Page 119 of His To Erase

Goddamn it.

One new message. Unknown number.UGH!

I open it and freeze. It’s a photo. It’s pretty blurry and grainy, but it’s a photo of me, sitting on a couch with a couple other people I don’t recognize. There’s a man next to me—but his face is turned, half out of frame with a hand resting on my thigh.

My stomach drops straight through the floor because I don’t remember this. I don’t remember any of this. That kind of looks like my stupid ex, but I still don’t remember this.

I zoom in, but it only makes it worse. My dress is wrinkled and my makeup’s smeared.

Something’s wrong with me.

The air punches out of my lungs and everything tilts. I think I’m going to throw up right here, in the middle of the break room.

Panic slams into me, fast and merciless, curling tight around my ribs like it's got claws.

What the fuck was that photo?

My fingers are shaking so bad I almost drop my phone, but I manage to hit the lock screen like that’s going to stop the image from burrowing deeper inside me—behind my eyes, and in my veins. I can’t unsee it.

Why the hell can’t I remember?

My body can’t decide what it’s doing—my skin’s cold, my blood’s on fire, and my heart is jackhammering like it’s trying to escape through my spine.

If I tell Sarah, she’ll tell me to go to the cops. She’ll tell me to file something official, and I can’t. Not when I don’t even know what I’d be filing. Not when I don’t want to get into any personal details about what happened and why I’d be worried about the messages I keep getting.

The second they run my name, who knows what they’ll find. Not to mention I don’t want anyone finding me.

I’m very much aware that’s how this works. You report a crime, and the system calls your monsters to come verify it.

So, no. I can’t tell Sarah. Not yet. Maybe I’m over reacting. If it was that bad, I would tell her.

I chew the inside of my cheek until I taste metal. I’m spiraling now, and the only name in my mind is the last one that should be there, but it is.

He’s the only other person who feels familiar, even though he might be a walking red flag wrapped in barbed wire and bad intentions, and I don’t know what that says about me.

My thumb hovers, but the silence is pressing in like a body bag, and I don’t want to be alone.

Me: Hey. You around?

I regret it the second it sends, but thirty seconds later, he replies.

Frank : Of course. Everything okay??

My throat tightens, because no. Nothing’s okay.

Me: Just… having a day. Can I call?

Frank : I’ll be free in ten. Hang in there, Doll.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall, with my phone still clutched so tight in my hand my knuckles ache. Whoever’s texting me just lit a match and I’m standing in gasoline.

It takes everything in me not to check the photo again. Not to zoom in and dissect every shadow, and every angle.

Frank : Still in a meeting. Give me a few?

I exhale. Not relief, exactly, but something less awful. At least I know he’ll always respond, and that he’ll always show up…even when I don’t want him to.

Me: Yeah. It’s fine. I’m actually feeling better.