Page 35 of Hellebore

I type back even though I know the message won’t go through.

“Fuck you. You’re stalking me and you entered my apartment.”

The message actually delivers and my heart stops.

The reply comes almost instantly.

“If I wanted to hurt you, you’d already be bleeding for me.”

I should drive off. I should go straight to the police station, then to Lucille’s. But some dark, fucked-up curiosity roots me in place as the fog curls thicker around my car.

“You enjoy making me afraid of you.”

“I do enjoy it. Your fear tastes fucking delicious.”.

“Is that why you are sending me toxic flowers? To hurt me?”

“Everything I give you can hurt you, my love.”

My pulse is racing for an entirely different reason now. I feel a strange heat going up my spine. “My love,” I murmur.

“What do you want?”

He doesn’t reply right away. My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel.

“You. Every fucking piece of you. Until there’s nothing left that doesn’t belong to me.”

My heart slams against my ribs so hard I feel it in my throat.

“You’re insane! Why me?”

This time the message fails to send.

Shit.

Lucille texts me again, freaking out because I’m taking too long.

I’ll go to her place. Then I’ll figure out what the hell to do next.

The truth is… I don’t really feel threatened.

I feel seen, and some sick, twisted part of me, the part my therapist warned me about, is quietly and shamefully excited.

One last deep breath and I drive to Lucille’s. She lives in a small complex with security at the gate, so I know no one can follow me inside. The guard waves me through, he already knows my face.

The moment I park, she bursts out the door and pulls me into a fierce hug. I let myself melt into her for a second. She’s the only person in the world who really cares about me. The only one I care about.

“What took you so long?” she asks, voice tight.

“Sorry… I needed a minute to calm down enough to drive.” The lie tastes bitter but I can’t tell her I was texting my stalker. She’d lose her mind, and she’d be right to.

“I was about to drive over and call the cops on the way!” She mutters, leading me upstairs.

Her apartment is a pure gothic lair, deep red and black walls, heavy silk curtains that swallow the light, and a massive black leather couch. But what I love most is how she’s made everything hers. Old fabrics turned into art, reclaimed wood from abandoned furniture, flowers sewn from the remains of ripped-up jeans. She taught me how to do the same, how to take something discarded and breathe new life into it. Thrifting isn’t just shopping for us; it’s a ritual. We hunt for pieces, cut them apart, and remake them into something ours.

She’s been fully gothic since she was fourteen. I only fell into it three years ago.

We settle on the couch and she looks at me seriously.