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THREE

FREYA

“Fucking dick,” I murmured to myself. “What, does he think he owns the road?” I muttered again, trying to wipe the mud stains from my white shirt. “Ugh.”

I was ten minutes away from Grandma’s home, and the sky was swallowing the last bite of light. I stood there for some time, looking at the grass, at the book I had bought from the bookstore—a wet book now, pages crackling at the edges. Even as freezing water tumbled off my sleeves and my skin trembled with wet cold, I did not want to move from there. Sink into that puddle. Anything but go back to that new house, where waiting was all I had. Wondering if Mom would come back. If she ever will.

I picked up the book. The cover wrinkled beneath my fingers, the pages sticking together like they were clinging to something lost. Still, I held it close to my chest. Then I stepped back onto the road.

A low, distant rumble. That asshole on a bike is back.

I couldn’t tell if it was approaching or fading, but my heart heard it first. A quick thud against my ribs. My breath caught. My legs moved before I could think.

No. I’m not dying today.

I glanced back.

There he was. Again.

The bike hummed beneath him, creeping closer, his head tilted just slightly—watching.

The book slipped from my hands. I ran.

The road blurred beneath me, but I felt every step. Every heartbeat that hammered against my ribs.

The bike roared behind me. Closer.

I turned. He was there. Right there. I couldn’t see his face, only the glint of his helmet catching the last of the light. But I hoped— God, I hoped —he heard my screams,because they ripped from my throat, raw and desperate.

Then, he lifted the visor.

Time slowed.

Dark brown eyes—almost black—locked onto mine. Searching. As if I had something buried deep inside me that he needed to find.

And then, he smiled.

The corners of his eyes crinkled, a thin scar running from the top of his right eyebrow, slicing through the middle of his eye.

I stopped screaming. My hands curled into fists against my stomach. My breath hitched, but it didn’t scare him off.

This wasn’t haunting anymore.

This was hunting.

The bike whined as he turned it, smoke curling from burning rubber on wet asphalt. He looked at me again, waiting. I gasped for air, and when he started forward, I escaped. But not down the road. This time, I went to the left. Into the grass. Into the woods.

And at that moment, I was no longer afraid of the dark.

I was afraid of the man behind me.

I ran harder. Faster.

The cold stung my nose. My chest ached. Panic wrapped itself around my skin, pressing into my ribs. I had never been this scared.

I was losing breath. But not him—he wasn’t losing me.

He let the distance stretch just enough—just far enough that he could make the chase last. I could hear it in the way his engine revved, feel it in the way his presence lingered.

He didn’t care about the tires, about the thick trees that clawed at my arms as I pushed forward.

He just wanted me.

I had seen it in his eyes. The hunger.

He wanted all of me.

But he can’t have me.

He won’t.

I cried, screaming, rushing away.

Grandma’s house appeared in the distance. For a moment, I thought of home—of reaching the door, of being safe again. That I just might be okay.

The engine’s sound grew louder, closer. Hope left my body as he grabbed my hair, yanking me back.

My head snapped back, my face tilting upwards towards the night sky. Tears streamed down my face. My legs buckled. I collapsed.

Hard, damp leaves clung to my hands as I crawled, trying to escape.

The engine cut out. I heard him jumping on the ground, the footsteps of his boots crunching as he neared.

I screamed again, falling backward in pure panic, certain this was the end. This was where I would die.

But then he grabbed my hand, yanking me up. My legs failed me again, and I collapsed into his arms. He shoved me back, my spine slamming against the rough bark of a tree. We stumbled a few steps. He leaned in, his helmet muffling his deep voice as he whispered,

“Run.”

I turned my face toward him. His eyes locked onto mine. Under that helmet, I knew his smile was dark, taunting. My eyes were haunted by his, growing wider in fear.

“Run, Little Star,” he repeated, stepping back. His voice sharpened. “RUN!”

I shoved him, my body lurching forward, running toward the end of the woods where the path to Grandma’s house was. I didn’t look back. But his eyes still followed me—buried deep in my mind, deep in my soul.

The woods ended at a hill. Running downhill made it easier, but I wished I was faster. I wished I had pushed him harder.

Then, the bike roared to life again. I ran faster than before, my cries deepening, my screams echoing inside me. I didn’t stop until I reached the gates of the yard.

This time, he didn’t follow.

This time, he waited on the hill. Watching. Calculating which way I would go.

When I turned to close the gate, I shut my eyes tight. I couldn’t look toward the woods again. I still felt his breath near mine.

For a moment, his scent remained on me—cypress and moss, freshly cut grapefruit mixed with cedar. When I opened my eyes, he wasn’t there anymore. Vanished, like he had never been there at all.

I rushed to the front door. This time, I didn’t knock. I just entered, slamming it shut behind me, leaning against the wood, my heart still racing.

As I stepped forward, the hallway blurred around me. On the first step of the staircase, I sat down.

My arms wrapped around my knees, pulling them close.

My whole world flashed before my eyes. I had never felt so vulnerable.

He made me vulnerable.

Whoever he was, he wasn’t done hunting me.

As my body curled in on itself, my phone slipped from my back pocket. I should have picked it up. I should have called the police. But I didn’t.

I just stood there, staring at the door—waiting. As if he was going to walk in at any moment. As if I wanted him to.

I couldn’t think of anything else.

His voice. His eyes.

That was all I saw. All I heard.

He was my curse now, haunting my mind.

A phone rang from the living room. I let it ring. I tried to move, tried to stand—but my legs trembled from the run, my body refusing to obey.

It rang again. I let it.

Then, the beep of the voicemail. Grandma’s voice filled the silence.

“Freya, darling, I tried to call you, but your phone is turned off. Anyway, wanted to let you know I had to go to Paisley for the weekend. I’ll be back on Monday. The house is all yours, and food is in the fridge. Love you, toodles.”

My eyes widened.

Monday.

My heart pounded faster. My breath caught in my throat.

I had zero survival skills. And now, I was alone. Completely alone.

I closed my eyes, forcing air into my lungs. Tried to convince myself that being alone wasn’t so bad. But the image of him— waiting outside, watching —only made it worse.

My hands pressed against the wooden stairs, steadying me. Slowly, I forced myself to my feet, reaching for my phone. My legs still shook, but I made it to the front door. My fingers wrapped around the lock, turning it clockwise until I heard the click.

I pulled the handle down. Once. Twice. Three times.

It’s locked. It is. I’m okay. I’m safe.

But was I ever?

I turned away, my stomach twisting in knots. The only thing that made me feel safer was knowing I could lock myself in my bedroom.

Dragging myself up the stairs, step by shaky step, I reached the landing. Just a few more steps to my bedroom door.

It hadn’t changed. Not since I’d known myself.

I pushed the door open. My suitcase still lay open on the floor, clothes scattered everywhere. I didn’t care. I just wanted to lock myself in, take a shower, and hide beneath the sheets. Pretend the monster outside doesn’t exist.

Leaning against the door, I let my body slide down. Halfway, my fingers found the key. I turned it, locking myself in.

Finally.

A tear slipped down my cheek.

I could breathe again.

I am okay.

I am safe.

My eyes wandered to the suitcase. Inside, nestled among my scattered clothes, was the plush orange fox Mom had given me when we first moved here. I was just eight then.

I remembered that year we stayed with Grandma. I hadn’t understood then what was happening between Mom and Dad, but I knew one thing: I was happier away from him.

It’s strange how I always blamed myself for what happened. How I thought something was wrong with me. That Dad never really loved me. And I grew up wanting his love so much that I lost love for myself.

I guess that’s how it works—you don’t stop loving them. You stop loving yourself.

And we should never ask for love that isn’t given freely. The unwanted love. It only teaches you how to push people away, even when you want them to stay.

I wished I had the strength to stop myself. But I couldn’t.

I was that child who wasn’t loved.

A tear traced its way down my cheek. I crawled toward the suitcase, reaching inside and taking the fox in my hands.

“I guess it’s just you and me, Foxy Fox,” I murmured into the empty room.

FREYA- 8 years old

Last night, Mom and I got matching tattoos from Dad. Blue ones. Across our eyes.

I could barely see out of my left eye. But at least now, it only hurt when I touched it.

I asked her why he did it.

All she said was, “He doesn’t know how to express love.”

Does that mean he doesn’t love me? Or does it mean he doesn’t know how to show it—so he decided to hurt me instead?

I wanted Dad to love me. But what if I wasn’t enough?

Would I have to leave?

I squeezed Mom’s hand so tightly when the train screeched into the station. We stood on Platform Twenty-One. To Glasgow, a direct line to Grandma’s house.

Did this mean it was just me and Mom now?

Or was it going to be just Grandma and me?

“It’s us,” Mom said, pulling my hand toward the train. But I stayed where I was, my feet refusing to move.

“What’s wrong, Foxy Fox?” She crouched down, tapping the tip of my nose with her finger.

“Are we coming back?” I asked, staring at the train.

“Yes, baby, of course,” she said softly, pulling me into a hug. “We’re just going to visit Grandma.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

She took my hand again, firmer this time, pulling me forward. I let her.

Soon, we were inside the train, searching for seats by the window. When we found them, she kissed my forehead and sat beside me.

“Sometimes adults fight, and they have to leave,” she said. “But we always come back when things get better.”

“Being an adult sucks,” I muttered.

She chuckled, pulling me closer. “Yes, it does.”

I stared out the window as the train began to move, turning the world outside into blurred streaks of color.

A man passed by selling small toys. I barely paid attention until I heard Mom’s voice.

“Yes, one.”

When the man left, she placed a small orange plush fox in my lap.

“Look, a fox for my Foxy Fox.”

I smiled, though I didn’t say much. I didn’t know how to express how much I loved it.

So I just whispered, “Thanks.”

I held the fox close, looking out the window until my eyes fluttered shut.

Yellow dots flickered behind my lids.

Fairies .

More of them now.

With purple bruises tattooed onto my heart.

PRESENT DAY

I wiped away a tear from my cheek and stared at the fox. My lower lip trembled as I bit down on it, dragging it across my mouth while my vision blurred with the threat of more tears.

I guess I’d be different now if I hadn’t been a hero for my mom that night.

But kids were never supposed to be heroes.

I turned the fox over. On the back, just above the tail, was the zipper I’d discovered the day I got it. As a kid, I used it to hide candy, tucking it away as if someone might take it. But as I grew older, the things I hid inside weren’t sweet anymore.

They weren’t for candy anymore. They were for pain. For hurting me.

I unzipped the pouch, tears welling in my eyes, on the verge of spilling over. Pushing up the sleeve of my blazer, I dragged my white shirt along with it. My skin was marked with scars.

Scars of my past. My present. Maybe my future.

The lines had healed. But not really. They were thin, just deep enough to bring blood to the surface, to let me feel it against my skin. To let it burn with me.

I pulled out the silver razor from the fox’s hidden pouch. It was wrapped in a plastic bag. I stared at it. At the sharp edge. At what it meant.

Slowly, I slipped it free from the plastic and moved my hand toward my arm.

The past hurt. But so did not being loved.

The blade hovered over my skin before I pressed in, my eyes squeezing shut.

I often blamed myself. For being unlovable. For never being enough. For my parents splitting up. For needing to live at more than one address. For never keeping friends—because the moment I met someone, I had to say goodbye.

I blamed myself for the sweet little girl I used to be. For what she had become.

And yet, I couldn’t stop.

Blaming me. Hurting me. It made me feel alive. And even if I knew it was wrong, it felt right.