Page 71 of I Will Break You

P.S. Were the photos I sent alright? I forwarded them at the lowest resolution so as not to encroach on our time together at the blind spot.

THIRTY-EIGHT

AMETHYST

I don’t linger at Mrs. Baker’s. Instead, I return home with a plan to avoid Xero’s next round of punishments. Cold sweat breaks out across my skin and trickles down my back. Despite the mounting terror, there’s a pull I can’t shake—a mix of fear and longing that twists my psyche into knots.

When Xero was alive, his attention was like basking in the sun. He was my lover, my idol, my muse. With his love and guidance, I had a place in the world. I felt valued, seen. I flourished. Now that he’s dead, it’s like wilting under a storm cloud, not knowing when lightning will strike. Now he’s a ghost, the security I used to feel with him has now morphed to dread.

I remove all the curtains from the windows and check every flashlight, lampshade, and lightbulb in the house to make sure they’re working. Then, I extract the vacuum cleaner from the cupboard under the stairs and hoover the floors until they shine.

The plan is to make a salt circle around my bed, so he won’t attack me in my sleep. It’s a flimsy defense and probably fictional, but I’ve run out of options. I can’t believe I once used to fantasize about him escaping prison to spend the night. The thought of him coming for me after dark makes me shiver.

Even if I could convince Mrs. Baker to let me stay, Xero couldfloat through the walls and murder Reverend Tom in a jealous rage. He might even plant something terrible in the old woman’s house to get her in trouble with the police.

I’ve never felt so isolated. Never felt so lonely. Never felt so desperately in need of company. Last week, I would have poured out my feelings in a letter, or opened my heart to Xero in the morning and found solace in his words. Now, my savior has become my tormentor.

Mom isn’t answering my calls, and Dad’s phone is disconnected. Whatever happened with Uncle Clive spooked her enough to tell me never to return. Besides, Xero can travel across town to haunt my dreams.

I can’t stay with Myra. She sleeps on a sofa in a house full of men. I don’t want to get any of them murdered, so I’ll remain here.

After cleaning the downstairs, I go to the bedroom. The red envelope I found under the pillow is missing, which could mean anything. I no longer give a shit if it was a hallucination. Chappy is dead, police are swarming the street, and people are searching for the man I killed.

Lord knows I need a fucking break.

But first, I need to move my bed.

Its wooden frame slides away from the wall with a little effort, and I vacuum away the cobwebs and dust. Then I pour a generous amount of salt around its perimeter and bring the bottles and my laptop to the bed.

My phone buzzes.

What are you doing?

I ignore Xero’s message. He can’t touch me during the day. This morning just proves that light makes him incorporeal. He’s probably zipping through the mobile phone networks, waiting for his moment to strike.

Yeah, I’m making up the lore as I go along, based on everything I’ve observed. The last time I asked Xero how he was texting me from beyond the grave, he told me it was electromagnetic radiation.

I crack open my bottle of holy water, take a sip, and wince atthe overwhelming taste of plastic. This is a good sign, since Reverend Tom’s religious juju must have warped the molecules. I wash it down with a mouthful of vodka and sigh.

Xero messages again with:

Don’t get drunk.

Scoffing, I take a hearty swig of vodka. This brand tastes almost as bad as the water, but I’m not drinking for my enjoyment—this is the quickest way to dull this relentless pain. Pain at his betrayal. Pain at the thought of his next move. When he comes for me after sundown, I’m going to need every bit of help to face his wrath.

Stomach churning, I crack open the laptop and start a new document. Writing always distracted me from my shit show of a life. Maybe it can help me pass the time until Xero comes to reap my soul.

I’ll write an erotic ghost story. What it should feel like to be haunted instead of hunted. Losing myself in this fictional world is a hundred times better than facing reality. Maybe Xero can get a few ideas.

Nodding, I type the introduction, which is loosely based on the truth. Instead of returning from burying Jake, I’m in the back of a limousine, crying about the death of my sexy assassin, Nero.

Nero is a good name.

The phone buzzes. I ignore it because I’m in the flow.

I write a flashback where I share a night of passion with Nero. He’s doing me from behind, holding my hair like reins. He leans in with his chest pressed against my back, and growls, ‘No matter where you hide, I will always find you. Even beyond death.’

Pausing, I look up from my computer and stare out through the window into the backyard.