Page 35 of Shattered In Darkness

Always her. Always her. Whether it’s revenge or sex, hatred or longing, I can’t fucking separate it.

There’s a scene in my head I can’t shake: Lola, laughing, spinning away from danger, until it catches her and drags her under. Maybe I’m the danger. Maybe I always was.

It doesn’t matter. I want answers. I want her on her knees.

Maybe I want her to hurt, the way she made me hurt.

The folder’s thin; the photos even thinner. A blurry girl in a hood, head ducked down, moving quickly across the parking levels. No face. Just shape and habit: the way she walks, barely touching the ground. It could be her. It could be anyone. But my mind wants it to be her because then it means something.

I toss the folder onto the counter. The kitchen window is cracked open, and the night air bites my skin. I stand there for a long time, not moving, just letting the thoughts consume me.

At some point, all I see is a memory.

It’s junior year. The old parking lot behind the field, summer heat still baked into the asphalt. She waits by my car, hair up in a messy knot, wearing my hoodie and nothing else. When she sees me, her whole face lights up. Real, hungry, like I’m a sunrise. She runs to me and jumps, her legs wrapping around my waist, laughing. We kiss until the world spins.

I used to think I could be that light for her. Maybe I wasn’t dead inside. Now? Now I’m the monster in the night watching from the shadows, waiting for her to slip.

The memories rot. The sweetness curdles.

But the need never dies.

What’s left, after you strip away every excuse? All that’s left is obsession, and maybe some burned-up version of love.

I’ll get closer. I’ll get the answers. I’ll own her, or I’ll ruin her, or both.

I promise you, Bambi, you’re not getting rid of me. Not ever. Not until the whole story’s out. Not until you give me what I want.

The fire is raging like a storm, bursting through me, begging to be unleashed. The need to drive my knife through somebody is so strong. To feel their breath fade. To release my need for violence. I close my eyes and take a breath. I need to control my emotions. I had always been good at that. Until I met Lola.

My legs take me to her house before my brain can catch up. The night sky shields me from sight. A predator in the dark. I stand outside in the shadows, staring at her window from the ground. The light is on, and her silhouette floats through the room.

I remember all too well how to get to her room. Using all my strength, I climb the tree next to the roof. One branch at a time, scrunching my face, trying hard not to fall to the fucking ground.

Before, I would do it to sneak into her room past midnight. I’d crawl under her covers and slip my fingers into her panties. It wouldn’t take long for her to become soaked. I would proceed to make her cum, hushing her moans with kisses.

Now? I don’t plan on giving her pleasure. I plan on breaking her.

With steady feet, I hop onto the roof. I stalk across, crouched low. My palm slides on the grit and catches. Blood slivers line my skin, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the light burning behind her fucking window.

I bang on the window. Two unmerciful knocks.

A pause. Sidestep, shuffle from inside. The curtain jerks back. There she is.

Bambi. My Bambi.

Caught in the white spill of lamplight, hair a mess. Eyes wide, blue-ringed, and almost phosphorescent with fear. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out. She’s fixed to the spot, all prey and horror, and for a second I feel nothing but hunger, the need to have her pinned.

Her hand floats halfway up, trembles, but drops uselessly. She wants to run, but she can’t.

I flatten my palm on the glass. “Let me in.”

Maybe she dreams I’ll vanish, dissolve back into the black, but she unlatches the lock. She’s obedient, always so fucking obedient when it’s me.

She shoves the window open and recoils. I swing a leg over and drop to her carpet without a word. My boots hit hard, the shock rattles her, and she shrinks back.

She stammers, “What are you doing here, Brody?”

Her voice is brittle with panic but it doesn’t hide the thirst in it, either. She’s afraid, but she wants me here. It’s sick. We’re both sick.