Chapter 17. I'll Fuck You Up

He’s not a paparazzi; that I know since he has no cameras.

He’s certainly someone sent by a person who knows me; someone who wants my downfall—who wants to see me pale and rotting away in a four-corners piece of decorated wood.

They want to see that wood go down four feet. Or worse yet, they want to watch it burn with me inside it.

Whichever way they’ll have it, they won’t. I will hand it to them in my own style.

I run into my tent once again, zipping it up until a little space is left to peek through.

My stalker stops where field meets beach, looking around like a lost puppy.

Now I know why he couldn’t come into my tent—why he can’t come in even now.

It’s because the tent owners have eyes watching their property. That way, both the tena