7. Betrayal

seven

Betrayal

Amanda

S un slips past the barrier of the shutter blinds, warming my face with warm fall morning rays. Before I even open my eyes, I feel the waves of nausea threatening to spill the entire contents of my stomach. My head is pounding. It feels like shards of glass are digging into it. Why do I feel like this? Am I sick? I pry one eyelid open first, then the other. My bed is empty. Of course, he’s either already gone to work or he slept in the spare bedroom, so I didn’t wake up. I glance around the room. My book is tossed haphazardly on the bed, a wine glass is tipped over on my end table, and next to it is an empty bottle. My clothes are halfway in the hamper and spilling out the front. I must have had a rough night. I remember I had to work late because the hospital was busy. We had three trauma calls come in right as the shift was ending and it was all hands on deck for almost two hours. Everything is a blur. I can’t really remember anything else about last night.

I try to sit up but fall back, gripping the edge of my mattress. Tears roll down my cheeks. My head is throbbing. I can’t remember the last time I had a headache this bad. A familiar salty taste fills my mouth, warning me I’m about to vomit. My stomach gives a lurch and I dive over the edge of the bed, hoping to make it into the trash can. When I’ve puked until I can’t puke anymore, I squeeze my eyes shut and drift back to sleep.

I don’t know how long I’ve slept for, only that the day is fully underway and the sunshine is filling my room, bursting from every small crack it can make its way through. I’m terrified to sit up. Maybe I can crawl to the bathroom for a bottle of water. I ease my way off the bed and onto my bedroom floor, dragging my body across the carpet to the cold dark bathroom in search of water, too afraid of what will happen if I try to lift my head more than a few inches.

Of course, once I’m sipping on small gulps of water in the bathroom, I realize my phone is still in bed. I’ll have to crawl all the way back to where I left it, just to text him good morning. The cold tile floor feels so good against my burning skin. My stomach stops cramping and I finally feel the nausea ease up a bit. I twist the cap back on the water. My bed is so far away and not nearly as cold despite the cooling gel mattress. I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the cold flooring to silence the screaming headache. It helps enough that once again I drift off to sleep, only to wake feeling like I need to vomit a few minutes later. I barely make it over to the toilet. Having a hangover from hell is not my idea of a good time on my day off. Why did I drink so much last night? I wonder, I can’t remember anything after I got off work. Maybe we need to swear of drinking, Amanda. My subconscious voice taunts, ridiculing me for my blackout drinking. I sigh. My headache flares, sending twinges of pain shooting through my brain, reminding me why I crawled instead of walked to the bathroom to begin with. Sitting up—even if it is just to throw up—is at least manageable now, which means at the very least I no longer have to crawl back to my bedroom. Ignoring the stabbing pain in my head, I pull myself up to standing and make my way back to bed to grab my phone.

I have a text message from my boyfriend waiting for me. It says he’s sorry he snuck off early this morning for work and he hopes I’ve slept in because I was passed out when he got home last night and it looked like I drank an entire bottle of wine. I message him back quickly to tell him I’m awake and I have regrets, then allow my head to fall into the soft embrace of my pillow as I squeeze my eyes shut and try my best to remember last night. I retrace my night, memory by memory. This time I make it as far as getting on the light rail and riding home. Flashes and glimpses of the gym flash through my memory. I don’t remember going to the gym last night and I don’t see my gym clothes with the laundry when my eyes dart across the room. This is so weird. Did I go to the gym or not last night? I retrace my night from the beginning once more.

Bits and pieces are coming back to me more clearly now. I remember something happened, someone was following me and I ran. I was too afraid to run home and instead I ran to the gym. An image of the masked man pops into my head and I scream, my body trembling uncontrollably. I remember everything. There was no bottle of wine or reading. Last night, I hooked up with my masked stalker in the gym and I loved every minute of it. As the realization of what happened hits me, I hyperventilate. I’m having a full-blown panic attack and trying my best to calm down. This isn’t the kind of thing I want to tell my boyfriend over a text. Instead, I send him a message to see how much longer until he can come home. There’s no time for me to wait for a reply as I hit send the doorbell rings.

I jump from the bed in a panic. The doorbell. Who could be here? I check the camera. There’s a package sitting on the front step, but it’s just sitting there with no one around. I try to go back and see if the camera recorded the motion detection, but the motion detector never triggers. There’s no video, only the live view of a package hanging out on my doorstep. Go figure this happens after I’ve completely freaked myself out and convinced myself that I fucked a man in a mask willingly in the gym to save my life. You can’t just leave a package sitting on the front porch, Amanda. Go bring it inside. Something so simple and yet I’m terrified to leave the safety of my room. What if it’s a trick like those articles you read online of women hearing crying and opening their front doors? A shiver runs down my side and I zone out, silently arguing and hyping myself up enough to go retrieve the package.

I edge my way down the stairs with my back against the wall the entire time, my eyes sweeping the downstairs for someone else. It’s impossible not to question my sanity right now. I mean, I woke to find myself in bed with one of my favorite stalker romance books, an empty bottle of wine and what feels like the worst hangover I’ve ever had. Did I go to the gym and live out my fantasies with a masked stalker, or did I fall asleep reading one of my favorite books? I don’t have time to keep debating things with myself. I’ve reached the landing at the bottom of the stairs and the only thing standing between me and this very normal, very average-looking package is my front door. My hands shake as I twist the lock over. I poke my head out just enough to perform a quick scan of the neighborhood. The streets are empty. It’s just me and the box. I take a deep breath, then scramble out quickly, snatching it from the cement and scurry back inside, twisting the lock closed behind me. Acting like a senseless lunatic, I turn to run back up the stairs, then stop, twisting to run to the kitchen and open the package. Then I freeze, turning once more toward the stairs and take one step before pausing and making one definitive mad dash for the kitchen. I mindlessly disregard the rest of my surroundings in the house as I race to the kitchen, slam the box on the counter, and reach into the knife drawer to pull out something to cut it open.

The knife cuts through the tape easily, and the cardboard flaps bounce open. I lay the knife down on the countertop and bend the flaps open to reveal—

My body launches itself at the kitchen sink as my stomach heaves again. Tears run down my face as I wipe my face with the back of my hand and bolt upstairs, slamming the door shut behind me and locking it. Quivering, I mash the buttons on my phone. My boyfriend answers on the second ring.

I don’t give him time to say anything. “Come home. I need you to come home right now. I’m not okay.”

“Amanda, what’s going on? I’m on my way. Stay on the phone with me. What’s going on?”

I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I fucked up. I hooked up with a guy wearing a mask at the gym last night. He followed me there. I don’t even know who he was, but,” I stammer, trying to ground myself. “I’m so sorry. Part of me was so afraid. I watched him though, babe. Before the gym, I watched him stab some guy walking home from the light rail stop.”

He laughs.

“Why are you laughing?” I shout.

“Amanda, I can’t tell if you’re being serious right now or you’re trying to be funny and see how I will react.” He says.

I open my mouth to respond, then stop myself. I must sound insane. “Just come home. I need you to see this for yourself. He was at the house.”

“Who was at the house? You aren’t making sense.” He replies.

“The man. He was at the house. He rang the doorbell, and he left a box on the front step. Check the cameras. He left a box and when I brought it inside to open it up, there was a pair of eyeballs inside. Human eyeballs!” I scream frantically as more tears run down my face.

“Calm down. I’m on my way. The cameras go right to my phone. I haven’t had any notification all morning. I think you’re having a bad day. You’re hungover and clearly stressed out from yesterday. Go get in the shower and calm down. I’ll be there soon. Have you eaten anything?” He asks.

“No, I haven’t eaten. I’ve been throwing up all morning.” I snap.

He sighs and I can sense his annoyance with my answer. He thinks I’m crazy and who can blame him? Shit, even I’m beginning to think I’m crazy.

“Get in the shower. I’m stepping into the elevator at the parking garage and I’m going to lose you. Don’t worry, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Amanda, I’m on my way. Call me back if you need to.”

“Love you,” I whisper before hanging up.

Do I though? I think. Do I love him? He obviously doesn’t believe me. But if I were him, would I believe me? I look around my room. It looks like I came home after losing a trauma patient, downed a bottle, went to bed with a book, passed out, and woke up a train wreck. It doesn’t look like I went to the gym, fucked a masked guy, almost died, watched someone get stabbed, and then found a pair of eyeballs sealed inside of a box on my doorstep. The eyeballs, though. That’s my proof. Maybe I should bring them up here with me. I shudder at the thought. I don’t want to even be in the same house as them. Thinking about it makes my stomach turn.

“He’s right.” I say to myself. “Go take a shower, Amanda.”

I need to clear my mind and figure out exactly what happened last night. Everything feels overwhelming, like the world is crashing down around me as I walk into the bathroom and turn the shower on, setting the temperature to burning hot and letting it get hot before I step inside. Then I take the longest, hottest shower I’ve taken in a really long time. My entire body is feeling so much better and the effects of my hangover are finally wearing off. I’ve been in the shower for nearly half an hour, which means my boyfriend should be here any minute. I shut off the water and step onto the bath mat. When I do, the doorbell rings. My blood runs cold all over again and my heart races. What now? I check the live camera view, but there’s no one there and there’s no recording either. Maybe I really am losing my fucking mind.