Page 18 of Grave Possession (Grave #2)

I’ve been called a lot of deplorable things in my life, but having to squat over a bucket with a faded Rocky Road Ice Cream sticker is a whole new level of degrading. The act takes my already fragile sense of self-worth and smashes it to smithereens.

Moving unsteadily back over to the bed, I pick up the clothes he left for me and dress quickly.

These scraps of fabric barely cover me, however, it’s better than being naked.

I don’t know what that asshole has planned for my ruined clothes, but it can’t be good.

I just wish he had let me keep my boots.

My feet are always cold, but now without any coverage, they are like damn blocks of ice.

I fall back into a sitting position on the mattress.

Sliding my fingers under the pillow, I grasp the lone daisy by the stem and gently pull it out.

I’m surprised it survived being crushed in my fist. I had to keep it hidden from my captor.

I’ve been slapped for a fleeting moment of happy remembrance, I don’t want to endure whatever he’d do to me for holding onto a piece of my past.

Reaching for the glow stick with my other hand hurts like hell but I manage to grab it and place it on my lap.

I cradle the small flower with both hands, getting lost once again in the memory it floats me back to.

It’s what kept me strong enough to survive being taken against my will by the revolting piece of moldy dick cheese.

As I laid there mid-assault, I saw it sticking up out of the ground. A singular daisy growing in a place so terrible. It made me feel hope, despite what was happening to me. I focused on it, on the place it brought me back to.

Nox is standing on my doorstep with a bouquet of wildflowers in his outstretched hand.

He so clearly stopped on the side of the road and rushed to pick them for me.

Half the flowers still had little clumps of dirt attached to the roots.

It’s the thought that counts though, not the presentation.

In my heart I knew he was rushing to pick me up, not wanting me to be late for work.

But he also wanted me to know he was thinking of me, wanting me to feel cherished and loved. In that moment, I did.

Unfortunately, now, I don’t feel the same.

Where are you, Lennox? Do you even know I’m missing?

Do you care? Does Victoria? Maybe she was never really my friend.

Maybe both of you never really gave a shit about me at all.

Perhaps all you wanted was a quick lay with someone so damaged that any effort would seem monumental.

Like, picking stupid side of the road wild flowers that are actually just fucking weeds.

I proceed to venture down a very dark path of self-loathing and doubt. I pick apart every exchange, second guess every conversation, and twist every interaction until all that’s left is the mounting feeling that I’m worthless and truly unlovable. That nothing was real.

I stare down at the flower. Eyes adjusting to look past it to the barren floor beyond.

Shadows shift as tears accumulate and track down my face.

I’m so sick of fucking crying. Focusing back in on the daisy, I pluck a petal.

Where are you, Ghost? If there’s any chance my assumption is wrong and they aren’t the same person, then where is my stalker?

My fierce guard dog who can’t live without me.

“HUH!?” I scream. “Where the fuck are you, Ghost?!” My heart fractures, and my distress gets swallowed up by the encroaching darkness.

The glow stick's slowly losing its power, and I’m about to be shoved into the blackness.

“You don’t love me, Ghost. You’re just obsessed.

You’ve probably already moved on to someone new since I’ve been gone. ” I spit.

I let the petal between my fingers fall to the ground. “He loves me not.” I choke down another wave of emotion, pulling a second petal free. “He loves me.” I drop the petal, and it lands next to the first one. The monotonous mantra lures me into an almost trance-like state.

Pluck. “He loves me not.” Drop.

Pluck. “He loves me.” Drop.

Pluck. “He loves me not.” Drop.

I carry on until there’s a small pile of petals forming between my dirty feet, and only a few left attached to the centre. I know how this will end, and I hang my head in defeat. Even when left up to chance, the universe shows me I’m unloved.

The mass of white petals flutter, moving across the floor as if blown by a gentle breeze.

My heart leaps into my fucking throat because there’s no air movement down here at all.

It’s a hellish dank prison, filled with stale air.

Half the time I wonder if I’ll run out of oxygen because of all the carbon dioxide I exhale before Shrimp-Dick Mc Ugly-Face comes back and opens the door.

Allowing some of the air to shift and move around the room.

I wait patiently to see if they will move again, but they don’t.

They’ve been scattered out around me, forming a somewhat misshapen semi-circle.

Trying to rationalize it away, I surmise that I must have kicked them without noticing.

It’s possible, right? Emotional people flail about carelessly all the time. Probably. Maybe? Ultimately unlikely.

Glancing back down at the mangled daisy in my hand throws me back to the past with Nox.

It hurts, it’s soul-shattering. That’s not my life anymore.

It won’t be again. I have to let it go and move on.

The flower served its purpose. I toss the daisy to the floor and let myself cry, again.

Full body-wracking sobs shake me to the core.

A chill sets in, and I wish I had a blanket to wrap around myself.

Any sense of comfort, no matter how small, would be welcome right now.

A gentle pressure embraces me, and I lean into the feeling. In my head it’s Ghost, holding me and talking me through the despair I’m feeling. Fuck, I miss him, and just for a moment, I let myself get lost in memories of him.

When I return to reality, I can still feel the hug.

It’s no longer warm. Its icy weight presses into me, freezing me to the bone.

I’m stunned, rendered completely useless as I try to figure out what the fuck it is that I’m experiencing.

I watch as the light inside the glow stick fades out, tensing every muscle in my body as my mind works through the unexplainable.

Terror sinks its deathly sharp talons into me when I feel a shift in the air and the pressure lifts from my body.

My ears strain to listen for any sound in this room below the earth.

A shuffling, a breath, a whistling from a small hole or crack that could allow the wind to pass through .

There’s nothing. Only silence.

“Hello?” My shaky question goes unanswered.

I’m fucking losing it. “It’s just your mind playing tricks on you.

You’ve been locked in this prison for over a week and your mental stability is crumbling,” I audibly rationalize to myself.

But, when I feel a whisper of wind against my cheek, my answering scream of terror ensures me that I am, indeed, not alone.