Unwelcomed Obsession (Lily Collins)

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

I wake to the sun shining through the blackness of my closed eyelids. I groan and throw my forearm over my face. I can feel the cold metal of the nine millimeter Beretta under my pillow, tingle on my fingers. My eyes snap open as I remember why I have it under my pillow. I heave a heavy sigh and throw my body up right in bed. I glance at the light blue walls of my room and the white furniture making my room look and feel cold. I grab the gun and slip it from under my pillow and place it carefully in my nightstand. I throw my legs over the side of the bed, and the fall cold seeps through the floorboards and into my toes. The morning is cold and foggy; I can barely see the house across from mine. If I didn't know any better I would think I was living in London, but I am too broke for that. I bend my rusting back over and throw my long chestnut hair into probably the most disgraceful messiest bun I've ever seen. John Frieda would be mortified.

I wear a simple blue T-shirt and my underwear. I walk out of my room and down the long hallway. I know Joel is sleeping on my couch right now, and I don't care, but most importantly, neither does he. Because he's gay. Sometimes it's nice to have a gay best friend, they won't judge you, and they will always tell you that you look fierce, even when you look like you got ran over by a semi. He is the coolest guy and "brother" I could ask for. I walk down the stairs nearly tripping over Chewy, my corgi, who has a bad habit of sleeping on my stairs. I flail my arms and let out a shoot before tumbling down the last three steps. I feel something slimy drag along my face until all the grime is gone.

"Thank you, Chewy." I say pushing him away and standing back up.

I pass through my brightly lit living room and can't help but stop and observe Joel. I would say that he is in a fetal position on my loveseat, but it is more of an elongated moose fetal position. He sleeps on his side with his legs in a crisscross position around one of my pillows. His face is pushed up at a ninety-degree angle on the arm rest and his left arm is strewn over his face while his right one is protruding from the underside of the couch. I don't know how he managed it, but in a strange way he looks comfortable, if being a human pretzel is comfortable that is. I chuckle to myself and follow Chewy's one track mind, and walk into the kitchen in search for food. I pull Chewy's 20-pound bag of dog food out of the closet and pour it into his large bowl.

If that dog could get any fatter...

I watch as he sprawls himself on the floor and devouring the food like a starved man. I shake my head.

"Someday I'm going to take you to the gym with me, I'm going to prop you up on the counter, smile at the desk attendant and say 'He's my Motivation'." I say as I walk to the fridge. I stop dead in my tracks. I can feel my heart beating faster and faster as it throws its self against my ribs like a caged animal. I feel sweat soak my palms and the nape of my neck despite the cold air in the kitchen. My pulse races in my ears like a freight train. And a rare kind of fear washes over me. The kind of fear, you get when your life is in peril, the kind of fear you get when you can feel the boney, crippled fingers of death snatch your arm and pull you through the gates of hell.

I stare in fear at my refrigerator.

A photo has been neatly pinned up with magnets. A photo of me, sleeping last night. The photo was taken right above me and only shows my face, and it has been pinned up on my fridge. I see a message sprawled across the white board.

"She sleeps; on either hand upswells. The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells. A perfect form, in perfect rest."

The feeling leaves my legs and I crumple to the floor only being held up by my elbows on the edge of the sink behind me.

This creep, managed to get past a chain bolt, a dead bolt, a regular lock, a high-end security system, and take a picture of me sleeping and post it to my fridge with a poem. He knows how to get into my house. He wasn't phased by a muscular man sleeping on my couch with a baseball bat and a hand gun under my pillow. This man is fearless, and he can get to me no matter what I try to do.

I regain my legs and my voice.

"Joel! Joel!" I shoot through a raw voice. I hear a loud thud and crash and pounding footsteps. And then I hear him about to speak when he stops. I take numerous deep breaths and slowly turn around to face him. He looks in horror at the photo and then to me and back to the photo.

"Get your stuff. We are going to the station."