Alamort

28. Priya

BABYDOLL - Ari Abdul (On repeat)

N ighttime used to be the most terrifying time of the day for me. Dreading when my father would come home from his office. No women occupying his time. No one to talk politics with and no friends to plot the world’s domination with a bottle of whatever whiskey he drinks. That would be the time he would deal out whatever punishments for the day he saw fit. He called it his “most creative time”. Nowadays, it’s the only time I get a reprieve from my mind.

It’s a little after 1AM when I decide to take another shower. My day was mostly filled with a continuous cycle of tears, screaming into my pillow, followed by sleeping. Texting River, asking for space when that was the last thing she wanted to give me. The threatening to barricade the door if she wouldn’t give me time seemed to do the trick. She wants to take care of me. That’s not something I’m used to. I’ve convinced myself that I need to figure this out alone, even when I have the support to help me through it.

I spent the last part of my day thinking about why I wasn’t scared of the guy in the woods and why Oscar was so much more terrifying. Was it the beating he had delivered beforehand? It reminded me of my father. Luckily, my father had the perception that I was too repulsive and undeserving of any physical contact besides hitting me.

In the woods, at first it was relief, the knife, the thought of death. Then it turned exciting. Not once did he raise a hand to me in anger. I didn’t have to face him. Not really. He’s like a dark secret I hide in the deepest parts of my heart and soul. A darkness… a shadow that sees through my bullshit. The clarity in which he sees me may be worse than either of those things combined.

The smell of coconut lingers in the steamy bathroom as I rinse the conditioner from my hair. The fog in the bathroom is so thick it’s like a physical barrier that separates the shower from the rest of the room. My skin is bright red from the heat of the water and the force of attempting to scrub off Oscar’s nasty hands from my body. Even now, long after he’s gone, the faint lingering of his grip continues to haunt me. My skin, once a bright red, is now morphing into a muted shade of plum. The piercing sound of my tormented wail echoes through the empty room.

My mind won’t shut the fuck up. I just want silence. Why? The last bruises from my father just fucking faded! Why can’t I just be left alone? I grab the new bar of soap I found under the marble countertop and turn back into the waterfall spray from the shower, wishing it could be a pressure washer. That could get rid of it. Scrubbing strenuously, I’m determined to loosen his hold on me.

Maybe I’m not meant to be happy in this life.

As darkness completely envelopes me, I can’t help but let out a shriek. There are no windows in here for privacy reasons, but that means it’s pitch black. The confined space, mixed with the unilluminated room, makes my heart rate spike. Did the entire school go out?

If I find my phone, I could call River. The utter blackness makes me disoriented. Not knowing which way is up or down. Guiding myself by touch, I feel my way to the open lip of the shower to get out and find the door. Only to be met with a wall of hot flesh. The sharp sound of my piercing scream echoes off the walls, filling the room. Oscar. He came back to finish the bet.

“Hush, Little Monster. No reason to lure anyone in here. I would have to kill them for seeing you naked.” The light British accent is distinguishable, even through the ringing in my ears. Gulping. It’s best not to tell him River has already seen me naked. The sensation of his calloused fingers trailing lightly down my arm sends goosebumps all over my body.

“Don’t touch me.” I grit out between clenched teeth. My body is confused already. It doesn’t know what it wants.

“You’re touching me,” he says matter-of-factly. My fingers trace the hard planes of his warm body stopping on the puckered skin on the sides of his Adonis belt. Digging my nails in and squeezing the exposed skin as hard as I can. I need someone to feel my pain. To hurt as bad as I am, inside and out. Instead, I get no reaction. Not a grunt or hiss of pain.

My Shadow’s thumb softly traces my lip before pushing the split bottom lip harshly, returning the favor. The feeling of shame and regret lingers as I flinch away from his probing touch, my breath catching in my throat. The wetness on my cheeks from my tears is distinguishable from the hot shower that beats down on both of us. The saltiness on my lips reminds me of the sorrow I failed to wash away.

“Why are you so gutted?” Another emotionless question. This time, regardless, if he wants a genuine answer. I’m desperate enough to give him one.

“I-I can’t get h-his hands off of me.” My voice breaks, the pain unfiltered. It’s more than that, it always is more, but right now this torments me.

“Show me.”

I have reservations about what I’m considering doing. What else do I have to lose? I’m at the point of physically peeling my skin off if I scrub any harder.

I’m tired of being the victim in my own story.

Perhaps what happens in the dark will never come to light.

Still unable to make out where he is entirely except for a darker figure in the darkness. I let my hands lightly trace up his body, trying not to touch him but wanting to find his hands without patting around. The Shadow’s body is smooth in the no hair sense. A distinctly rough sensation spreads through my fingertips as I trace the outlines of his disfigured skin. Some scars are barely raised. Some feel like someone has taken chunks of skin deep enough to leave nerve damage. Different shapes, sizes, and textures cover his body.

How bad are they in the light? My fingers brush against the hard muscles of his broad shoulders, my nails scrape down the rough texture of his arms, and finally softly grasp his calloused hands.

“Above my elbows, when he grabbed me and forced me into the bathroom,” I whisper. When his fingers close around my forearm, I gasp. My pulse quickens, and he holds my arm aloft. My skin tingles when a warm tongue traces where Oscar’s fingers pressed into my arms, igniting a sense of longing I haven’t felt from my Shadow. A sharp intake of breath is audible over the splattering of the water hitting the tiles. He nips at the skin, leaving a new mark in its place. It’s nowhere near the amount of pain I crave.

My heart physically aches. The Shadow is rewriting the meaning of my abuse with new marks.

Then my hands move to my ribcage. His hands follow. Kneeling down, the musky smell of leather and the smokey tang of burning firewood infiltrates the smell of coconut. He is silent, like the shadow I’ve made him out to be. My hips remain anchored by his powerful grasp. The warmth of his tongue and sharp teeth trail down either side before halting. Waiting for direction. My breathing becomes faster, more rapid. My nipples pebble despite the hot water beating down on us. This is turning me on.

If I tell him where else, it could progress. Would he tell me ‘No’?

“He stuck his hands down my skirt.” I gulp, knowing he’ll be going lower, overwhelmed by the sensation of his tongue tracing along my hipbone and anticipating his teeth sinking into my flesh. He bites to the point of pain. I moan. The warmth radiating from the bite cocoons my entire body. Pressure builds up, sending tingles from head to toe. Everything feels sensitive, like electrical pulses going through my body.

“Okay?” he taunts, a smile in his voice as he stands. Taking the heat I borrowed with him, leaving me shivering. Reality washes in. Stumbling backwards, I sink down until I reach the tiled floor of the shower. I don’t know what he came here for, but he’ll leave. Everyone does. My chest tightens. Dread floods out the euphoria, causing my hands to shake. I want him to leave so I can do what I need to do to pull myself together. My razor.

He could fix this. Looking into the darkness where I think he is, “I don’t want to be here anymore.” Hoping that it’s communicating what I really mean.

I don’t want to be alive anymore. I’m tired of hurting and being hurt. Death has to be sweeter than what’s in the future for me.

The soft padding of bare feet grows louder as they draw near, halting in front of me. Dipping down, his breath dances over my slick skin and his hand softly moves a stray piece of hair away from my face, turning my head upward.

“Death would never be so kind to you, my Little Monster.” Bitter tears slide down my cheeks. “I’m a result of Death’s influence and he has selfish motivations for wanting to claim you as well.” Sitting with the realization that I will be stuck in misery for the rest of my pathetic life. With my luck, I’d attempt to kill myself and survive. Every. Fucking. Time.

“Put your hands behind your back,” he commands.

“Why?”

“I made you a promise last night. I intend to keep it. Let’s call this your first test of obedience. If you move your hands, I’ll bind them and leave you here naked for someone to find you.” Aware he isn’t one to crack a joke. I place my hands behind my back, holding my wrists and leaning against the wall to pin them in place. The angle sends a zing of pain up my arms.

“My blade is a lot thicker than your little razor.” I stiffen. How the hell could he know about my dirty little habit?

“You can bite me if the pain is too much. But do not move your hands.” Nodding to the dark, I stay still. This is what I need. It will take the pain away, at least for a little while.

With a sharp jolt, the cold metal blade connects with my thigh, sending a tremor of excitement down my spine. It’s away from where I usually cut myself, giving him a blank canvas. The initial sting is what I’m used to. Until the blade pushes a little deeper.

“Fuck!” I growl. This is different from doing it to myself. I want to move away from it rather than to it like usual. It still brings the release I crave. His hand moves quickly downward before lifting again. Starting at the same point, making two diagonal cuts. I focus on the sting from the first incision he made as he positions for another horizontal line like the first.

This time, I’m expecting the bite of the knife gliding through my skin effortlessly. Bringing my lips to his skin, I bite down. Hard. Just like he did to me during our first altercation. My intention is to mark him and make him bleed. This way he can’t forget me, even if he wanted to. Like the rest of his scars, this one will be permanently etched into his skin. He lets out a low, sexy groan. Pain. Pain turns him on. As the pressure intensifies, my thighs squeeze together, causing a wave of sensation to ripple through my core. I need more.

The blade moves away from my thigh. His wet hair brushes against the side of my face when he leans in, tasting the raw wound on my skin. I release a hiss at the soreness from the contact. This is 15 shades of fucked up because this is more erotic than I could’ve ever dreamt of.

“Good girl. Don’t touch yourself. I’ll know.” There’s a hint of a smile in his voice.

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“For coming back.”

The unmistakable sound of a door opening, allows a sliver of moonlight to sneak through the crack before it shuts, leaving me in total darkness once again. The room feeling bereft of life. My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach at the realization that he’s growing on me.

What feels like 20 minutes later, the lights in the bathroom flip on. My eye squint, readjusting to the sudden harshness of the bright light. The floor is marked with a trail of blood that leads to the door before it disappears on the other side. On my thigh is a letter ‘W’ or a “M’ about an inch and a half wide and long. The water sprays onto my new wound, causing me to wince, washing away the traces my Shadow left with only blood.