FREEDOM CAN BE a drug. The more you get, the more you want. It was easier when I completely restricted myself. When I locked myself into my apartment for three years and forgot what freedom tasted like. Now, just a few days inside and I am starting to feel claustrophobic. I’m itching for the stolen moments of fresh air and stars, yearning for the smells of life being lived, the sounds of people laughing, couples fighting, the brush of someone’s hand against your own. Jeremy helps. His visits are the best part of my day, each package delivery a mini-visit. I’ll turn off the spotlights, put my computer to sleep, and we’ll eat lunch, cross-legged on the floor, our backs against the wall, or at the table, noisily slurping soda and eating. Eating typically leads to kissing, and we’ve had a few make-out sessions, there on the floor, food cartons pushed out of the way as he reminds me of the one thing better than takeout. But he doesn’t stay long. Not during the week, when we’re both on the clock and my horny clients are anxiously waiting. He’ll kiss me softly and leave, taking my mail and garbage down, his uniformed backside tugging temptingly at my psyche as I close the door.
Those visits hold me over. Get me through the rest of the day until Simon locks me in. I’m returning to the window more and more, my self-control grateful that I am on the sixth floor. Too high to contemplate jumping or climbing down the brick face. The click of my door’s lock is my nightly alarm clock—the reminder to my struggling subconscious that the witching hour is near, my own dark fantasies itching to take flight. On the bad nights, that’s when I turn off the cameras, bidding good-bye to the flushed faces and hungry demands of my clients. On the bad nights, I explore my own sick fantasies. I am like my clients—on the edge of danger, playing with the fire of fantasy and hoping I don’t slip. Hoping I don’t fall over that dangerous edge and act out on my desires.
I was there to stop Ralph, to save Annie before his fantasies become reality. But who is there to stop me? Who will keep me in check? Who will stop me before I kill another?
For now, it is Simon. Simon, who religiously turns the lock that keeps me in this apartment. The lock on the door that three inches of steel guarantees will keep me inside, will keep others safe.
Yes, even though I’ve allowed myself some freedoms, a few steps into the world of normalcy, I haven’t lost my awareness of the need for control. I still need assistance at certain times. Like night. Night is still the hardest. Night is still when the urge to kill is greatest.
Tonight is a bad night. I hear the lock turn and relax, the tension in my arms loosening as I shake out the limbs. Locked in. Others are safe. From me, at least.