Page 36 of His To Erase

Ani

Iwake up choking on a scream I don’t remember making. My sheets are soaked with sweat and twisted around my legs like I was wrestling demons in my sleep—and maybe I was. The nightmare lingers, slipping through my fingers no matter how hard I try to grab it.

I just remember bits of it. Blood. A scream. Another useless flash of an almost-memory that tells me nothing and leaves everything wrong behind.

My chest heaves, as I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and try not to scream again. It’s like my brain’s staging a horror movie on loop with no subtitles, and I’m supposed to guess the plot based on jump scares alone.

I’m so sick of having the same nightmare over and over again. There’s so much I don’t remember and it’s so frustrating.

Cool air skates over my bare legs, and it takes me a second to realize I’m still in Steven’s shirt from last night. Whatever, it doesn’t mean anything.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, silently begging the universe to tell me what the hell is wrong with me.

Frank’s done everything right—he opens my doors, compliments me, and always pays the bill with a charming smile.

He’s already made himself comfortable as the main character of my life.

I even let him kiss me in the car, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when a good guy takes you out.

But no matter how hard I try to want him, my mind always goes right back to someone else.

Someone I don’t even know. Who looks at me like he already owns me.

God, I hate myself.

I sit up slowly, as I drag a hand through my tangled hair while I look around for my underwear.

They’re not on the floor, not draped over the chair, not tucked under the corner of the duvet where it would be if I’d undressed like a normal, functioning human being.

I frown, scanning the room again, heartbeat ticking up despite how stupid it feels.

I swear I threw them off the side of the bed.

It was late. My head was a mess. I couldn’t stop thinking about him and I told myself it was just to relieve some tension. By the time I’d slipped my hand between my thighs, I was too far gone to pretend it was anyone else.

I’d been soaked.

Disgusted with myself, I’d shoved the panties down my legs and tossed them off the bed like that could somehow separate me from the truth of it.

Now they’re gone and I know I didn’t get up to throw them out or tuck them into the laundry bin. I barely made it to sleep. Dizzy with guilt and something worse.

I throw my legs over the bed, and see a single white notecard, propped against the nightstand. I grab it, and turn it over. It’s blank, there’s nothing written on it.

My throat tightens as I throw the card onto the nightstand. The worst part isn’t the fear. It’s the way part of me reacts to the fear like it’s a fucking love letter.

My phone buzzes behind me, and I flinch. When I turn, the screen lights up, letting me know I have three unread messages. A few from the same unknown number and Sarah.

Unknown : Have fun last night?

My stomach flips. I read it again. And again.

Unknown : That little black dress was stunning on you. You look even better out of it.

My skin crawls as I reach down and tug the hem lower, even though I’m alone.

Unknown : Your so-called boyfriend can’t keep you safe.

It’s not even the threat that gets me. It’s the tone. That smug, mocking little twist in the words—like they’re not just watching, but laughing.

I don’t even hesitate this time. If he wants to play games, I’ll give him a better one—one where he’s not the only monster in the room.

Me: If you were really watching, you’d know I wasn’t alone last night. So how about you fuck all the way off.

The silence after I hit send is loud. Like scream-into-a-pillow, check-the-door-locks-twice kind of loud. No typing bubbles. No dramatic three-dot pause. No retaliation that confirms I’ve poked the bear.

I don’t know what I thought would happen. Another threat? A riddle in blood on the wall? A whisper through the vents? Instead all I get is—radio silence. And somehow, that’s what gets under my skin. The nothingness.

I read the message from Sarah next.

Sarah: Please tell me you’re alive… Or have you been arrested? Or are you in the middle of some kinky sex? If it's hot, then send pics.

I huff a laugh through my nose and shake my head, the tension bleeds off my shoulders enough to remember I’m still alive. Barely.

My chest is tight, but I try to breathe through it.

I count backwards, but the adrenaline won’t fade. It just simmers, coiled under my skin like a fuse waiting for someone to light it. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet as I walk to the front door. Just to check.

I know I locked it. I remember the click. I remember flipping the deadbolt after I got in the house like I always do. I lean against the door with my eyes closed and my forehead pressed to the wood like I could keep everything out if I just held it shut.

My lungs are pulling in air too fast, my breathing is shallow and panicked, and I clamp a hand over my mouth because if I start screaming, I might not stop. All I want to do is cry lately. I’m fucking exhausted.

My eyes scan the apartment now—really scanning the shadows. Every creak of the building settles like a new threat in my bones. I don’t even know what I'm looking for. Fingerprints? A message scrawled on the mirror in steam? Blood?

Something to prove I’m not crazy. Or something to confirm I am.

Everything feels like a lie. Every memory feels warped, but I don’t trust a single thing—not the lock, not my instincts, and definitely not the people around me. Well except for Sarah.

Unfortunately life doesn’t stop just because you’re spiraling. If I don’t get my ass in gear, I’ll be late to the one place I actually feel safe.

I’m halfway through my granola bar when my phone buzzes again. ‘I’m tired of this, grandpa!’

My blood runs cold before I even unlock it, and I can feel it in my body, that hum of dread. I’m not even going to open it, but when I glance down I see what it says.

Unknown : You think this is a fucking joke?

It slams into me harder than I expect, because I thought I was taking my power back. I thought the message I sent this morning made me untouchable—like maybe I had a little bit of control after all.

I refuse to let whoever this is know they got to me. I won’t give them that satisfaction. Not now. Not ever. I lock the screen, dropping the phone face-down on the bench beside me, and pretend like my hands aren’t still trembling.

I can hear Sloane laughing faintly from the front desk. Somewhere in the distance, someone wheels a cart across the tile. The library is humming with normalcy, but I’m frozen in the back room, drowning in static.

It buzzes again and I stare at it like it might explode. It’s a stupid rectangle of glass and metal, and yet I’d rather be holding a grenade.

I reach for it with two fingers and flip it over. One new message. I know I should just ignore it, but I don’t because I clearly hate myself. I really might need to just change my number at this point.

Unknown: I’ll fucking know if you let anyone touch what’s mine.

The words slide straight down my spine. I stare at the screen, rereading them like they might shift into something less loaded. How can one random person cause this much stress?

The only person I know who talks like that is Steven. He’s always had that edge, but this feels a little too unhinged to be Steven. Right?

Even when he was screwing with me, he never sounded this… unstable. Ugh. I don’t know anymore.

My phone buzzes again with another message, and I almost drop my phone. No matter how many times I tell myself I’m not affected, it’s starting to get to me. What if he found me?

Unknown : If you think I don’t know where you are at all times, you’re not half as smart as you pretend to be…

A cold sweat breaks across my whole body, and I can’t breathe.

I glance at the window, the door, at every corner of this goddamn room like maybe there’s a camera pointed at my face, waiting for my reaction. I can’t tell if I’m being watched or if my brain is breaking apart from the inside out.

I should call Sarah, or report it. But what would I even say? If it’s not Steven—then who the hell is it? Some part of me wishes it was Steven. And that thought scares me.

I don’t reply or throw the phone across the room, even though I want to. I just put it on silent and lock it again, shoving it into my pocket, then force my body to move. If I sit here for another second, I might drown in the static pouring through my brain.

I need to get up. Get over it. And get back to fucking work.

I repeat it like it’s my daily mantra, grabbing a cart full of returns and shoving through the door like I’ve got somewhere to be.

I’m halfway through the third shelf when Sloane rounds the corner like a cat—probably holding a crystal in one hand and a coffee in the other.

She watches me restack a few hardcovers, hopefully not noticing I’ve been holding them upside-down for the last five minutes. I really need to get my shit together.

“I’m fine,” I say flatly.

She never wastes time with pleasantries. If she’s quiet, she’s reading me. Waiting for the best spot to dig her claws in and pull the truth out.

“Didn’t ask,” she says finally.

I slap another book into place like it owes me money, then instantly feel guilty about it.

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Mm.” She crosses her arms and leans against the end of the shelf like she has all goddamn day. “You’re spiraling.”

I shoot her a look. “Wow. Did you get that from my aura, or the fact that I just shelved Hunger Games in nonfiction?”

She doesn’t even smile. Tough crowd. “Ani, talk to me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to, Sloane.”

“That’s not a reason. That’s a defense mechanism.”

I exhale sharply, ready to fire something snarky back—but I stop. Because suddenly my throat feels too tight, and my hands are shaking again.