Maci | Choose What

Softly clicking shut, the door seals me into the quiet dimness of my apartment. The first big breath comes out of me as a huge sigh, releasing the tension that has my shoulders pulled up to my ears. Sagging against the doorframe as the weight of this shitty day presses down on me. My fingers loosen on the damp leather of my bag, and it slips from my grip, landing with a soft thud. Outside, the rain pounds against the walls, each drop like a pulse matching the frantic beat of my heart.

For a moment I’m unmoving, staring at the faintly glistening puddle forming around my shoes, my thoughts racing back to him without my permission, Thorne. The way he looked at me, like he was peeling back the layers I hide behind, like he could see right through to something buried deep inside. Nope, we are done with Thorne and Wintermere and the whole thing.

I shake my head, pushing off the door and kicking off my kitten heels. The room feels darker than usual, shadows creeping into every corner, and I can’t quite shake the sensation of eyes on me. Today really has done a number on my psyche.

The tiny space of my apartment is barely big enough to fit all 5ft 2 of me, but it’s all mine. It’s a studio, with everything in one room apart from the teeny bathroom. The walls a chipped and scratched beige, the single window faces an alley that lets in more noise than light. But it’s so me. I’ve crammed every surface, every corner with pieces of me, forcing a splash of personality against the drab backdrop.

My old, velvet throw, black and deep wine-red, fringed and worn at the edges, hangs over the back of my thrifted couch. It’s a little piece of my past, pretty much the only thing I took when I walked out of the house I shared with Mike. My bookshelves are crammed with dog-eared paperbacks, mostly smut but whose keeping track. Journals filled with sketches and snippets of ideas are crowded on a small shelf where my candles live, all in mismatched holders, all black, most half-burned, remnants of my restless nights.

Where is that comfy t-shirt? Padding to the wardrobe to hunt, my eye snags on a locked wooden box, tucked just behind the old piece of furniture. Totally black and unassuming, my lips turn up and for the first time today I’m smiling, that right there, is where I keep all my tattoo gear. Looking at me, you would never know I ink myself. It started as something to fill my time, with a kit bought online and some bad fake skin. Then I wanted to ‘practice’ on something real, so off I went. Now I am slowly filling this living canvas with reminders that I’m still here, still fighting. Scars are hidden, each mark is concealed under my clothes, but they’re there, etched into my skin, like pieces of armour. Bad day, what better way to centre yourself than some pain that leaves something bad ass, or cutesy depending on my mood.

Shrugging my wet clothes off and kicking them into the corner, I snag the threadbare tee and a pair of booty shorts. I drop into my groove in the couch, still wrapped in the remnants of that strange, prickling energy. I let my head fall back, close my eyes and take one big breath. Filling my lungs to capacity and pleading with my mind to settle. The quiet feels so heavy, thick, like the room is holding its breath too. My breath releases in a rush.

I lean forward to pick up my current book obsession, ready for a run in with my new shadow daddy. I trace my fingers over the coffee table, a reclaimed slab of wood held up by breeze blocks that I sanded down myself. My lips tug up at the corner, every inch of this place, every mark and scratch, is a mirror to the parts of me I keep hidden, the fire I dampen under layers of ‘normal’.

I snuggle into the corner of the cushions and pull the throw around me. My fingers brush against my temple, trying to knead away a dull throb that’s settled there. Maybe Thorne's a shadow daddy. Come on it makes sense, everything about him feels like a warning. Danger, danger this god like, so hot it hurts, Aplha male is your doom. I expected smoke to coil around his fingers while he was deciding if he was intrigued by me or if I was his prey. “Dangerous,” he’d called my ambition. Who does that? You’re the dangerous one buddy.

Those thoughts need to be locked away in the no no box. I am squidging them into the corner of my mind when that prickle is there again. Logically I know that I’m alone in my apartment, just the hum of the city outside for company. But I feel…watched. What on earth.

Pulling the blanket tighter around me like a cotton shield, I realise I am just totally overthinking everything because of today, just an emotional hangover. I find the folded corner of my page and try to focus on the swimming words on the page. But as I sink deeper into the couch, exhaustion wins, dragging me under. And the moment my eyes close, the dreams come.

I don’t recognise the room, but I’ve been here before I think. Dim light has me straining to see anything and an overpowering scent hits me in my gut, rich and earthy, like cedar mixed with something metallic. Oh no. Shadows dance on the walls, and in the middle of the room, he’s there. So tall, at least 6ft 8, shoulders so broad they don’t look real, an aura that pulses, thrumming with power.

Thorne. His face is hidden in shadow, but I can feel the weight of his gaze on me. He takes a step forward, I take one back, my heart kicking into a canter. He raises a hand, like he’s reaching out for me, and just as his fingers ghost across my cheek…

He’s gone and I’m somewhere else, an old study, rows of shelves lined with thick, ancient books. I try to take a breath, but the air is cloying, filled with dust and age. A sliver of light filters in from a single, high window, casting everything in dim sepia.

Someone’s here. My heart lurches, and I whip my head to the right, locking eyes with a face that exists only in fragments of memory, my father’s. He looks younger, his face free of the lines that etched deeper over the years. He’s looking at me with an expression that sets my teeth on edge, a mix of urgency and sorrow.

His lips are moving but make no sound. Taking a step towards him and straining to hear anything, his lips move again, shaping words I can’t grasp. His expression shift, eyes hardening and he mouths a single phrase: You must choose.

Reaching into his pocket, he palms something metallic that catches the faint light. His hand stretches toward me, his gaze locked on mine, unblinking, daring me to take it. I reach out, fingers brushing the object. The dream is yanked from me, I bounce on the sofa, thrown back into my body.

Thud, Thud, Thud

My heart is pounding, eyes flying around the room to latch onto anything familiar. I’m wild, expecting to see my dad standing in the corner, or Thorne watching me with that unsettling stare. But there’s nothing. Just silence.

My phone shudders to life on the coffee table, rattling against the wood like an angry insect trapped under glass. I reach to grab it, eyebrows pulling together when my hand shakes. The screen lights up under my touch with a text from an unknown number.

'Did you sleep well, Maci?'

My stomach is on the floor, goosebumps popping up all over my body. It takes me a second around the shaking to type back: Who is this?

The response is immediate: 'Don’t ignore your dreams.'

My mouth hangs open, bile churning in my gut. That feels like a threat, if ever I’ve heard one. I’m still staring at it when three dots appear, followed by another buzz: 'Be careful who you trust.'

My entire forehead creases, eyebrows pulling together as a deep frown settles on my face. I slam against the screen and reply: 'Yea nice one Mike. Go find someone else to torment.'

Absolute asshole. It can only be Mike; this is the sort of stunt he would pull to torment me. I turn my phone off and slam it onto the coffee table. My eyes twitching towards it as if it’s about to come to life and slap me in the face. I feel those shadows pressing in, from my mind and the corners of the room. The words from my dream are bouncing around my skull. My dad’s final, silent warning: You must choose.

But choose what?