Frayed Obsession (The Frayed Trilogy 1)

Chapter Eleven

Emery

He’s here, I know it.

I know he’s speaking to me, but I can’t hear him, I can’t see him.

The cold concrete warms beneath my bare feet as liquid crimson flows around me, staining my skin and tainting my soul. My body trembles, and I struggle to contain the sobs as tears rush down my face, but I don’t dare make a sound.I want to run, but my legs won’t work—paralysed by the knowledge of what happens if I don’t follow the rules.

Blood soaks the end of my white nightgown, tarnishing the innocence it portrays, and the metallic scent burns my nostrils. Lifting my hands, I inspect the pale skin of my palms. There’s nothing there, but I can feel the sticky residue of guilt clinging to my skin. I try to wipe it off on my nightie, over and over, but it won’t budge.

Tears continue to fall from my eyes, and my gaze drifts ahead of me.

No, no, no. I don’t want to see! I cry harder, trying to squeeze my eyes shut, but my vision zeroes in on a hand in the sea of red.

A hand tangled in hair that was golden only hours before.

No, not hours. Years.

I don’t understand.

The bloody nightgown is the same, but my body isn’t. It’s then I realise I’m not a child.

This isn’t right.

I’m not meant to be here.

I can’t stop my gaze from continuing its path. Oh God, I can’t breathe.

A pair of lifeless eyes stare straight through me, and I choke on a sob. I should have known better. This is all my fault.

“You didn’t think you could run from me, did you, Emery?” Hot breath hits my cheek, and I flinch. “I’ll always find you.”

A flash of dark blue eyes fills my vision, and this time, I scream.

I gasp, shooting up from the bed. My pulse races, and my chest rises and falls rapidly as I try to catch my breath and clear the fog from my head. Tears stream down my cheeks soaking the sheets tangled around me as a cold sweat covers my skin, and I shiver from the chill.

I look around, my eyes adjusting to the dark room, but panic starts to set in when nothing seems familiar. A sliver of moonlight peaks through the curtains, barely enough to add any illumination.

Pulling the sheets around my shoulders, I rock gently while squeezing my eyes shut.

“He’s not here, he’s not here, he’s not here,”I whisper the mantra, trying desperately to believe it.

The memory haunts me every time I close my eyes, but this was different. I can still feel his breath on my cheek.

I rub my cheek. Hard.

Desperately trying to get rid of the feeling.

This wasn’t just a memory. He spoke directly to me. Not thirteen-year-old me, butme. It was a warning, a promise.

One that scares me to death.

A whimper sounds from the door, and my head swings in that direction, my heart pounding even harder than before. I don’t move a muscle, but when I hear it again, I scramble out of bed away from the door, instantly regretting the decision when pain slices through my ankle, and I have to catch myself on the bedside table.

Memories start flowing back from the day before.

The park, my apartment, my camera.