Behind the Badge: Obsession in the Shadows

Dont cry

The darkness came slowly, like sinking into warm tar. I fought it at first I clenched my jaw, dug my nails into my palms, tried to hold onto the sharp edges of hate and fear. But the pills were patient, relentless, just like him. They blurred the rage into something softer, heavier, until my limbs felt like lead and my thoughts scattered like smoke.

His heat was everywhere. The solid wall of his chest against my back, his breath steady and warm on my neck, his hand still resting possessively over my ribs as if measuring every breath I took. I hated how my body betrayed me, how it eased into the cradle of his arm, how the tension in my muscles unraveled against my will. It wasn't comfort. It was surrender disguised as relief.

Sleep took me anyway.

I dreamed in fragments. Flashes of the outside world I'd lost sunlight on my face, the laugh of friends I couldn't remember clearly anymore, the sound of my own apartment door locking behind me on a normal night. Then the dreams twisted. His hands on me. His voice in my ear. The binder on the desk, pages filled with photos of me living a life he'd watched from the shadows long before I ever knew he existed.
I woke with a gasp, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape my chest.

The room was still dim, the recessed light barely a glow. For a moment I didn't know where I was. Then I felt him still behind me, still holding me, his arm heavier now in sleep. His breathing deep and even. His thigh still wedged between mine, his palm still splayed just under my breast, fingers curled slightly as if even unconscious he refused to let go.

The rage came back like a slap.

I moved slowly, carefully, testing. His grip didn't tighten. He didn't stir. The pills had done their work on him too, maybe, or maybe he simply trusted the lock on the door and the chains on the bed and the fact that I had nowhere to run.

I slid out from under his arm inch by inch, holding my breath. The mattress shifted. He made a low sound in his throat almost a growl but didn't wake. I rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up, bare feet touching cold floor.

My head throbbed. Mouth dry again. Body aching like I'd been bruised all over, though I knew the bruises were only in places he hadn't touched yet.
I looked back at him.

He was on his stomach now, one arm stretched out where I'd been, fingers half-curled like he was still holding me in his sleep. The blanket had slipped low on his hips. The faint light traced the lines of his back and broad shoulders, the dip of his spine, the way muscle shifted under skin even at rest. He looked almost human like this. Almost peaceful.

I hated him more for it.

I stood.

The chain on the bed was there, bolted to the frame, long enough to reach the attached bathroom but not the door. He hadn't used it last night. He hadn't needed to.

I walked to the dresser. The empty cup still sat there. No pills left. No weapon. Nothing sharp. Nothing heavy.

I looked at the door anyway. Seamless. Locked. I knew the code was in his head, not mine.

My hands shook as I opened the top drawer.

Clothes. My clothes. Folded neatly. The ones he'd taken from my apartment, I realized. Soft cotton tees. My favorite jeans. Underwear I recognized. All clean. All waiting.

He'd planned this down to the last detail.

I closed the drawer harder than I meant to.

The sound cracked through the silence.

Behind me, the mattress shifted.

I froze.

His voice came low and rough with sleep. "Going somewhere, Madison?"