I woke up sometime this morning in the guest bathroom shower. My head was throbbing, and my mouth tasted like vomit. When I stood up, a bottle of Advil fell off my lap.
I panicked, I thought I had tried to overdose, or he had made me overdose, and that I was already dead and it was just a matter of time before my body caught on to the fact. But then, my addled mind realized that the bottle had rattled when it hit the floor, and on closer inspection I found that it was still almost full.
As I bent over to pick it up, I suddenly felt lightheaded. My stomach rolled and I pitched forward onto the floor. The next time I woke up, it was to the faint sound of my alarm in my bedroom. I stood successfully, but I still felt like hell, and as I passed the bathroom mirror I noticed a new, dark bruise on my forehead from the fall. I shuffled my way to my bedroom, blood rushing to my temple with every step, almost blind from the pain.
After my alarm was off, much to the relief of my aching head, I sat on the bed and tried to remember the previous night. I couldn’t think – it was like I knew what had happened, but every time I tried to remember something it just faded into a hazy kind of vague idea. I knew there was no way I could make it to work, so I had to call in sick. Call in sick and stay in this house with that thing, and a night I couldn’t remember.
When I tried to call the office, no one picked up. It took about five minutes of listening to the automated messages for me to realize what day it was.
Okay, make that two days I couldn’t remember.
After several minutes of trying to piece the night together, I got nothing except an even more intense headache. Did I go to work Friday? Did I go anywhere else? Did I talk to anyone?
What did he do?
When I decided to check for other entries, and when I saw those two
I started to remember. Not everything, but little bits.
I was almost asleep. I was staring at the ceiling light, wondering if Alex was safe, whether He was leaving her alone or if he had her captive somewhere, doing God knows what, if she was still even alive. But before I could dwell on it too long I heard a knock from the front hall. I knew it was Him, and I was furious, and my fear only gave more fuel to my anger. I threw the sheets off my bed and burst out the bedroom door.
It was during the day, now. There was that symbol again, on the floor. I stomped on it, and it scattered, like it was drawn in ash, or black sand.
It was evening again, late, by the look of how dark it was outside. I was in the kitchen, looking for something. Had I heard something? Seen something?
I stared at the knives, like I was considering arming myself, and eventually turned away. I left the kitchen after making a full search around, walking down the hall to my bedroom. As I passed the guest bedroom, its door opened, and as I ran, I heard that sickly wet popping, cracking noise. I was almost in my room, and the door slammed shut on my forehead. I staggered back, and saw his shadow on the door.
That’s all I can remember, now. Every now and then it feels like something else is coming back, then it fades away. I don’t know if I want to know.