Clearly, his chloroform hanky wasn’t enough to keep me down.
I had no idea what he injected me with. I barely remembered the struggle as I fought against it.
The weight got too heavy and my eyes closed. They stayed closed for minutes, maybe hours, maybe days. . . maybe longer.
I blinked as water splashed my face. I awoke to a new space–a fancy hotel room, modern and chic. Music blasted from the next room.
My pupils shuffled into smaller circles. The drug wearing off as I took in the image in front of me–the most perfect face, sparkling with many faint scars. A devil dressed in an angel’s skin—sat on the ledge of the bed where I lay.
His long fingers were dipped into a cup. A big yellow bear wearing a crop top covered most of the ceramic. I focused on him to avoid looking at the person in front of me.
“There you are, you’re awake.” His voice wasn’t full of enthusiasm. It was riddled with exasperation.
The look on his beautiful face made me feel like he never wanted me to wake up. He sat at my side like an attentive lover, or like the complete opposite. His hand sat on my stomach with a placid touch. An alien touch. False and unloving, but not painful like I remembered.
My heart stuttered in my chest. Touch terrified me. His touch terrified me.
I forced my eyes to rove over him, inch by inch. He was wearing a shirt and slacks, checkered and sophisticated, screaming of a wealth he hadn’t previously showcased.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing parts of a body I was familiar with, but showing off parts of him I’d never seen. Tattoos that didn’t match his pretty-boy image. His body was a little bulkier, but he was still lean, though he seemed more powerful. No longer a boy, now a man.
A more dangerous kind of monster.
His hand moved over my body, exposed by his open jacket. Fingers roved over my depleted curves. He squeezed, his big hand swamping over my small breast. He stopped at my heart, flattening his ivory palm to my skin.
“Your heart is racing.” His southern drawl lingered in my ears, reminding me of how much I once loved his sound. “Racing for me.” He smirked, his lip lifting into a hypnotic smile with the power to dazzle any woman . . .any other woman. His other hand moved to his throat, massaging the ever-present swelling dwelling behind his prominent Adam’s apple.
I struggled to speak, my words caught in my throat, locked there with the fear I’d kept trapped for years and years–fear he’d forced to the surface by returning to my life.
My anxiety held me pinned to the firm mattress. My breath got locked inside my lungs, making me feel claustrophobic in my own skin. I felt wetness, warmth, then I felt cold.
His eyes scanned my body, taking note of my changing expressions. Gazing down between my legs, he took in the image of the bedsheets, darkening with proof of my distress. I tried to stop the water leaking from me, but there wasn’t enough space inside me. . . my fear was taking it all up.
“Ah. . . you dirty girl. That’s going to cost us both, you know.” His dazzling smile was back, a light-hearted laugh slipping through perfect-looking lips.
A meek effort of a cough slipped from my mouth. My hair bounced with my lungs, lifting from my face where it had stayed for many years, hiding me from the ugliness of the world.
Many said it was the opposite, said I was hiding my ugliness. And that was partly true.
I was scared. Damaged. I no longer looked like the girl I once was.
My hand moved quickly, concealing my scars behind my many strands of dark curls.
Tears stung my face, slipping out from the corner of my eye. I twisted my head, in disgust for him and embarrassment over my own image and actions. I was ruined, in so many ways. . . many of them, his fault. He didn’t get to smile down on me while admiring his handy work.
“Are you not talking to me, Jolie?” his fingers, again, pushed on his throat as he spoke, just like they often did, like he was guiding lost words in the direction of his mouth.
My mouth opened, but no words left my lips, nothing but a heavy breath.
“You look so much like I remember you. And yet, so different.”
“Wha. . .” I choked on a painful sob as tears flooded, fast and furious.
I closed myeyes and found my courage there in the darkness.
Hell’s smile kissed my skin as the whisper of someone else entered my ears. “You can do this, baby.” My dad. He was cheering me on, like always.
The tranquility in his tone overpowered the fear that laced my blood whenever Hell spoke. I often zoned out into a space within my memories whenever Hell got too close. . . my dad’s voice became my float, every time the assaults rained down and tried to drown me. But he was slowly slipping away, stolen from me by the Heavens and not the one above–the ones who belonged in hell. Woodrow Heaven—my Hell, and the monster who created him.
