and climb onto it. As my eyes begin to focus, I see pictures of me scattered across the dusty table beside the couch.

He took them all without my knowledge. There are some of me sitting in class, some of me driving by in my parent's car, and, worse, photos of me getting undressed in my room. I shuffle through the pile and find a picture of me sleeping. From the angle of the bed, he didn’t take this through the window. He was in my room!

I jam my hands into my underarms and try to stop myself from shaking so badly.

Michael is my crazy stalker. He’s been obsessed with me since we were five and six years old. His parents had him in and out of therapy and even sent him to an institution when we were in tenth grade.

What did he think he was going to do? Was he planning to rewrite my story to meet his fantasy? More importantly, what is he planning to do now?

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