Right Hook (Gaslight series) COMPLETE

70| Just another horror movie

Alyssa ♔
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I shouldn't have messaged him.

Things are complicated enough without me cryptically contacting Max out of the blue, but I couldn't help it. This week has been one of my hardest. Between school, work, and consoling my mother through heartbreak, there hasn't been a second to think, let alone remember that Dad didn't just leave Mom, but me too.

Now, I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, having to be brave for the both of us, but tonight, it got to be too much. I found myself in bed, the darkness enveloping me as I strained my ears for any hint of footsteps outside, and I reached for my phone without thinking.

Maybe that makes me an idiot. Perhaps I'll wake up tomorrow and say what was I thinking, but right now, I don't care. If there is one person that can make me feel safe right now, it's Max. It's always been Max.

My phone lights up on the bedside table. A message appears, and my heart jumps like it always does when I see his name on my screen. Even after all this time, he's the only one who can make me feel that way.

Uber canceled on me. Be there as soon as I can.

I reply and put my phone down. It's this side of Max I miss the most. No hesitation, no questions. The second he thought I needed him, he dropped everything for me. That's why, despite everything, I still love him; I just don't know what to do about it.

I sigh and hook my slip behind my head, staring ahead. On the wall opposite is the only valuable possession still in this house – a vintage angel painting bought at auction for four hundred thousand dollars. My mother had hidden it in the guest room last week, and when I'd stumbled upon it while checking the house, she'd looked away sheepishly.

"I wanted to hold something back for you in case you needed it," she said quietly. "College tuition, or your own place, or whatever."

I'd just stared at her, surprised she'd choose my future over self-preservation. While the painting's worth didn't make up the total amount owed to Justin's Dad, handing it over would have helped her to sleep better at night, but she didn't.

"I'm sorry," she said when I said nothing. "I know none of this is your fault, yet you suffer the consequences more than any of us." She looked away, eyes darkened with the same hint of guilt I'd seen all week. She clearly thought she'd ruined our lives by giving all our things away; I think she saved them.

After that, I'd moved the painting into my room, as though it being here somehow made it safer. I could watch over it, keep it away if Justin's dad broke in as payback. And strangely enough, waking up to it watching over me offers me some semblance of safety. 

I turn to the window, waiting for the comforting sound of Max's car. My breath hitches at every creak, every rustle, each sound amplified in the quiet of our empty house. I check the security cameras for the fiftieth time, the ones out front and back, before realizing I'm being stupid.

This is what guys like Justin and his dad want. They want us scared of every shadow, wondering if tonight's the night they exact their revenge, and I'm sick of it. I didn't stand up to Justin just to be controlled by his dad, and I didn't turn my life upside down so I could spend it afraid. I'm no longer the old Alyssa. No longer that girl too comfortable in her sadness to try changing her future. I'm stronger.

As if I need reminding further, I reach under my bed and retrieve my scrapbook. I'm not too proud to admit I had an unhealthy scrapbooking obsession last year. Armed with the Polaroid camera my dad bought me for my birthday, I took thousands of what I thought were artsy photos – courtesy of my retro phase – and stuck them in a rose-scented scrapbook to showcase the perfect teenage life.