RED

three weeks, paranoia, and fear

sorry they've been so short recently!! semester started today and it's just been hectic. anyway, enjoy!

word count: 1955

It had been three weeks and four days since Emily received that message from Clyde. Three weeks and four days since she found out that the man she had put away was out and after her life. Nail biting had always been an awful habit of hers, but it had been under control until that fateful night. Now, the skin on her fingers was raw, and the remnants of her nails were constantly bloody, red. She wasn't sleeping well; the bags under her eyes were dark and prominent. She tried to hide them with heavier makeup, hoping she could blame the discoloration on smudgy mascara and bad concealer. Her hair, once a source of pride, had lost the shine everyone loved so much. Now, it was dull and brittle, with strands breaking off in her hands when she tried to run her fingers through it. The simple act of brushing it felt like a chore too exhausting to bear.

Her apartment, once a sanctuary of order and calm, had devolved into a chaotic mess. Clothes were strewn across the floor, dishes piled up in the sink, and unopened mail cluttered the countertops. Empty whiskey bottles lined the kitchen counters, amber remnants clinging to the glass like ghosts of forgotten nights. The ashtray on her coffee table overflowed with crushed cigarette butts, the smell of stale smoke clinging to everything. The room reeked of it, the air thick with the scent of burnt tobacco and despair. The once-cozy space was now a suffocating cage where her anxiety festered.

The silence that once brought her peace now amplified the insidious thoughts creeping into her mind. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant sound from the street below, sent her heart racing. She hadn't felt safe in weeks, a prisoner in her own home, constantly glancing over her shoulder as if the shadows themselves were watching her.

Emily's skin had taken on an almost ghostly pallor, her once rosy complexion drained of color. The cold, brittle air of late autumn seemed to cling to her, seeping into her bones no matter how many layers she wore. She had lost so much weight that her clothes barely fit anymore. She caught glimpses of herself in mirrors and barely recognized the gaunt, haunted woman staring back. The endless biting of her nails had become a compulsion, a small act of self-destruction that felt like the only thing she had control over. The raw, red skin around her fingers throbbed with pain, a dull reminder of the torment she was enduring.

Her only lifelines were the cigarettes that burned her throat, the liquor that seared her insides, and the constant cups of coffee she clung to like a lifebuoy, just to keep herself functioning, just to keep the darkness at bay. But it was never enough. The alcohol didn't numb the fear, and the cigarettes didn't calm her nerves. Instead, they only served to remind her of how tightly wound she was, how close to the edge she was walking. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Doyle's face, and heard his voice. Sleep had become an enemy, the hours of the night stretching endlessly as she tossed and turned, unable to escape the terror that lurked in the shadows of her mind.

The toll on her body was obvious, but the toll on her mind was even greater. Sleep was a luxury she could no longer afford. When she did manage to drift off, her dreams were plagued by visions of him—Ian Doyle, lurking in the shadows, his eyes burning into her soul. She woke up drenched in sweat, her heart pounding so hard that she thought it might burst from her chest. The walls of her apartment, once a comfort, now seemed to close in on her, suffocating her with their oppressive weight.

Every waking moment was a battle to keep the panic at bay. She had become hypervigilant, scanning her surroundings with the intensity of a predator on the hunt. The extra weapons she carried were a constant reminder of the threat that loomed over her, the only comfort she had left in a world that had become increasingly hostile. The weight of the knife on her thigh and the gun on her ankle were both a reassurance and a burden, pulling her down with the knowledge of what she might have to do if things went wrong.