He knows

When I write about her, I'm not scared. I know I'm safe in my own home.

I don't think she'd even try to find me.

But him?


I can't sleep at night after I write the stories about him.

I still hear his voice echo in my head.

How it sounded when he'd say my name.

After writing about her, I get angry. I'm mad, but I move on.

After writing about him?

I look behind the shower curtain. I keep the light on. I sleep on the couch.

It's irrational, I know.

I start getting paranoid that he'd be able to find me. That I'm not alone.

But he's more dangerous.

He was in my thoughts.

He was in my body.

He was methodical.

He's reached out since.

He knew what he was doing.

He knows what he's doing.

Recent Posts

See All

Then what?

File bankruptcy. Check. Get a job. Check. Get an apartment. Check. Get a therapist. Check. Change my last name. Check. Get a raise. Check. But what happens when the checkboxes run out? I had steps. I


It was a year ago. I remember this path I walked. I walked it often. I read my book, watched the deer play, and circled the park at dusk. Alone with my thoughts. I was finishing his lease after he mov

I question

When I spend a lot of time working on my book, it happens. I start questioning my sanity. I sit there, paralyzed...panicking. Wanting to rip open my chest to make the pain stop. I question who I am. I