I roll my neck.
“Please, man. We can solve this another way!” His bloodshot eyes beg as he holds his hands up and shrinks into a ball. I know I must look like a crazed lunatic, but I have a taste for blood.
And here I thought I was being reasonable. He wants an alternative? Death isn’t off the table. I’ll be happy to deliver.
I lick my inner cheek. “Wanna go another route? Not sure it’llendwell for you,” I emphasize darkly. A maniacal laugh leaves my throat. I roll my sleeves up to my forearms. Don’t wanna get my hoodie messed up. That shit doesn’t come out easily. Found out the hard way.
I yank his ankles and wrench him forward by his jeans. He doesn’t fight. Too drunk and too afraid. He should be. He’s helpless at my mercy, and I love the vile entertainment. He kicks his legs out, knocking me in the mouth. Pain radiates in my jaw. I swipe the back of my forearm over my bloody lip and see red, my anger reaching a boiling point. I crack my knuckles against his jaw. Blood spews from the corner of his mouth. “You useless fuck!” I shout.
His head lolls to the side. That’s gonna leave a mark. His groans fill the room, and I know he’s ready to shut the fuck up, listen, and receive his punishment. I can’t wait to make good on my threat.
I climb overtop his body and rest my thighs on each of his legs, pinning him down to the cold tile floor. I’m heaving. Adrenaline flows through my veins. My switchblade cuts up his stained white shirt, ripping the fabric open. His arms dangle listlessly at his sides. His shallow breaths will make this easier—he’s given up now. I know my handiwork won’t be perfect, but the message will still be received.
I hunch forward and bring the blade to the unmarked skin of his stomach. The tip breeches the surface. The prick of my blade makes red blood bead down his side and pool onto the floor below. Ear-piercing screams fill the silence, and I preen with sadistic glee.
His entire body convulses, battling the pain I inflict. Each stroke of my blade fills me with excitement. His half-assed struggle only spurs me on. Each letter carved increases the bloodletting. His torn shirt hangs freely against his sides. I wipe away the crimson pool of fluids with it.
“Shh. Your agony will subside and you’ll eventually go numb.” I fuck with him, making him think I’ll allow that to happen. Instead, every time he goes limp and quiet, I carve the blade deeper, prolonging his suffering. After I finish, I push off him and peer down at my work.
RAPIST
Once it heals it will be forever scarred into his skin. No amount of Mommy and Daddy’s money will cover it. I smile wickedly. He’s hanging on by a thread. His body is in shock, cold and pale from the blood loss. He shakes from the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. Wish I could lick my blade clean, but his blood is tainted, dirty.
“Let this be a lesson, Jax.” I kick at his Nikes, then stride out the door with my demons sated.
“If you’re not ready, I totally understand,” Clara says delicately, sipping at her latte.
She taps her long, red nails against the cup as she bites her cheek.
I peek up from the calculus book resting on my thighs, my dark hair falling in front of my face, and I tap my pencil insistently. I’ve been off the last few days. Jax took something from me. Though it wasn’t my virginity, he stole my sense of security. I refuse to set foot back in that house. I’ve been lucky to not run into either of them across campus. Mostly because I’ve parked my butt in my dorm room and attend class virtually.
“What did you have in mind?” I say slowly, concentrating on my latest math assignment. Whoever designed math is a total lunatic. I’m not a numbers girl. If I could pass college without it, I so would.
She takes another sip of my latte, the smell of clove and spice fills the room. I’m now regretting not going with her to the coffee shop. I need the caffeine fix desperately.
“Well, there’s this party…” she says delicately.
I hate that Clara refuses to leave without me. I feel like I’m keeping her hostage because of my own problems. Realistically, I can’t hide in fear forever. As Clara says, I’m stronger than I realize. I just need to uncover myself, but the thing is, I don’t even know where to start. Myparents have controlled every aspect of my life; I am struggling to function on my own without guidance. I feel so disconnected from who I am, like I’m an imposter in this body. I still have yet to even call my parents. I know they’re expecting me home for the holidays. I’ve just been in over my head with work, Zain, and everything else. I feel like I’m slowly losing sight of myself and slipping into a strange darkness. Oddly enough, it feels welcoming.
She sets her coffee down on her nightstand and digs her phone out from her jean pocket.
“A safer one,” she rushes out. “It’s on the other side of campus. The side for the trust fund kids and Elites,” she emphasizes.
I purse my lips. I’m also one of those kids. If there was any side of town I would party on as a college freshman, that would be it. Guilt gnaws at me. She’s waited for me so patiently. Maybe she’s right, getting out will erase the bad memories with good ones.
Though she doesn’t openly discuss her past, it’s apparent she has more experience dealing with trauma. Her methods may be unhealthy, but it isn’t my place to judge what works for her.
“Okay fine,” I acquiesce, snapping my book closed and crawling off the bed.
She squeals in excitement and jumps to her feet. “I promise, Vesp, this will be good for you. Getting out and being social.” She clasps my shoulders. “Deep breaths, Vesp. In. Out ,” she motions with her hands.
I nod. “This doesn’t define me,” I recite.
“This doesn’t define you,” she parrots, edging towards her bed. “Erasing my trauma and replacing it with something better works for me. Find what that is for you." She smiles and rummages in her laundry basket at the foot of her bed.
She digs out a black corset top and a pair of leather pants. She hands them to me. “We really need to get you some fun clothes,” she clucks.
I look down at my plain leggings and oversize sweatshirt. My tastes have always been singular, basic. My parents never took me to the high-end designers, and I never really asked about them. To me, this is normal. At least, it used to be. Now I just feel like a doll that Clara uses for dressing up. Maybe a shopping trip will help get my head on straight.
