Not So Perfect

Desperation

The dawn bleeds through the blinds, a sickly yellow light that does little to dispel the shadows clinging to the corners of the room, and to Angela's soul. She sits up, the blanket a cold, useless shroud around her shoulders, the chill seeping into her bones, mirroring the icy dread that settles in her gut. He's out there. He's always out there.

She snatches her phone, her fingers trembling, a frantic dance across the screen as she punches in his number. She ignores the miss calls and messages she has from her father. The dial tone drones, each ring a hammer blow against her already shattered nerves, a countdown to some inevitable, terrifying confrontation. Pick up. Pick up. You have to pick up.

He doesn't.

She hangs up, her breath hitching in her throat, a strangled gasp of frustration and fear. A cold, clammy sweat slicks her palms, a physical manifestation of the terror that threatens to consume her. He went through with his plan.

She dials again, her finger stabbing at the screen, her heart pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against her ribs, a drumbeat of impending doom. The dial tone stretches into an eternity, a mocking silence that amplifies the frantic whispers of her fear.

Still nothing.

"Come on," she hisses, her voice a strained whisper, a desperate plea lost in the suffocating silence. "Answer me, damn it."

She dials a third time, her nerves screaming, her stomach churning with a nauseating mix of dread and anger. He's doing this on purpose. He's always doing everything on purpose. The line clicks, then a robotic voice, cold and impersonal, fills the silence: "The number you have dialed is currently unavailable."

A wave of icy panic washes over her, a tidal wave of terror that threatens to drown her. He blocked her. He cut her off. He's isolating her, circling her like a predator, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

She dials again, and again, and again, each attempt met with the same sterile, automated response. Her frustration curdles into a raw, primal fear, a desperate, animalistic instinct to flee. He's not just ignoring her; he's cutting her off, isolating her, circling her like a predator.

Her hand trembles, the phone slipping in her grasp, the smooth surface a cold, indifferent reminder of her powerlessness. He's angry. He's always angry. The thought sends a shiver down her spine, a cold, visceral fear that claws at her resolve, threatening to unravel the fragile threads of her determination.

Her stomach twists into a knot, a sickening premonition of what's to come. She knows his patterns. His silence is a weapon, a calculated move to amplify her fear, to remind her of his absolute control, to break her down before he even lays a hand on her.

She stares at the phone, her mind racing, a desperate need for action overriding her terror. She She needs to find a way to reach him. To find Ellie and Sophie as well. She needs to stop being a coward and finally do something. 

Tony sleeps soundly on the couch, oblivious to the storm raging within her. His peaceful slumber is a stark contrast to the chaos threatening to consume her, a gentle reminder of the innocence she's trying to protect, the lives she's trying to save. She can't wake him. This is her fight, her burden, and she's terrified of what he might find if he follows her. She's terrified of what she might reveal.

She takes a shaky breath, trying to mask the fear that claws at her throat. She has to go. She has to face him.

"I... I need to change," Angela says, her voice barely audible, her eyes pleading with the empty room, a silent apology to Tony, who still sleeps on the couch. She turns and retreats to the bedroom, closing the door behind her, a desperate attempt to shield herself from what was to come.

Inside, Maggie's bag sits on the bed, a stark reminder of the support she had, even in the darkest of times. Maggie had dropped off clothes for her last night, a small act of kindness in the face of the impending storm. She's trembling as she pulls out a pair of shorts, their fabric thin and offering little protection, and slips them on, hiding them beneath Tony's shirt, slightly oversized on her frame, a borrowed comfort against the cold fear that grips her.

She's about to change her shirt, her movements slow and deliberate, when a heavy knock echoes from the front door. The sound reverberates through the small apartment, a violent intrusion that shatters the fragile silence, a terrifying harbinger of the chaos to come. Her blood runs cold. It's him.