Alamort

35. Priya

T here’s nothing worse than waking up and immediately feeling like the world is going to end. There’s a sense of urgency coursing through my veins, leaving me restless. I tried to tame my hair, but it seemed to have a mind of its own. It’s a wild, frizzy mess. My heart was racing as soon as I woke up in a place I was unfamiliar with. I convinced myself that I’d overslept and dashed around like a chicken with its head cut off. Unable to finish one task before starting a new one.

Then River makes her morning appearance, popping her half done face of makeup from the bathroom, questioning why I’m up so early. Apparently, waking up more than an hour earlier than usual. Our routine is a comfort that’s become more important to me than I initially expected. A sharp pain interrupts my thoughts.

The Demons’ are putting the ‘fast’ in breakfast. Since the incident of my public humiliation, they have yet to let up on my eating restrictions. The hunger pains that usually bring me comfort are growling at the aroma of food in the morning and at dinner.

Normally, I manage to steer clear of food during the times my mother puts me on a fasting regimen. It seems damn near impossible here. How long can I survive off of fruit and a piece of lettuce? I’ve stooped so low that I devour the meager piece of iceberg lettuce I’m given each morning. Disturbing.

River and I go our separate ways after she walks me to my psychology class. The flustered feeling I had this morning is still hovering over me. The door snicks shut behind me, along with the faint whispers of a couple of students who have arrived early for class.

I reach the seat that was assigned to me on my first day here. The moment I sit, the desk objects with a loud creak, making me wince. Since I’ve left home, I have no way of knowing whether I’ve gained or lost weight without a scale. The compulsion of wanting to check is worse than wanting to eat.

Today, Mrs. Warren wears a beige skirt suit. When she clears her throat, the rustling of notebooks and shuffling of chairs subsides, signaling the beginning of class. On time, the dong of the bell on the highest tower drones out my wandering thoughts. Right before the door shuts on the last student walking in, Crew Demonio dramatically enters the room, commanding everyones attention. The idle chat of students decreases and eventually ceases as Mrs. Warren begins today’s lesson.

“As you all are aware, the class was assigned group projects for the end of the semester. Some of you turned it in early and others will wait until the last possible second. I’ve been grading those who have turned it in. The grade you receive will be the grade you get. No ‘do-overs’ or extra chances. Everyone has had ample time to prepare.”

Good, one thing to check off my list. I’ve dedicated countless hours working on my paper about Dissociative Identity Disorder. A rare disorder that affects less than 2% of the population. I find it unhealthily fascinating how a human mind can split. It’s not easy finding information on it. And no thanks to my lazy partner who refuses to do any of the work.

Unable to control my emotions, an overwhelming sense of loathing settles over me. I chance stealing a glance at my tormentor. The collar is a tangible symbol of the suffering he’s caused me, always present and impossible to ignore. Everyone saw it and no one did anything to help. Me and River had spent our free time trying to get it off. She even watched a video on how to pick a lock, which proved to be unsuccessful.

Crew sits in his desk chair, leaning back with a relaxed posture, completely unfazed. Why should he be? It’s not like he was going to help do the project. The blatant ignoring me was a dead giveaway. My nose wrinkles. He’s giving… entitled brat. It’s an ick. All because his daddy owns the school, he and his adopted brothers believe they have the authority to mistreat anyone they please.

My fingers skim along the diamond collar he placed around my neck. Every day, it feels like it gets tighter, until one day it’ll constrict around my throat until I suffocate. Whenever I think about the spectacle they created, anger looms threateningly, ready to cloud my vision. It’s better to sweep it under the rug. Screw Crew and the other Demons.

Opening the school laptop, I pull up my grades and anxiously scan through the numbers. So far, so good. Scrolling through the first five classes, all scored in the high 90 percent range. The lowest grade is a 95. That is until I get to my psychology grade. In an instant, my heart plummets and the sound of rushing blood fills my ears. I worked my butt off for this project, losing sleep and sanity to make it perfect. Earning the grade I deserve. It’s one percent from failing, a 60. I’m so confused. Did I turn in the wrong assignment?

Clicking through each graded paper until I come across my failing assignment. I was so confident in my research paper that I turned it in early. Mrs. Warren’s voice drones on in the background, but I’m hyper focused on what the hell is going on with my grade.

I click open the assignment with the rubric pulled up on a separate tab. Checking and rechecking. The paper that is turned in is mine. I matched the grading rubric to a T.

“What’s wrong, pet?” Crew’s warm breath feathers across my cheek, bringing me back to my senses. Irritation heats my body at his gloating voice. Glaring from under my lashes, choosing to ignore the taunt. Mrs. Warren climbs the stairs with purpose, her footsteps growing louder as she approaches our section of desks.

“Is something the matter, Priya?”

“Yeah, actually, I was wondering about my grade for the term project.”

Her eyes quickly flick to Crew, then back to me.

“Yes, I was going to speak to you after class about that.” Her voice is more tense than usual.

“What about it?” I question.

“Mr. Demonio reached out to me via email, stating you’ve been noticeably unfocused lately. He didn’t want to throw you under the bus, but you didn’t help nearly as much as you should’ve. I have to say it was disappointing to hear. Not like the student I’ve come to admire.” She shakes her head. “I hope that this experience will demonstrate the importance of contributing equally when working as a team. Do not expect others to do it for you.” Then she continues up the steps, checking in on other students.

My mouth gapes open, stunned silent. Whipping my head towards Crew, he looks amused. A smirk creeps up on his usual stoic face.

He sucks his teeth. “I guess you should’ve done your part.” His nonchalance to tanking my grade has me fuming. My face and ears burn hot.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Crew?” I snap. He brazenly ignores me while he scrolls through his phone. Looking at him, then back at his phone in his hand, I make a rash decision. Ripping the phone out of his hand, I chuck it toward the front of the classroom. With his gaze fixed on it, he watches as it sails through the air, then it crashes onto the floor with a resounding smack.

There is no doubt in my mind that it’s ruined. A large part of me hopes it will be unusable and it’ll take a couple of days for a new one to come in. His jaw clenches while his nostrils flare. He has yet to look at me, and I think that frightens me more than whatever will come out of his mouth next.

The room has gone silent. To be fair, it was an impulsive thought.

“Go. Pick. It. Up.” He says between heaving breaths. I do the same thing he did to me. Looking towards the front of the class at the board with today’s lesson plan, I ignore him. Grabbing my pencil and copying what tonight’s homework will be since I didn’t pay attention when she was addressing the class.

Crew snatches the pencil from my hand and throws it, just like I did to his phone. So, what do I do? Acting unbothered by his childish antics, I pull a pen from my black bag and resume writing. Once again, he reaches over and rips it from my hand, hurling it across the room.

A laugh escapes my mouth before I can stop it. He’s so mad. He thought I would throw a fit over him throwing something I have an endless supply of? Despite fishing for a reaction, I can’t help but to smile like this is a game we’re playing. All of this is childish, on both of our parts.

“Are you done?” I say, laughing.

A vein throbs in his neck and his eyes are burning with a fury that is only focused on me. He clenches his fists on the desk. Gone is his previously relaxed posture as his body leans towards me, invading my space, trembling with barely contained rage. His body language is showing me something I’ve only seen thousands of times before. He wouldn’t put his hands on me. Or at least not in front of witnesses. I shift from hip to hip in my chair. Would he?

His hand unclenches as he jumps at me, snatching me up by my hair. My eyes water at the sting from the strands being ripped from my scalp. Suppressing a whimper, I gather my courage and lock eyes with him, matching the intensity of hatred. He’s the one who started this. In front of everyone, he forced me to crawl and wear a collar, and now he’s using his authority to manipulate my grades. He can’t even fathom the amount of anger and hate I hide underneath “Robert’s perfect daughter” routine. Baring my teeth at him, I give him a peek of the feral girl who hides underneath my skin.

His eyes narrow before he barks out the order, “Now!” Ignoring my silence, he roughly tugs at my hair and brings his lips dangerously close to my ear. “This will get worse for you, Priya. You thought crawling for us like the bitch you are was the end of it?” He chuckles darkly. “That was only the beginning.” The threat sinks into my bones, making me heavy with exhaustion.

There will be more. That’s his promise. From the corner of my eye, I glance toward the front of the room. Well, as much as I can. He has me by the hair, with my back towards everyone else. It’s the same as before. No one moves to help or tries to put a stop to it.

Bennett had it wrong. They’re all sheep. Too scared to do anything. If I give in to him now, what will that show everyone else? That aggression makes me compliant? Shaking my head to tell him no, his free hand comes up to my face, gently stroking my cheek, a contrast to the tight grip he has on my hair. The feeling of tenderness has me relaxing into his grip a fraction. Warm fingertips dip to my thudding pulse before dropping to the back of my collar, pulling it backwards, cutting off my air. My hands claw at his wrists to get him off. Too much of this reminds me of my father.

I want his hands off me. My vision blurs at the edges, darkness creeping in from the lack of oxygen. I can’t get a deep enough breath and it’s getting uncomfortable.

“Are you going to pick it up? And if your answer is anything other than a ‘yes, sir’, I’ll kill you right here in front of everyone. And not one person would tell a soul.” Quickly nodding, he loosens the grip on my collar.

“Yes, sir.” I sputter out spitefully while rubbing the circulation back into my neck. He lets go, taking a step back from me. I don’t turn my back on him until I make it towards the steps with jerky movements that lead down to the teacher's desk where his broken phone lays.

The room swarms with dizziness. I want to scream, releasing all my pent-up frustrations. Punch him in the balls and make him kneel at my feet in pain with tears in his eyes. I have no clue what I did to the Demons to make them hate me so much, but game on.

I pick up his shattered phone. The sharp edges scrape against my fingertips and stomp my way back up the steps to our desks. Not one person is looking at us. They fix their eyes on their computers. Even the teacher has left the room. Some good ‘authority figures’ we have.

Once I’m face to face with him, I hold out the phone. Just as his fingers are about to touch it, I deliberately release my grip, causing it to plummet to the ground. The sound of the cracked screen breaking further fills the air, missing his outstretched hand by inches.

“Oops,” I murmur. To anyone else, it would sound apologetic, but to him, we both know it’s a sign of disrespect. His honey-colored eyes darken at the open mockery. Words have never scared me more than the silence. Like a mouse trapped in the sights of a cat, my heart pounds and I hold my breath as I cautiously try to escape his overwhelming anger.

His hand encloses around my wrist, twisting it behind my back and the other returns to the roots of my hair, shoving my face into the desk. The force of my stomach hitting the wood top knocks the wind out of me. The heat of his body presses in behind me. With our bodies intertwined, I can’t help but to notice the sensation of his slacks grazing the back of my exposed thighs. His weight presses in, flattening me against the surface of the wood.

Sometimes, I just don’t know when to admit defeat. Maybe it’s the years of being my father’s punching bag and being forced to stay silent. Maybe it’s never being allowed to voice my feelings, thoughts, or opinions. It could be many things that make me proceed to push his buttons.

“Fuck, you’re heavy.” I wheeze, suffocating under his weight. Who would have thought someone who looks slim is not as light as a feather. His dick presses into me. Not very hard. If you ask me.

“I’ll fuck you in front of this entire room. Keep pushing me, Priya.”

Priya. Not pet or bitch. I think that’s the first time he’s used my real name. He must mean business. Second, what is he going to fuck me with? He’s either soft or the size of a pill, the ones you don’t need water to swallow with.

“No, you wouldn’t want anyone to see the size of your mircodick. It would hurt your fragile male masculinity.” With each passing moment, he pushes harder against me, the grip on my wrist becoming more aggressive, until a sudden coughing fit comes over me. The choice comes down to breathing or acknowledging the pain radiating from my wrist. If he kills me, I won’t have to worry about either.

The door to the classroom opens and shuts. Mrs. Warren’s brittle, steady voice breaks the silence of the classroom.

“That’s enough, Mr. Demonio.” Her stern voice cuts through the tension in the room. He lets go of me, chuckling darkly, and I slump over on the desk.

“Just wait, pet. There won’t always be someone to interfere. You’ve just made it worse than it had to be,” he whispers, patting my head condescendingly before walking away.

My legs won’t hold me up. It could be from the lack of food I’m getting every day. Or the fact Crew wants to kill me. The bell dings and I gather myself. Tears sting the corners of my eyes as I stumble down the stairs and out the door. Karma is a bitch, Demonio, and her name is Priya.