Page 19 of Shattered In Darkness

“You lied to me,” he says, voice steady, deadly. “You disobeyed.” He shoves me against the fridge. My head knocks the metal and the world blurs, rings. I want to vomit. He drops his mouth to my ear, voice thick. “You filthy little cunt. You want to be with them so bad? You think you’re not my property?”

My entire body shakes, useless. “Please, I’m sorry, I won’t⁠—”

He cuts me off by squeezing my throat. No warning, just those huge hands, all pressure, cutting off sound, cutting off everything. The noise in my head goes white hot, then dim. My vision fuzzes at the edges, stars and black spirals chewing at the world. He doesn’t let me go. Not at first. He waits until my hands go limp, until I’m slumping and seeing double. Then he eases off, just barely, so I’m gasping.

He lets out a soft, amused noise. “Look at you. Fucking pathetic.” He drags my face up, fingers sticky in my hair. “You listen to me,” he hisses. “You are mine. You go where I say. You talk to who I say. If I catch you lying again—if I catch you near that house again—I’ll make you sorry. You understand?”

I nod, salt stinging my eyes.

But he isn’t done. Not even close. He shoves me down, flat on the floor, a foot to my hip, holding me in place. His breath rasps, thickening. “Maybe you want to be a slut for them. Maybe you like being watched. But you don’t belong to them, Lola. You never will.”

He grinds his boot into my thigh, hard enough to bruise. Pain ricochets up my spine, my tears dripping onto the tile. I’m shaking so hard that my teeth chatter.

“You tell me what you are,” he growls.

I can barely form words. “I’m yours. I belong to you.”

He laughs, nastily. “Fucking right you do. You want to go next door? You want to see how they treat pretty little things like you?” Tears blind me. I can’t answer. I can only choke on sobs. His grip tightens. “Answer me.”

I gasp. “No—I don’t. I only want to be here. Please.”

“You’re not even worth breaking. Not yet.”

His hand slides up my thigh, and I freeze. The old terror, the old shame, it fills every crack inside. He doesn’t go further, but he could. He reminds me he could.

His hand lingers. Then he’s up, stepping over me. He spits on the floor, disgusted. “Clean yourself up.”

He doesn’t look back as I roll onto my side. My breath comes in gasps. My cheek is swelling already, my ribs ache. My thighs are streaked red and purple, the beginnings of marbled bruises.

I lie there, and try not to think. Try not to remember how safe I felt, just for a minute, in Sophie’s arms, with wine and dumb movies.

I never get to keep anything good. Marcus makes sure of that.

I drag myself to my feet. The house is quiet now, hush like an empty mausoleum. I don’t look in the mirror; I don’t want to see what’s left.

Staggering up the stairs, each step is an act of forgetting. I strip off my clothes, and ignore the salt trails on my skin before lying down on the bare mattress; he took the sheets last time I made him angry.

I hold my breath, wishing it would stop hurting. I wish I could be anyone else. But I’m not. I belong here. Exactly where he put me.

My body aches as I listen for footsteps, for the threat of him coming back. But tonight, he leaves me alone with the static in my skull. My soul aches worse.

I close my eyes, and try not to dream. It never works. He reminds me, every time, that I am nothing, and nobody is coming to save me. I wish I could float away into the abyss, and let it swallow me. Maybe then, I’d be free of this pain.

6

LOLA

THE PAST (AGED 16)

The waves remind me of serenity. The aqua hue of it consumes me, like a warm hug. I close my eyes and smile, embracing the soft breeze and the sunlight.

When Sophie invited me on a beach trip, I knew I had to go. The thought of being right by the ocean filled me with joy. Away from my household. Away from the slimy, wandering eyes of Marcus. Ever since Sophie moved in next door a year and a half ago, we’ve become inseparable. I always forget about my home issues when I am with her.

I also knew it would be a good opportunity to spend more time with Brody.

Brody is a mystery. We tease each other, we bicker, we get on each other’s nerves, but at the end of the day, he is always watching me. He is attractive, but so intimidating.

Sophie runs ahead, hoodie flapping, bare legs shining. I chase her down the slope, hollering, until we crash into the flat part near the water. She throws herself down, cackling, and rolls, immediately covered in sand. Brody is up the beach, maybe thirty yards, but he’s doubled back. Watching. Pretending not to. He’s drawing something in the sand with a stick.