The Fence || h. s.

38 // Chaos

TW: drug use, sex

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Someone once told me that it's not my family, but rather myself that I should be afraid of. Your mind is your greatest enemy—it's a harsh fact that I've learned throughout the years of enduring mental torment at my parents' hands. 

There's only as much a person can take. Obsessing over possible scenarios and endgames is not good for anyone's mental health. At some point, we always reach the point that marks our limit. It's inevitable, like dying. 

I should probably stop with the morbid comparisons. Anyway...

Tonight, plagued by the threat of my stalker—or as Roy concluded, multiple stalkers—I have officially reached my edge.

For the third night in a row, I don't get a wink of sleep. Not even the warmth of Harry's chest pressed against my back is enough to melt the insomnia away. Always on high alert, I lay awake and ponder the meaning of the letter we found in my backyard. Its words echo in my mind for hours on end, much like lyrics to an annoying song you can't seem to shake.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not being there for you, for allowing it to happen.

Quietly as if not to disturb the sleeping man next to me, I slip out of our shared bed. My movements are sluggish and uncoordinated—a couple of sleepless nights tend to do that to a person. In spite of it all, I somehow manage to get dressed and stumble down the stairs to my car.

Several men from Harry's security team let me out through the gate. H has become paranoid since the letter incident—understandably so—instructing his bodyguards to keep close watch all day and night. They'll probably report to him about my late-night drive tomorrow, but I can hardly find it in me to care, not with a clear destination in mind. It's a place that I haven't visited in almost two years… One that I vowed to never get anywhere near again. 

Apparently, all promises are meant to be broken.

The houses outside the window turn into a colourless blur as I speed through the quiet streets of Malibu, my mind still stuck on that damned letter.

I was too much of a coward that night. Next time, I'll protect you. Next time, I'll prove my worth. They won't get to you again. Not on my watch.

In an ironic twist of things, the same person who's been continuously spying on me for several months has also chosen to become my  'protector'. Clearly, he must not only be infatuated with me, but also severely deluded.

Roy still believes there's a connection between the elusive writer and the two men who set my house on fire. Obviously, I'm terrified. Whoever's writing those letters is still out there—watching, waiting, scrutinising my every move. 

Maybe that will make you notice me.

Still, against my better judgment, I can't help but feel a hint of understanding, or even sympathy. Maybe it's because that letter reminds me of myself, or at the very least, the version that had existed before Harry came into my life—the lonely, depressed girl, craving any sort of meaning. 

You'll finally see me.

Only someone equally broken can recognise a kindred soul.

The house I pull up to appears to be vacant, but I know better than to let it fool me. At this hour on a Friday night, the party in the basement is sure to be in a full swing; you just have to know where and when to look.

With one last heavy exhale, I cross the backyard and ring the doorbell once. After a few minutes of no response, I aggressively press my hand against the button, causing a continuous, buzzing noise.