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Was this her plan?
Was it her plan to have me followed?
A cold chill shoots down my spine, joining the pit in my stomach.
Fingers tightening on the steering wheel, I growl.
Did she betray me?
* * *
Highway hypnosis.
I’ve heard the term a couple of times, and it pops into my head whenever I experience it, wondering just how the hell I ended up wherever I am.
The drive back to Eden’s after I hung up seems to have happened in the span of an instant, but also somehow took an eternity.
A blue VW Tiguan that’s seen better days sits in the spot in front of her townhouse.
It wasn’t there earlier when I left, and I don’t remember seeing it when we came in last night.
Another sign that something is quite amiss, setting each and every hair on my body on end.
The neighborhood is too quiet, the only noises I hear are birds and some dogs off in the distance.
Here, in the close proximity of her house, it’s too still.
Moving quickly up to the door of the townhouse, I look around for any unsavory fellows like the ones who chased after me.
I highly doubt they would have come in that piece of shit car out front, but I still pull my gun from its holster.
Pausing by the door, I hear muffled voices then a high-pitched scream that quickly gets muffled.
Before I can even form a plan of action, I’m stepping away from the door while rearing back to kick it open.
Some things, I suppose, are too ingrained. Violence has always been my first reaction.
The doorframe shatters open without much resistance. That’s a shame in a community like this. They should be reinforced to prevent people like me from just lazily kicking them open.
It’s silent inside, and I can instantly see why no one makes a move.
Standing over my battered wife, some asshole twists his body to look at who interrupted his little-dick energy.
No man who hits a woman has a real dick.
“You must be Kyle,” I say as the world around me goes completely quiet except for the whimpering of my poor wife.
My bruised and battered Eden.
Lying there, naked on the floor, a towel flopped around her body haphazardly, it’s apparent she fought back.
She was at least able to leave a long set of claw marks on his face.
“Who the fuck are you?” the revolting pile of shit spits out at me.
The voices in my head have provided my life with a cacophony of sound from the moment I was born.
Always whispering, screaming, or singing to me. Every moment of every day, they speak to me, telling me to do things of unspeakable vileness.
