HUNTER

5

"I didn't write to anyone!" I squeak. My brain rushing through every moment of the past few days to try and remember if I had. I was sure I hadn't, but had I? Through all the horror I'd felt, the pain of my wrists, the fear, the smell, his presence - everything seemed to blur as I fought through the mess to find the letter that I was accused of writing. Who even wrote letters anymore? But then he wouldn't give me a phone would he.
"You did." He cleared his throat, pulling a white envelope out of his trouser pocket and unfolding a crisp piece of paper. He began to read. The tone of voice was scarily accurate. All the slang and phrases I'd use just in the right places, along with all the details that only I would know. The time of day I preferred to eat, the fact I liked to travel to Scotland alone every few weeks to try and forget about things, and what day and time I would go. Every time I went. It was very specific. As though I had written it myself.
"You see," he tucks the letter back into his pocket. "They believe you're in Scotland for a couple of weeks. You wrote them a lovely letter about your trip and the food at the cafe just off the motorway in Glasgow."
"You wrote it." I said sternly, and he stopped smiling. He shook his head. Did the fool actually believe it himself? Did he believe his own lies?
"You wrote it the night you arrived and confessed your love to me. You said you never wanted to be away from my side." He stepped forward to stroke my cheek through the bars. His cold, deathly pale flesh caressed my hot skin like a prickly ice cube as his eyes bored into mine. "And you never shall." Taking my chance I grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm through the bars. He cried out as I stabbed the metal pick deeply into his hand, twisting it in satisfaction. "In your dreams!" I screamed. "I don't love you. I'll never love you. Keep your hands off of me!" With a force that threw me back into the toilet, hitting my head, he broke free. He slinked away, nursing his injured hand as blood pooled down his arm and soaked into his suit jacket.

Reaching back I pull my hand away to see blood. The hard corner of the toilet had sliced into my scalp. Remembering something I'd seen in a hospital drama, I rip the bottom of my vest to press the fabric to the back of my head to stem the bleeding. Happy that I was going to live, I let myself grin impishly. Satisfied that the bastard was human and I wasn't dealing with some Jason Vorhees shit. "Now you have something to match your tie." I mutter to myself and laugh out loud at my own joke. Fuck, I was losing my mind.