Complacency is the unfinished sequel to Graveyard Blues, my favorite child. Wasn't sure how far I wanted to take this or how to properly execute this from such a limited point of view (in the perspective that it just takes place in one house, and all the main character wants is to live in peace). I really wanted a continuation of what I think to be my best work so far, but it just didn't happen that way. The Voices (2015 I think, w Ryan Reynolds) was my inspiration for Graveyard Blues and Complacency & it was taken off Netflix so I didn't know what to do with myself. The first few chapters really really suck but towards the end of what I wrote is the best of it. Still isn't good. Anyways —

Abyss

It's only been three years, but it feels like forever, and I don't want to live forever.

One year and five months ago, I released a book about growing up and ultimately falling in love with a psychopath with an affinity for killing things. I titled it Abyss, because that's what my life felt like, but it's just cringeworthy when I look back on it. I'm tempted to write a sequel to counteract it.

For a while, I was content, living alone in the middle of the woods in Dallon's secluded vacation home. All the corpses he'd buried here were dug up and taken away for examination, so I could actually stomach to set foot on the property for once.

I used to keep the master bedroom locked and unused because it reeked of the cologne he owned, and I slept on the couch until I gave in and started living out days underneath the covers again. I hired a lot of different cleaning services to get rid of the smells I recognized.

Every now and then, I'll pop up in public and the media will explode again. New articles will burst into existence, old photos of Dallon will circulate, videos of us start sucking the internet in like a whirlpool. Then it'll die down, and I'll step outside again. It's a cycle for me, but for Dallon it will never end.

Every day, someone new comes forward about working with him, and all the times he slipped up come pouring in to the spotlight, all the accusations are proven true. It's relieving, but also unsettling. Nobody understands why I loved him so much, and I couldn't remember for a while either, until two months after the book was released.

I missed him. I missed when he would be romantic, even if it was fake and just for practice. In some weird, fucked up sense of that phrase, I think he cared about me, and he was the first person in a long time to occasionally give a damn about where I was or what I was doing. Of course that was just so I wouldn't run into him burying shit in the yard, but the original point still stands.

He cared. Not in the way that he should, but he cared, and that was all I ever wanted. That was all I wanted.

Four weeks ago, I got a letter from him. I only got it because the hospital has the house I live in on records in case they need to contact me at all, in which case they did for one thing only. The paper sits on the countertop, and I read them every so often when I miss him, because it veers me off the track.

Brendon,

I'm writing this in a very dull crayon because I am not allowed to have a pencil anymore. I tried to write a letter about a week ago and I stabbed someone in the trachea again. Needless to say, I have not improved in the slightest. I haven't killed anything in a while, and the urges are worse than they've ever been.

I hope you are doing well. Whichever home you have chosen to reside in should be up to date, but if it's not, I left a book around somewhere with the contact information of everyone who can do proper renovations. I know you always wanted a skylight in the master bedroom.

I'm also not allowed to write about killing anything, which I understand. I'm not quite sure what they're trying to accomplish yet. I will let you know when I figure it out, but I doubt I ever will.

If you see her, could you tell Hayley to check her mail? I sent her a Christmas present a while ago and I wasn't sure if it was delivered. One of the nurses lent me a tablet to do some online shopping. You should be receiving something soon as well.

If you don't write back, I understand, and if you don't come visit, I understand. I finally read the book, and it sounds like I fucked your life up irreversibly. Either way, happy holidays. Here's to year three.

Best wishes, Dallon.

Year three.

Year three. I didn't think about the value of three years until I read it on paper. Another network marathon of Taylor's movies, another onslaught of cameras and interviews shoved in my face, another year taken from Hayley, another year alone for the both of us. Another year of living in a secluded vacation home in the middle of the wilderness.

I just can't believe he's still gone.

Phone calls

It's half past two in the morning, and I still can't sleep. All of the lights in the house are off, and there's nothing but white noise buzzing through the room. My phone sits beside me, face up, volume turned to the highest setting, and I stare at the pitch black ceiling.

I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

I'm hoping he'll call, and I know he can't because he's not allowed to, but I feel like he will any second now. I wait all day, secluded with the occasional visit from a busy Hayley finishing her last year of online college courses, hoping my psychopathic ex-fiancé will call me from the ridiculously secure mental hospital. Even if they had phones, he would never even get far enough to dial the first digit of the home number without a scheduled call time. Security is tight from the photos.

Before I can drift off again, my ringtone blares through the room, and sure enough she's the one dialing my number so late at night.

"Hey, Hayley. Why're you up so late?"

"Hey, so," her voice is shaky and quiet, "I just got a super heavy package from Dallon, and I'm scared to open it. H-Have you heard from him recently?"

She blocked his phone and doesn't open her mail anymore — her boyfriend does, and he burns all the letters Dallon does send to her, trying to apologize or make conversation with her. "Yeah, I have. He's just sending a Christmas present, don't worry about it too much. He was supervised when he bought and it was shipped by the company, so you're in the clear."

She lets out a sigh of relief and takes a minute to respond. "Okay. I'm still... still scared though. I'm sorry, I don't mean to be annoying. You can hang up if—"

"Stay on the line with me while you open it. I really don't mind, Hayley."

"Alright." I don't hear her voice while she tears the tape from the box and rustles through the packaging. I do hear her boyfriend across the room, mumbling to ask if she wants any food or help opening the box, and she turns down both.

"What did he send?"

Hayley clears her throat. "I guess I'll read his letter first. He said... he says hi, apologizes for bothering me, fills me in on why—" her voice gives out for a moment, "—why he's writing in crayon. And, uh, he wishes me a late merry Christmas."

Her boyfriend clears his throat and sits beside her, based on the volume of his muttering. "You don't have to open it."

"I'm going to. Let me do it." She hisses and starts digging into the box again. It takes her a few minutes. "It's a blanket and check for twenty grand. The note says it's to cover some of my last semester of college."

"That's generous." I say and she agrees.

We're both quiet for a moment. We usually talk about anything but Dallon. There's no escape from him this time though.

"If I take the money, does it mean I forgive him?" She asks quietly, almost a whisper. For three years, she's been terrified of anything and everything related to him after he killed Taylor. For months after he was taken away, she'd call me in the middle of the night, worried she was next. He'd never have laid a finger on her.

"No. It doesn't mean you forgive him. He's just trying to compensate, I think. He knows you're afraid of him."

"Okay. I'll, um, talk to you later, Brendon. Tell me if he sends you anything."

"I will. Have a good night, you two."

She hangs up and I'm alone again.

Beach

"Look," he points to the water turning orange and pink in the sunset, "there're dolphins over there."

I follow his finger and sure enough, fins glide through the water and duck under the waves. There's at least five or six gathered together. "Pretty. I wonder where they're going."

He shrugs against my back and wraps his arm back over my shoulders, grabbing on to my bicep. He leans forward a little more and rests his chin in the crook of my neck, watching the ocean with me. "All over. They swim fast."

"Do you think Michael Phelps could beat 'em in a race?"

"Nope. I hate that guy."

"He has a shit ton of Olympic gold medals."

"Okay. I'm still better."

I turn around a bit and push him down to the sand, wrapping my arms around his torso and squeezing. His hands slide up my back and to my hair, which is still drying from being tossed into the water. "Couldn't have pushed me down on the towel? There's going to be sand in my hair for weeks, B."

"Whoops. Guess I'll have to wash it out at the hotel." I sit up and smile at him. The sun sits in the perfect position, it's golden hour, and he looks as perfect as ever.

"You're lucky I love you." He smirks and presses his lips to my temple. I swear I hear the flash of cameras go off, but I ignore them.

"I love you too, Dallon."

"Of course you do," and he's back to messing around with me, "I have all the money and all the acting talent. No offense, but you aren't the best actor, B."

I roll my eyes. "I know, you don't have to rub it in. My face wouldn't look as good as yours does on a big screen either, and I'm better at spending money than I am at making it, truthfully."

"Mmm, those are lies, and you know it."

Before I can hit back with another remark, I hear the sound again and we both turn to see a small group of photographers gathered at the end of the stairs leading to the beach. He sighs and nudges me off of him to rolls up the towels and grab the rest of our stuff before the crowd gets any bigger.

He fumbles for my hand and leads me behind him back up the other set of stairs and to the hotel, which is only about a quarter mile of a walk. "Sorry it was ruined. Was real nice while it lasted."

"Don't apologize. It isn't your fault, movie star." I drawl the last part and he glances back to smile sweetly at me. I've known him since elementary school, but I still melt every time.

"Why'd you have to kill her?" It falls out of my mouth, completely unprovoked. I wasn't even thinking about that.

He pauses and turns around, still holding my hand, playing with my fingers. The paparazzi is gone, it's just us back on the sand, the sun setting, waves crashing against the shore. "What do you mean?"

I grab his other hand. "Taylor. Why did you kill her? Why did you confess? Why did you leave me? What did I do wrong?"

His eyes turn cold and any concern in his expression falls. "I couldn't keep killing rabbits and birds forever, darling. You know it was over when they found her in the motel room, there was no use in hiding it."

"You didn't answer the last part."

He sighs and gives another squeeze to my hands. "The only thing you did wrong was think that I could ever love you."

I wake up in a cold sweat before he can break my heart completely.

It was just a dream. Just another dream, but I still feel nauseous. The other side of the bed is cold, but I'm sweating.

The clock reads a quarter past four in the morning. I've only been asleep for about two hours, but it's the most sleep I've gotten in about a month. Every dream I have is about him now, and I don't know what to do about it anymore. I can't keep sending therapists to my house. They drive me up the walls.

My phone blinks with a flurry of messages and email notifications, the most of them from Hayley. She's tried to reach me on every platform possible, begging me to read the news and call her. I dial her number first, and she picks up immediately.

"Hayley, what—"

"Read the news, read the news," she sobs into the phone, her boyfriend shushing her in the background, "just read it. It's everywhere."

I keep her on speakerphone and head to google, and his name pops up on the recommended articles list immediately, and I can't feel my hands when I read the title.

'Psychotic ex movie star Dallon Weekes kills three with shard of broken glass, turns blade on himself'

It feels like I can't breathe. Blood rushes to my head, and my mind goes blank. "I-Is he dead then?"

"No, no," she cries, "he's not, he's not dead, but he killed them, he killed them!"

Every article I read says the same thing. They list the names of three dead nurses, a short backstory of Dallon's psychotic past, and say he's receiving intense medical attention after nearly bleeding to death. Somehow, I'm mentioned in all of them as well, even though I'm halfway across the country. That's what I get for getting engaged to a psychopath, I guess.

"Hayley, it's okay. You know he'd never hurt you, he liked you a lot. You knew him all those years, and you were fine." I don't know how I became the one comforting her, but it's good to draw my train of thought elsewhere.

"It's not okay," she isn't sobbing as hard, but she's still hiccuping and hyperventilating, "he killed people, Brendon! Three people, and you and I both know he won't stop there. This is what he does, he—"

"Hayley, he's gone! He's not coming anywhere near either of us ever again, and he's never leaving that hospital for the rest of his life, and that's a promise. We're safe, okay?"

It takes a minute for her to catch her breath, but she responds eventually. "Okay. Okay, it's alright."

"It's alright. I'll talk to you later, okay? Try to get some sleep."

"Okay. You too. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

The Urges

He's on the front page of all the newspapers the next day, this time with more depth to the story. They have a timeline on how the situation played out. It was less than a minute in total.

The first nurse brings evening medications, knocks, and enters. He's laying on his bed, facing the wall, holding a shard of glass underneath the pillow. It's from a broken mirror in the bathroom down the hall.

She thinks he's asleep, goes to wake him up, and he slashes her neck. She screams, he stabs her, and two more nurses run into the room to try and restrain him while security is on its way.

The second victim tries to grab his wrists but he slices her neck before she gets the chance to lay a finger on him, and the third nurse wraps her arms around him from the back. He breaks her nose with the back of his head, and while she's down he stabs her repeatedly until he hears security.

They arrive, three people are dead, and he'd just finished the second cut dragging down his forearm when the situation sinks in. The medical team carts him over to the hospital wing, and the bodies are taken away to a morgue.

He's supposed to wake up later in the day.

I toss out the rest of my breakfast after reading it. I can't eat eggs with ketchup with that scene playing in my head. It all felt a little too real as I read through it. It almost felt like my fault.

———

It takes two more days until he wakes up, which is still a relatively short period of time for someone who almost bled to death. I didn't sleep for those few days.

The papers and articles come flying out as soon as the news breaks, and a single quote is plastered everywhere in response to asking why he did it. It's the only thing he says before he rolls over and chooses to go back to sleep for a bit. He knows the media is dying to hear why he did it.

"I just wanted to feel something." He said to the cameras with a smile.

Hayley doesn't call. I know she's okay because she shoots me a text to let me know, but I still worry about her. At least I had the full effect of his capabilities when he was still undiscovered. She had no clue of how bad it really was.

In hindsight, I should've told someone, ripped off the cops or anybody that could've stopped him before he took someone's life and indirectly stole so many others. I deserved it, I taught him how to hide and I fell in love with him, but Hayley shouldn't have to live in fear like she does.

I can't help but think the deaths of those nurses is my fault. It's weird and happened three years after I turned him in, but I could've done it earlier, they could've made more progress with determining how his psychotic mind ticks.

A video surfaces a few hours later of a quick interview with Dallon, conducted by the hospital's main psychologist. She's the highest trained there, and she's the one that had spent the most time trying to figure him out. I would help, but I don't think I could ever get anywhere near him, or even hold a conversation about him for more then five minutes.

"What prompted you to kill them?" She asks on the recording, hands clasped as he smiles and stares at the handcuffs over the bandages wrapping from his wrists to his elbows on both arms.

"Oh, you know the urges, you know how they get sometimes," he drawls nonchalantly, "gotta give in eventually. I can't believe I actually waited three years. I've been planning it for months now, and it's good to get some recognition."

She wipes at her eye and then drags her sweaty palms down her skirt underneath the table. She's nervous, and terrified of him. "Why did you hurt yourself?"

The confidence and relaxation in his posture falls to a threatening glare to her, then to the camera. There isn't even a flicker of emotion in his eyes. There's nothing.

"Thought I would be able to feel something after such a rush. I was fucking wrong, obviously, but I guess I can try again another time," he turns to the one-sided glass, somehow makes direct eye contact with the camera, and winks with all the charisma he can fake, "watch out, cops."

The video cuts back to the news crew. They both sit shocked, mouths open, staring just underneath the camera where the screen is. It takes a few seconds for them to recuperate and announce a commercial break.

The media knew him and his act so well, it's still difficult for them to see him how he truly is. Oddly enough, I understand.

A Letter

Brendon,

I apologize for the spark in mentions of your name in the recent articles. I know you don't understand completely, but I know you do in some strange way. You make sense of me too easily. I could never hide anything from you for very long. 

This time, I'm writing with a pen, but it isn't me writing. Isn't that strange? I'm not allowed to move my arms in case I disrupt the scabs, so somebody has to write for me. She's afraid of me, but there's a wall of glass separating us, so she has nothing to worry about.

The package I sent to you was delayed, and this note will get there before it does, so I'll end the suspense and tell you what it is now. It's a brand new coffee machine, and a ten foot long phone charger.

Please write back and let me know if Hayley received the gift. I know she won't write back to me.

Best wishes, Dallon

I smile. The package arrived the day prior, containing exactly what he said it would. He remembered how much I love my coffee, and how badly I wanted a phone charger that could stretch from my side of the bed to the nearest electrical socket. I always meant to find one, but I kept forgetting.

I'd write him back, but I just can't. I have a pen and paper ready in the kitchen in case I get the spur of confidence and motivation to try, but it's been years and I haven't been able to. I shouldn't even want to, but I do. My hands shake and I don't sleep if I try, but I do.

Dear Dallon,

Remember when we went to Hawaii on vacation? We went to the beach and the paparazzi couldn't find us all day. When they did find us, we walked the quarter mile back to the hotel, and you held my hand the whole way.

I think about that every now and then. It's mostly in dreams, but still. I think about it sometimes.

I don't know why you had to go off and kill someone. This didn't have to end up this way. We could still be happy. You didn't have to kill three people and then go and try it on yourself.

I still love—

The pen fumbles out of my grip, I'm shaking so hard. It clatters to the floor and I leave it there. I miss him, but I can't talk to him, I shouldn't even be thinking about him. He ruined my life, ended so many, and I won't let him take what's left of mine.

I crumble the paper into a ball before I start having second thoughts.

Everyone has feelings, right? I mean, maybe he doesn't know he has them, but they have to be somewhere. He had to have loved me, for fucks sake he said he wanted to marry me, there was a speech and a ring and everything.

I smooth the letter back out, fold it into an envelope, and leave it out front for when the mailman swings by. I don't finish the sentence, and I don't write anything else but my name.

He killed people. Not just one person, but the total body count racks up to four. He killed four people.

He's in my dreams later that night, at the beach again. It plays out the same, but this time he tells me he loves me, and I can't tell if it's just my imagination, or if it's the truth.

The letter is gone the next day, and replaced by the postman with the month's magazine subscription fix.

Loose

Hayley doesn't call anymore, but she texts me nonstop, on the verge of a breakdown every second of every hour of the day. She can't talk, she's so scared. Her voice has been drained to squeaks whenever she thinks about him.

Just about two weeks passed since I sent the letter.

In that time frame, Dallon killed two more people, threatened the main psychologist six times, tore open the stitches on his arms using his teeth on multiple occasions, and escaped.

He's been on the loose for three days. Nobody knows where he is, and nobody but the authorities want to go looking for him. The news channels describe him as a modern day Ted Bundy; charismatic, charming, gorgeous, and dangerous. It's an accurate description posted alongside his photos and headshots from photoshoots and movies.

The story makes headlines for days, but he's still running around somewhere. Either he tricked someone into sheltering him, or he's better at hiding than I remember.

But he has to be on a high. That's why he killed so many people, so he wouldn't have the urges again while he was out on his own. I don't know why he'd torn open the stitches so many times, and I don't care to find out. When he gets caught, I hope it stays a secret. I don't think I ever want to know.

That night I get an email from a friend, who has been managing all the shit going on constantly with my book. It's not bad, but it's a lot. He says six different news channels have contacted him to ask if I'll go in for an interview with them.

I honestly haven't been in public for months. I have someone deliver everything I need to the front porch. I keep the curtains drawn and the majority of the lights off. I post on social media once or twice every six months, and I don't interact with anyone outside of a very tight and isolated circle. I'm not sure why exactly, but every time I'm around people they always seem to bring up Dallon, and I can't handle that anymore. With Hayley, I don't mind. With anyone outside the circle, I mind a lot.

I tell him I won't. No interviews, no comments, nothing. I refuse, and they'll have to come up with something on their own. I don't care if I'll get paid, I won't do it. He'll probably see or hear about the interview and track me down to the specific house I'm staying in.

I post that night for the first time in seven months now. It's just of my blanket, the one I would take from house to house while he was still around. The caption says, "I'm okay, just leave me alone."

It's meant to tide over the news stations, gossip sites, and everyone invested in the story right now. It's to them, and Dallon. He'll probably ignore it if he sees it, but I'll be able to turn him away if he does find me, because I told him to leave me alone.

Then Hayley actually calls a little later, about an hour after the photo goes up.

"Hey, Hayley. How are you?" I ask and she's silent for a moment. The television is playing in  the background, I can hear it over the line along with plates clattering against each other and her boyfriend singing loudly in the kitchen.

"...Good," she mumbles, "I just wanted to make sure that post w-wasn't for me?"

I assure her it is far from being directed to her, and she sighs in relief. She fills me in on how she's doing, and tells me her boyfriend has picked up singing even though he isn't the best.

I still wonder how she managed to keep her life somewhat together after everything. I've asked for her to tell me the secret, but she doesn't even know how.

Lost and Found

I did not sleep well. Not only was I woken up every few hours from the beach dream, but Hayley would call or text me in between those times because she'd have nightmares. We'd have to calm each other down, because her boyfriend wasn't the best at staying calm. If she woke him up, he'd freak out at seeing her panic, and the situation would spiral out of control.

So I wake up at noon, stumble over to the bathroom, and ask my delivery guy to buy me something from Jack in the Box, because it's the closest fast food place that'll give me all the calories and junk my body needs for the first two meals, all in one baggie.

The eye bags have gotten worse. I use this funky little blue serum to try to fix them, but it doesn't work. Nothing works. I just look tired all the time, even when I'm not. It's not like anyone will ever see me again, but I'd like for them to not comment on the dark circles if I did go out in public. Honestly, it looks like I'm on the verge of death.

By the time I quit scanning every inch of my face, it's half past one. I hadn't eaten yet, and I hadn't done a thing. Maybe traffic was awful, or they witnessed an accident and had to give a report. I wouldn't doubt it, since everyone around seems to be a shit driver, but an hour and a half was a little excessive. I don't mind though, because I have all the time in the world.

Hayley sends me an article without anything attached. It's a list of places Dallon could be, which is quite literally everywhere. He's been gone long enough to be able to have travelled all over the country, or even beyond that. They've started to broadcast him to neighboring countries, labeling him as mentally unstable, extremely dangerous, and incredibly charming; again, a modern day Ted Bundy.

I shudder when I see one of the photos they used. It was one I'd taken on the plane ride to the Graveyard Blues set. They never finished filming the movie, for obvious reasons.

In the comments, a few people claim they've seen him. The only problem is, one sighting is in California near where I am, one is in Oklahoma where another of his homes is, and there are a few more in six other states near the other vacation retreats. The inconsistency is relieving.

There's a knock on the door, and before I touch the knob, there's this feeling in my chest. I shouldn't open it. Something is wrong.

There's another set of knocks. "I have your Jack in the Box, open up. There's grease everywhere."

I have nothing to lose and a bag of food to gain, so I unhook the latch and open it.

And he's standing there.

His shirt is torn and there's blood spattered over it, dotting his cheeks and the side of his forehead. The bandages up his arms are dirty and have red spots seeping through, and he's holding my food in one hand while his own blood drips down his elbow to the ground.

He catches the door before I can slam it in his face. "Get out of here. I'll call the authorities, you know I will."

He pushes through and shoves the bag of food into my hand. "I know. Go ahead. It's not like I've been trying to find you for over three years now."

"You know I don't want to see you, fucking psychopath. Leave, before—"

He stops in the middle of the doorway to the living room, a straight shot back to me as he turns around. "I want to see you, because I missed you. Go ahead and sic the cops on me. If you want nothing to do with me, then I don't care what happens to me."

I can't see his eyes, I couldn't meet them when he was still outside, but I wonder if they're the same cold and emotionless blue. "You're bleeding."

He looks down at his arms and nods. "Guess I am. I didn't do it this time, it was your friend's fault. He put up a fight. I was going to let him run off."

My throat feels tight for a second. He killed him. The blood on his face and shirt isn't his own. "If you're going to kill me, just do it."

He freezes, and I can feel his eyes on me. "Why would you want me to do that?"

"I know who you are. Just fucking do it." If he stays, he'll surely kill me sometime or another. If he doesn't, it'll kill me. I'm dead either way.

He rushes forward and wraps me in a hug, the bandages rubbing together on my back as he buries himself into my neck and sits us both on the floor. He felt different. Warm.

He pulls back about a minute later, and as he finally meets his eyes, he wipes at my cheeks with his thumbs. "I-I don't want to kill you, I never have. I've been trying to find you for three years, all I want is to be with you."

Dallon's eyes are different. They're still cold, but I can almost feel him through them, I can see him in the blue. He's different.

But as much as I want him to stay, he can't. "Everyone's out looking for you. You can't stay here. They're going to find you."

He smiles against my skin, and his fingertips trail over my arms. "It's worth the risk if it means I get to stay here with you."

Morals

It hits me in the dead of night, slaps me out of a dream, and kicks me upside the head.

He killed people. He killed people, and he's in my house, sleeping beside me with his arm snaked around my body.

I glance down like he's going to pull a knife to me and gut me right then and there, but he doesn't move. He's so tired, he must've ignored my startled jump and fallen right back into a deep sleep.

It feels like nothing changed, but I know everything has. I'm not sleeping next to a psychopath with animal blood on his hands anymore. He has multiple human lives under his belt and the urges to collect more.

I know I should call someone. I should dial the cops and send him right back to the mental institution before he can hurt any other citizens walking down the street to get me a bag of Jack in the Box.

"I told you already, I'm not gonna fuckin' kill you," he mumbles and he frowns into the pillows, "relax and go back to sleep."

I settle back under the blankets and he scoots closer. His arm snakes under my back and he squeezes like a python for a few second before letting go with a long sigh. I've made yet another mistake by letting him back into my life, and he's only been present for a few hours.

"Wait," he whines and sits up, sliding out of bed and trudging to the bathroom across the room, "forgot to shower last night."

"You can do it in a few hours. Before breakfast." I say. I sit up as he leaves and lean back against the headboard.

"I probably won't. That's prime relaxation time." He stares at me in the mirror. I can't make eye contact, but I know he's watching me. Some part of me wonders if he was asleep or keeping an eye on me.

I watch him in the single light in the ceiling as he peels his shirt off, which is just some old and grey piece of shit from a gas station. When he leans over the sink to pick at the dried blood spots on his face, the lazy stitches down his arms gleam like a warning sign. A shiver pricks through my spine. My own arms ache at the sight of it.

Hayley calls at that exact moment. When I answer, I turn my eyes away and roll on to the other side of my side of the bed, like I'd grabbed the phone off the nightstand instead of from underneath the pillow. "Hey. It's late."

"I know, I know it's late. It's just — they still haven't found him," she hiccups, she's hyperventilating, "but they found someone's body near where you are and the cops think he's close by—"

"Hey, hey, calm down, I'm just fine. Everything is okay over here, I need you to take a breather." Contrary to the murderer standing in my bathroom, my voice is level and groggy like I'd just woken up, just for her.

And when I glance up, his back is still to me, but he's watching me like a hawk from the corner of his eye. "Look, I'm really tired, okay? Can we continue this conversation in the morning, please? Everything is okay."

She sniffles on her end of the line. "Okay. But you have to call me, I won't call you. There's a method to my madness, I think. I-I'm not sure. Just call soon, please."

"Alright, I will. Goodnight, sleep well."

"You know that won't happen, but I'll try." She sighs and hangs up, and Dallon steps just out of sight. I can see the shadows he casts, but that's about it.

"Was it Hayley?" He asks. His voice echoes on the shower tiles. He sounds like velvet feels.

I nod, setting my phone facedown on the nightstand beside me. He'll be looking for it when he comes back. I wish he would keep talking. I haven't heard his voice in so long. "You fucked her up."

He pauses, then shrugs. "Okay."

My heart starts skipping beats and thumping in my chest faster and faster as seconds tick to minutes bathed in complete silence.

The shower starts and the glass door eases shut after five quiet minutes, and my body nearly collapses in on itself. I don't want him here. He needs to leave.

I should call the cops. Am I stupid? Do I really want to die? Is it worth risking my life to maybe get the police to roll up? How do I know Dallon wouldn't run, how do I know he's really here because he missed me?

He did kill three people, four including the delivery man. He was found, I wonder if they believed it was an animal attack or if the connection was immediately made between the escaped psychopath and a body.

This is ridiculous.

I'm being ridiculous. I have to call the cops. He's dangerous, probably armed and definitely dangerous. All I'm doing is putting everyone else in harm's way so I can have someone to share the bed with at night.

Where are my morals? Did I ever have any? Why didn't I ever draw the line? Am I a selfish person?

Droplets of red water roll down the foggy shower door. The shampoo lather turns red. I wonder how long it would take to scrub dried blood from the walls and floors. I'm sure he would know.

For Two

I almost jump out of my skin when Dallon wanders through the kitchen. He's wearing one of his old shirts I kept in the closet, and he's found the boxes full of his pajama pants.

He stops behind me and reaches over my right shoulder to grab a bowl from the cabinets. He pauses when he's greeted with a bare cupboard. "The dishes. They're gone."

"I stopped cooking for two. I only needed dishes for one." I open the cabinet to my left and point to the small stack of plates and bowls. "Silverware is in the same place."

The air grows thick with tension. It passes as quickly as it appears. He takes the bowl and makes do with a half-empty box of Honey Nut Cheerios and some almond milk. I stand and stare at the stovetop, at the mountain of scrambled eggs for both of us. I don't want to turn around.

"You did a lot of remodeling." He says. He sets down the spoon. I can feel his eyes drilling a hole through the back of my head, like he's willing me to turn around and face him. He's still behind me, leaning against the countertop. He's right there.

"It's been three years."

"Only."

"Three years is a long time."

He stops scooping spoonfuls of cereal. "Three years isn't that long. It passes quickly."

It passes quickly if you're occupied and have something to look forward to. The only thing I would look forward to was a restful sleep without any interruptions. "Whatever."

Dallon stands right behind me, hand sliding over my shoulder and down to my wrist. He tries to slither his palm into my grip. "I missed you."

He frowns when I don't respond. I can't bring myself to react. I just stand there and try to swallow my fear. "Mhm."

His hand stops and rests at my forearm. "Tell me what's wrong."

You killed people. So many people. People are dead because of you. "Nothing."

"Bullshit. You're worried I'll kill you, aren't you? Worried I'll gut you like a fish while you're asleep? I already told you I wasn't here to do that."

I shake my head. I am, but he's not going to know that. "No."

"Tell me what it is then."

"Breakfast," I mutter, "I made eggs for two."

He peers over my shoulder and finally sees the mound of scrambled eggs in the pan. He lets go. "You didn't tell me you made breakfast."

"Surprise."

I want to get rid of as many grocery items in the cabinets as I possibly can. My individual trip to the store will turn into a visit to the police station.

He pulls down a small plate and rustles through the drawer for a fork. He scoops out half of the batch, seasons accordingly, and heads out of the kitchen into the living room.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I thought he was different from the second I saw him standing in the doorway, when he confessed he'd been intent on finding me again. It's different, but not in the way I had imagined. It's just different.