Damien Cross | Ex-boyfriend

I’ve always loved horror movies.

The blood. The suspense. The sudden, cold shivers crawling down your spine when the music cuts out and the killer appears. It was my comfort zone, oddly enough. While others screamed or covered their eyes, I leaned in closer. I lived for the thrill.

But nothing—not Scream, not The Ring, not even Hereditary—prepared me for real-life horror.

It’s been two weeks since I dumped Damien.

We were together for a year, but somewhere along the way, he changed. He became cold. Controlling. Jealous. He hated when I wore anything "too short." He’d text nonstop when I was out, even with friends. He made me feel like my own life was a crime I had to hide. So I left. It wasn’t easy, but I did it.

And yet... I missed him.

God, I hated that. I hated how his cologne still lingered in my closet. I hated that I’d wake up reaching for my phone just to remember I blocked him. I hated how much I still wanted him, even though he was poison.

Tonight, I buried those thoughts under my usual therapy: horror night.

I curled up on the couch in my oversized hoodie, legs tucked under me, half-empty popcorn bowl beside me. The apartment was dark except for the flickering TV. Scream was playing. Again.

I could quote every line by now. The tension. The chase. The knife. The mask. But then—crack.

A noise. Not from the TV...From the hallway.

I sat up straight. Muted the volume. Silence. I told myself it was just the pipes. Old buildings creak. I forced a laugh, rolled my eyes, and went to press play again.

That’s when I saw it.A knife. Wedged into the TV stand. One I didn’t own...My blood ran cold.

I stood up slowly, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the TV. I turned...and that’s when I saw him.

A tall figure, cloaked in a long black robe, a white Scream mask covering his face. Standing just a few feet away. Still. Silent.

He took one slow step toward me....Then another.

I tried to scream, but my voice caught in my throat. I turned to run but barely made it a step before he lunged, tackling me onto the couch. His weight pinned me down. The cold blade of the knife pressed lightly—almost teasingly—against my throat.

He chuckled.A low, sinister sound behind the mask.

I squirmed, heart slamming against my ribs, fear crawling over every inch of my skin. I stared into the empty black eyes of the mask and gasped for breath. Then... he spoke.

"What’s wrong?" His voice, muffled behind the plastic, was unmistakable. "I thought you loved scary movies."

I froze. That voice. No. No. It couldn't be.I reached up, trembling, and yanked the mask off.

Damien*

Sweat-damp hair. Smirking mouth. Those eyes. His eyes. My ex.

"Surprise, baby," he whispered.

"I missed you," he said, brushing a strand of hair from my face with the knife still in his hand. "You always loved killers in movies. Thought I’d make it real for you. Romantic, right?"

He leaned in closer, voice darker. "But you didn’t run. You always said you loved the chase. I know you, better than anyone else ever will." His fingers slid under my hoodie.

I tried to fight, but he grabbed both wrists with one hand, pinning them above my head. He leaned in until our faces were inches apart.

"Tell me, sweetheart..." he whispered, knife now trailing down the side of my neck like a lover’s caress, "do you still love horror now that you’re in one?"

He pressed the flat side of the knife against my cheek.The blade trailed lower, slipping between the hem of my hoodie and my bare stomach, teasing my skin without breaking it. He used it like a lover’s touch, twisted and terrifying and… addicting.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Tell me you missed me.”