The Halloween Massacre

Chapter 8 ~ Amira

Erik keeps telling me to "do some shit to Warren before I do some shit to you," so I blocked him. Warren, that is. That wasn't enough for Erik though, and he hit me anyways. A small price to pay for letting a strange man hurt one of the people I love most, or so he keeps reminding me.

I am happy in my relationship, I really, truly am. Erik just has his own ways of punishment, but I like it. Not in a kinky way, of course, I mean he keeps me in line.

Not everyone agrees with his methods, especially my best friend, Sloane, but I don't mind.

Sloane says I gaslight myself into thinking I like my relationship. Maybe she's right.

It's kind of a sensitive topic.

At this point my black eye is about three times worse and I have a dull ache in my ribs. But I keep telling myself: This is what I get for being un-loyal, and I deserve it.

Was it really un-loyal, though? Sloane would tell me no, but Erik would tell me otherwise.

It's either listen to my boyfriend or get beat. Which option sounds more pleasant?

Exactly.

It's been like this for as long as I can remember.

Apparently his last girlfriend ended up being hospitalized from him.

All she wanted was to leave the relationship... Tried to break up with him.

She didn't make it.

The thought scares me more than I'd like to admit, and maybe that's why I've stuck around so long. I don't think that's really the reason though. Me and Erik's love runs deep. It's like our souls are intertwined. I like that.

We started dating when I was 17, and I'm now 19. Two years of happiness, two years of joy, and two years of bruises.

You would think I would know by now to not keep making mistakes, especially since Erik keeps reminding that mistakes hold you back. Sloane says that isn't true. I guess I have to listen to Erik. Always listen. Always Erik.

Sometimes I feel like I'm slowly going insane, but I just ignore it. It's better that way.

I was crying on the floor for about five minutes before finally tending to Erik's arm. If he wasn't there I would've cried much longer.

Much,

much,

longer.

He hit me with his good arm for the whole... situation... with Warren, and for taking so long to deal with his injury, before making me drive him to the hospital.

Now I'm back at the apartment, already having finished crying, something that I've noticed has become a regular thing this past month.

I left my mascara on, even though it runs all down my cheeks.

The past hour has been scrolling Instagram reels, laughing at all the funny ones and awing at all the cute ones. I'm mindlessly going on until I come across an interesting post. It's a man, strong arms, in a white dress shirt and black dress pants, riding his motorcycle in the rain. You can see his defined abs through the soaked material of his shirt.

Nothing like this has ever come up before. I check the creator, who has a username that's definitely not his name, and click on the account.

Damn. 

Now this... this is something.

None of his posts have him showing his face, so I'm not sure what anything of him looks like except his abs. I can't totally complain though. Anybody with that build is bound to be beautiful in the face, too. 

I decide to start scrolling through the account. A little light stalking never hurt anyone. That is, until I decided to follow him. Shit. If Erik goes through my followers list he'll see this. That won't end well. 

After what happened today though, maybe he deserves this. It's not even much, me following one random guy. Especially with all the girls he follows, every single one of them a hoe. 

Before I can change my mind, I lock my phone and throw it to the other end of the couch, and it lands with a soft thud before dinging. 

Of course, when I put it down I need it. 

I snatch my phone back and stare unmoving, mouth gaped open at the notification on my screen. It's not a text message, but a DM. 

Stalking my Instagram now? Seems you can't get enough of me. Good girl