Under the tears, my cheeks are fiery red. I don’t look like a girl who has been fucked to within an inch of a heartbeat. I look as if I’ve been ruined.
I am ruined.
Ironically, all this destruction he’s created in my heart has fought back the OCD demons in my head. I manage to get away with only checking the room once tonight.
Once.
I feel like my broken strings are mending, slowly, one thread at a time, Shepherd’s hand stitching them back together.
I lie in bed. Try not to think of him. Think of the missing teenager from this morning’s paper and her sad parents. Try not to think of tobacco flakes, little specks of silver in eyeballs, legs stretched out, dirty whispers in my ear. Try to think of white paint, bleach and spider webs.
Try not to think of him.
Try not to think.
I lie awake for hours.
I feel like I’m lying on an operating table, and the anaesthetic is wearing off, leaving me in between sleep and wakefulness. That’s why I can’t do anything but wake dream, just him. That’s why I hurt so much.
At about three in the morning, I crawl out of bed. I sit shivering in my dressing gown for ten minutes with a cup of tea. When the warmth starts to settle into my toes, I decide to meditate.
This time I don’t dream of Shepherd. I don’t want to hurt with every breath I take, but I want to do something. Little by little, I will fix myself.
The harder I try not to think of him, the more impossible it becomes. I look up to the ceiling. I listen to the roaring silence inside my own ears, and wonder if he’s awake with me.
Eventually, I meditate. Just for ten minutes. The timer goes off and I feel like I’m walking on water. I go back to bed, and, as it starts to get light outside, finally fall asleep.
The next day, in the early evening, I decide to be brave and go for a run. I get kitted out in tracksuit and trainers. I only check the estate once.
It’s windier than I realise, and my route to the high street means I’m running into the wind most of the way. Before Christmas, I wouldn’t have dared to come here. But I feel okay. I’m wearing my baseball cap low so nobody recognises me.
I stop outside a pink neon sign that says Psychic. Crystal balls twinkle in the window. An old woman watches me, beckons me from the doorway. I want to know my future. But then a part of me is afraid. That if she says what I know is there, it will be undeniable, it will be real.
I go inside. It smells of sickly sweet smoke and fake roses. The candle in the centre of her table has an electric flame.
What am I doing here?
She starts tapping her fingernails on the table. Rap rap rap.
‘There is something you’re keeping, dear. Some secret you know will destroy the one you love the most,’ she says. She shakes her head and squints through me. ‘You’re heading for a fall, my dear. I can tell you more. It’ll be forty pounds. I can help you. Don’t be afraid, dear.’
I run out of her shop as fast as I can.
What will she tell me? Suddenly, I don’t want to know my future.
The sky breaks. Big droplets of icy rain begin to fall. By the time I get back to Swan Lake, I’m soaked, my hair spiked up in all directions by the rain and my own sweat, my cheeks stinging from the cold. But I feel great. No, better than great. I almost feel like my best self. I am getting better. I am not heading for a fall.
Dig deep, and find the grit in you.
I can do this.
Later in the night, Shepherd calls me on my mobile phone over FaceChat.
‘Amy, you okay?’
He’s kept to his word. He hasn’t ordered me to come to his for nearly two weeks. He hasn’t pushed me into another dark corner.
He leans close enough to the camera for me to see the silver in his black eyes. He drops his voice and says, ‘Come closer so I can see you.’
I move my phone closer to my head. ‘What is it, Shepherd?’
‘Why don't you come visit me, so I can get a good look at you instead of always watching you on my phone. You look beautiful. I bet you smell beautiful, too. I could behave if you came to see me. Keep my hands to myself.’
‘Could you?’ I say. He’s squinting, making him look more predatory.
‘Maybe. Why’d you still sleep with your lights on?’
‘I don't —’
‘Quit lying, Amy. Your bedroom light is always on at night. Why?’ he says, with his voice some strange cadence between tenderness and menace.
‘I told you . . . to keep back the monsters that come in the dark.’
‘You still got monsters?’
‘You were right. I always will have,’ I say, and turn away from the phone.
‘Don't — don't turn away. I want to look at you.’
‘You can look at me every day. I know you’re watching me on the CCTV cameras you set up in the hallways and entrance.’
‘But not for me. I want to look at you when it's just for me.’
I sit where he can look at me wearing his white T-shirt — it’s the best thing I’ve ever worn.
Half-defiant, I keep my eyes down, knowing he wants that, too. Always wants all of me.
‘Will you come visit me?’ he says.
‘You promised I didn't have to. Until I was ready.’
‘I know I promised,
