She stares at the wall like it owes her an apology.
She hasn’t touched her phone.
Mine has over twenty sent messages now.
I leave a bag of her favorite snacks at her doorstep that night, knock once, and disappear before she can even think of answering.
NIGHT THREE
This one has a camera rig with him.
He’s live streaming.
Twitch handle plastered across his shirt like a promo.
He says, “Yo yo, what’s up stream, we’re about to do some recon on LydieLIVE.”
I tackle him mid-sentence.
Drag him by the hair into the alley between her building and the fence.
He fights.
So I give him a fight.
I break his collarbone first, snapping it with a heel strike to the top of his chest. He screams.
I punch his ribs until I feel one give under my knuckle. Use my elbow to open a split above his eye. When he goes limp, I keep going.
Because I imagine he’s Patrick.
Every fucking punch is a word.
For.
Hurting.
Her.
You.
Fucking.
Coward.
By the time I zip-tie him to a light pole and shove his cracked phone into his mouth, he can’t even cry anymore.
The cops pick him up thirty minutes later.
I watch from my car with blood on my gloves and a smile I don’t bother to hide.
NIGHT FOUR
No creeps.
Just silence.
Stillness.
