Stalking Emily Saving Emily

What A Mess

Emily

My body ached in the best kind of way—the deep, delicious throb of muscles that had been stretched, claimed, and wrecked for hours. Every bruise on my hips, every bite mark hidden under my collar, every slick reminder between my thighs pulsed like a secret trophy. I smiled against the subway window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, watching my reflection smear through neon and streetlights.

I am a mess. A gloriously ruined, thoroughly f****d, happy mess. For once in my goddamn life.

The smile clung to my lips all the way up the stairs, down the cracked hallway, until I reached my floor.

My door was ajar.

Just a few inches. A black slit of darkness where it should have been locked tight.

No.

My stomach plummeted. The happy ache in my body turned to ice. I stood frozen, keys dangling uselessly from my fingers, running through every sane option I had left. Call the cops? Run downstairs and scream for the super who was never around? Bang on Mrs. Chen’s door even though the woman slept through construction crews and fire alarms alike? Or the three college boys two doors down who only opened up for weed and DoorDash?

I pushed the door open instead.

Stupid. So f*****g stupid.

The living room looked like it had been gutted by a chainsaw. Couch cushions slashed open, white stuffing spilling out like intestines. Every drawer ripped from the dresser and upended, contents scattered in violent arcs—my cheap makeup, tampons, old bills, all of it trampled into the carpet. My books—the ones I’d saved after the last purge—lay broken-spined across the floor like executed soldiers. Pages torn out, covers shredded.

Someone had been looking for something.

And they’d enjoyed destroying everything in the process.

Glass crunched under my sneakers. The picture frame that used to hold me and Sarah at the lake was shattered; our smiling faces now sliced into jagged pieces. I stepped over the wreckage, heart hammering so hard it felt like it would crack my ribs, praying the bedroom and kitchen might be spared.

They were worse.

My mattress had been flipped and slit from headboard to footboard, foam exploding everywhere. Clothes yanked from the closet and hacked into ribbons—my favorite black dress, the one Leo had peeled off me last night, now lay in tatters. The kitchen was a war zone: every plate smashed, drawers emptied, the fridge door hanging open with food smeared across the linoleum like blood and bile. A knife—my own kitchen knife—stuck quivering in the drywall above the sink, handle wrapped in a torn piece of my underwear.

That was when the hand clamped over my mouth from behind.

Thick, hot, smelling of cigarettes and rage.

I screamed into the palm, the sound swallowed whole. My body exploded into motion—thrashing, elbowing, kicking backward with every ounce of strength the night with Leo had left in me. The arm around my waist tightened like a steel cable, lifting me clean off the floor.

“Stop fighting and I won’t hurt you,” a voice hissed hot against my ear. Low. Rough. Horribly, sickeningly familiar.

Like hell.

My hand had already found the pepper spray in my purse the second I saw the door ajar. Thumb on the trigger, I twisted violently and unloaded a full blast backward over my shoulder in a wild, desperate arc.

The man howled—a raw, animal sound that tore through the apartment. He dropped me instantly, claws raking at his eyes, stumbling backward into the wreckage.

“You f*****g b***h!”

The words came out wet and choking. I didn’t wait. I ran.

Out the door, down the hallway, feet slamming on the stairs. I could hear him behind me—cursing, stumbling, crashing into walls—but blind rage made him faster than he should have been. His boots thundered after me, closer with every flight.

I burst onto the street. The block was pitch black; half the streetlights had been out for weeks and I’d never cared until this exact second, when every shadow looked like teeth waiting to close. Rain had started, cold and stinging, turning the pavement slick.

He was still behind me.

I tried to scream for help but it came out as a broken wheeze, lungs already burning from the sprint. Every breath felt like knives. My legs were jelly from the night before, thighs screaming, but adrenaline kept me moving.

Just one second. I needed one second to breathe.

I dove into the alley I knew by heart—the narrow one between the bodega and the abandoned laundromat—slid behind the overflowing dumpster, and pressed myself flat against the slimy brick wall. Both hands clamped over my mouth. My heart was hammering so loud I was sure the whole city could hear it.

Footsteps slowed. Stopped.

My fingers shook so badly I could barely grip my phone. Leo’s card was still tucked in the back of the case from last night. I dialed with one trembling thumb, praying he’d pick up.

“Emily?” Leo’s voice—warm, steady, instantly alert—cut through the line. “Hey, you okay? You sound like you’re running.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out except a strangled gasp.

Then the footsteps started again. Slow. Deliberate. Scraping along the wet pavement like a predator tasting the air.

“Emily…” The voice called out, low and mocking at first, then louder, bouncing off the alley walls like a nightmare. “Emily! Come out, Emily. I know you’re here. You can’t hide forever, sweetheart.”

My stomach dropped through the earth. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, tears leaking hot down my cheeks.

“Emily!” he shouted again, closer now, voice echoing between the buildings. “I saw you run in here. Be a good girl and come out before I find you myself. Emily!”

On the phone, Leo’s voice turned sharp and urgent. “Emily? Who the hell is that? Stay hidden—I’m already moving, but tell me exactly where you are. Now.”

My chest seized. Lungs locked. Black spots bloomed at the edges of my vision like ink in water.

No no no not now please—

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. The panic attack I’d fought for years slammed into me full force—vision tunneling, world tilting, the sound of my own blood roaring in my ears. My legs gave out.

“Emily? Where are you? Talk to me, Emily—stay with me—”

The phone slipped from my numb fingers and clattered onto the concrete.

The last thing I felt was the cold, wet ground rushing up to meet my cheek, the taste of blood and rain in my mouth, and Leo’s voice still calling my name through the speaker, growing fainter, more frantic.

“Emily. Answer me. Emily, f**k, hold on.....”

Then nothing.

Just the sound of heavy boots getting closer, the scrape of something metal being dragged along the brick wall, and the low, laughing whisper that followed me into the dark:

“Found you.”