Regretting You

by Beck, J. L.

  A smile curves my lips, but I don’t respond. Practically dragging her up the steps and across the expanse space, I stop when we’re hidden behind a set of bookcases. Little slivers of sunlight filter through the dust-covered cases, but aside from that light, the entire room is dark.

  Releasing Kennedy’s wrist like it’s fire, I reach for the button on my jeans.

  “What…what are you doing?” Fear. It rushes off of her in waves. It’s suffocating. Intoxicating.

  Good.

  I want her fear.

  I want to taste it.

  Feast on it.

  “Downstairs, I realized something…” I trail off, flicking the button on my jeans. The sound ripples through the space between us, and though it’s hard to see, there is no way I could miss the trembling in Kennedy’s little body.

  I try not to pay attention to how small and vulnerable she looks, or how wrong this is. I can have any girl I want, willingly, and I’m sure I could have Kennedy too, but right now, I don’t want her willing. I want to take from her. Drink up her fear. Watch her break, and piece herself back together again.

  “P-p-please, Jackson.” Her pink lips quiver, and she lifts her hands as if she could fight me off. What does she think is going to happen here?

  “I think it’s time you drop the act. If you’re trying to prove you’ve changed, that you aren’t anything like the girl you used to be, you’re doing a shit job at showing it. I can see right through it, and since you think this is a game, I’ll show you how much it isn’t by proving how much I’ve changed. How much I truly don’t give a fuck about you.”

  Crowding her, I place both hands on her trembling shoulders and press down. Her body crumbles to the floor, and her knees land harshly against the concrete floor.

  “No...no… I won’t. I can’t.” She’s shaking her head, and I ignore the real fear in her voice now. I shut down my emotions, my feelings, my need to protect her, over my need to ruin her. It’s strange to feel two opposing emotions at the same time. Tugging my zipper down, I shove my jeans to my ankles and then my boxers, letting my hard, swollen cock spring free.

  My emotions might be haywire when it comes to Kennedy, but my cock isn’t. My cock wants her body wrapped around it, her cunt full of my semen.

  Kennedy scurries back at the sight, and the first cry of fear escapes her lips. It’s real and sounds more like a wounded animal.

  “Come on, be a good fucking girl and suck me off. We both know you always wanted me to fuck you. You’ve wanted this since you were old enough to realize what it was, so let’s do this.” I take another step forward, and she lets out another cry, but this time, she rolls onto her side and pulls her body into a tight ball. Horrendous sobs fill the room, and I’m taken back by them. My entire body clamps up, and my cock deflates.

  “Stop it! Stop this fucking show and get up,” I yell at her, but she doesn’t respond at all. For a few moments, I just stand there watching her fall apart at my feet.

  What the fuck is wrong with her?

  This isn’t just fear. This is something else. Something that I’m not sure I can comprehend right now. Fear, I can handle, begging me not to do something, I can handle, but a complete and utter breakdown, turning in on yourself. I can’t fucking do it.

  Anger surges through my veins, and I’m confused about what I should do. Tugging my boxers back up and my pants, I button myself up before slamming my fist into the side of the bookcase. Fucking fuck. I can’t break something that’s already broken.

  “You’ve been spared this time, but next time, I’m taking whatever the fuck I want from you. Tears or not, you’ll feel the pain I feel eventually.”

  She sobs harder, and because the sound touches something inside of me, I walk away. The alternative is going to her and wrapping my arms around her, telling her that everything is going to be okay, but it isn’t.

  It hasn’t been for a while, and it never will be.

  Kennedy became the enemy the night she killed my sister.

  6

  Kennedy

  It took me two days to return to a normal routine. I spent almost an hour in the library, trying to get myself to stop crying and calm down after the incident with Jackson. Then I dragged myself out of the building and went straight home, where I showered, scrubbing my body of the filth I felt before crawling into bed. Jackson couldn’t have known what he’d done. That he recreated my worst nightmare.

  I never told him, or anyone, for that matter. I never got the chance. After Jillian’s death, my life became a blur of darkness. My own fears and the things that happened to me, no longer mattered.

  It took months for me to stop wishing it was me who had died that day, and even now, I still think about how it never should’ve been her. Today is only the second day I’ve left the apartment since what happened in the library. I haven’t seen Jackson, and my emotions feel as if they’re balancing on a tightrope with shark-infested waters a few feet below.

  Looking over my shoulder like a paranoid freak, I rush into one of the local coffee shops on campus, one because coffee is my weakness, and two because I needed to get off the street for a second before I had a mental breakdown.

  I know it’s only a matter of time before Jackson pounces on me again. Yes, I had a breakdown in front of him, and he saw me shatter, but I doubt that’s going to hinder him from attacking again. I think my behavior surprised him more than anything, next time, he’ll be prepared.

  He’s determined to make me feel the pain he feels. Even though I already do. I live in the pits of hell inside my mind. Nothing he does can be worse than what I already do to myself.

  The Bean. That’s the name of the place I just escaped into. It’s quiet and has a warm, comfy feeling. There are small lounging couches, chairs, and tables, on the far wall are some bookshelves. I decide to give the place a try and walk up to the ordering counter.

  “Hey!” A young-looking guy–who is probably a student here–pops his head up from beneath the counter, damn near scaring the hell out of me.

  This shit with Jackson has me freaking out over every little thing. With my heart beating out of my chest, I force the words past my lips, “Hi, can I get a vanilla latte iced.”

  “Of course,” he says, smiling, and I can tell from the look on his face that he wants to say more, but I’m not about making conversation. The old me would’ve sat here all day and talked to him, but I’m not that girl anymore. Plucking a five-dollar bill out of my wallet, I hand it to him with a smile and start walking toward the other end of the counter, where it says pick up. I do my best not to look at him and instead pull my phone out and pretend like I’m talking to someone.

  How pathetic is my life? I’d rather pretend to be talking to someone than talk to the person directly in front of me. As I scroll through my phone, I navigate over to my call list and realize that my mother had called me when I was in my last class.

  “Iced vanilla latte,” the guy I tried to ignore calls. I step forward, claiming my drink while almost dropping my phone onto the counter.

  “Thanks,” I reply. He gives me a tight-lipped smile and walks back over to the other side of the counter to help the people standing there. Once again, I’ve let the chance of a conversation, of reaching out, of being a typical college-aged girl, slip through my fingers.

  It’s then that I’m reminded of something my therapist told me, “Jillian is dead, but you aren’t. You can’t change the outcome of what already happened. You can only go forward. You have to move on. Let go. The past is the past, but you aren’t going that way, are you?”

  Would she want that? Would Jillian want me to let go of the pain? To move on? To forget what happened? She was such a kind person, always smiling, always helping someone. She was my best friend, and because of the domino effect of incidents, she isn’t here today. Knowing Jillian, she would expect better of me, expect me to be happy and smiling, to carry on remembering her, and loving her, but she has no idea how much her memory hurts me. How m
uch it hurts, because I am the reason she isn’t here. Me. It’s all my fault.

  “Excuse me,” someone mumbles as they pass by me, and it’s then that I realize I’m still standing in the coffee shop. I need to get out of here. With my coffee in hand, I walk back out onto the now quiet street. Everyone should be in or near their classes now.

  Everyone but me. I choose to skip creative writing today, even though it’s one of my favorite classes. It’s too soon to see Jackson’s gorgeous but frightening face after what happened. Sipping the icy coffee through the straw, I’m met with a surge of joy. I don’t once look over my shoulder, knowing that Jackson is in class right now, waiting for me to show my face and not following behind me.

  When I reach my apartment, I walk in and toss my stuff onto the small sofa in the living room. The place starts to look more and more like a home every day. I both loathe and enjoy it. Locking the door, I slip off my sneakers and walk over to the couch, settling against the cushions of the sofa.

  I have to call my mother back because if I don’t, she’ll call my old therapist, probably the dean of the university, before sending out a swat team or worse, she’ll show up here. Entering the unlock code on my phone, I navigate to my call list and sigh as I hit the green call key.

  The phone rings once, almost as if she’s sitting right on top of it, watching for my call to flash across the screen.

  “Hi, sweetie! I’m sorry if I interrupted you. I just wanted to check in and see how things are going. It’s been a while since we talked.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s been three days, Mom, and I’m doing good. Going to classes and enjoying living the college life.” The lie comes easily since I’m used to telling people that I’m fine when I’m not. I think about the scabs on my legs I’ve been picking on and the new cuts right below. My mom can never know about any of those.

  “I hope you aren’t staying inside your apartment all day and night. Remember, your therapist said it was good for you to get out and socialize, meet new friends.”

  “Of course not. I’m really making an effort, Mom. I promise.”

  There’s a rattling noise, and I swear when she speaks again, her voice is thicker, filled with emotion. “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. I was so worried about sending you off to college, but your father and therapist told me you would be fine. You’ve made so much progress. I wish I was there to see it.”

  I haven’t, and I really don’t want her here. I don’t want her to find out how big of a lie this all is. How close to the edge I am. She’ll make me come home, make me go back to the therapist every other day, and that’s the last thing I want right now. Sometimes the best thing you can do is leave someone alone and let them navigate the dark waters alone. I don’t want or need anyone else’s help, least of all, my overprotective mother’s.

  “I know, but I’ll be home to visit for the holidays, and then you can see. I promise everything is okay. I love and miss you.”

  “I miss you too. Remember, you can call us anytime. If you need anything or to just talk. I know your father isn’t that easy to talk to, but he does love you and is proud of the strides you’ve made.” I think that’s a lie my mother tells herself.

  As if us moving states away after the accident didn’t hurt my father. He had to quit his job of twenty years and find work elsewhere. That night didn’t just change my life, it changed everyone’s lives. Everyone I cared about was affected by my actions. My father will never admit it, but he’s ashamed to call me his daughter, and I don’t really blame him. I’m ashamed that my heart is still beating most days.

  “Yes, I know, Mom. Look, I’ve got to go. Study group and all, but I can call you in a couple of days. Okay?”

  “All right. Please, be safe and take care of yourself, honey. I love you so much,” she says into the phone. I don’t say anything, and instead, hang up. The accident made my mother love me more, while it made my father resent me. All of that is okay, though, because the way they feel about me doesn’t matter. I know I’m a killer. I know I did this to myself.

  Taking another sip of coffee, I’m hit with a jolt of joyful pleasure as it reaches my belly. I shouldn’t be able to be happy, even if it’s from something as simple as drink or food. Feeling sick to my stomach, I walk into the kitchen and pour the beverage out, watching as it swirls down the drain.

  Throwing the cup away, I walk back out into the living room. I’m feeling antsy, but I know if I start doing something, I’ll feel better. My apartment is already spotless, so I pull my books out and start on some homework.

  For about two hours, I work on my paper for economics class. I nibble on my bottom lip as I scribble down sentence after sentence.

  The sound of heavy knocking on my door has me damn near falling off the couch. I know without even looking through the peephole who it is. I should let him assume I’m not here, but I guess I’m a glutton for punishment because I unlock the door and pull it open a little bit.

  Jackson’s stupidly handsome face greets me, but he isn’t smiling. No, the look he’s giving me promises pain and fear.

  “You missed creative writing. I told the professor I would stop by with the assignment.”

  Wow. I’m a little shocked. It’s unlike the Jackson that I’ve come to know now, but I give him the benefit of the doubt and open the door a little wider, extending my arm out for him to hand me the paper. My naiveté is almost laughable.

  Catching me off guard, he shoves the door open, forcing me to take a step back as his hulking frame fills the doorway. The stoic look on his face gives way to a malicious grin, and I know something bad is going to happen. Fear snakes up my spine and tightens around my throat.

  “You… you didn’t come here to give me homework, did you?” I bite my bottom lip to stop it from quivering. Every time I’m alone with Jackson, I am reminded of how different he is.

  How little he cares. It’s shocking because the boy I remember would’ve killed anyone who looked at Jillian or me the wrong way. But I guess that boy died when she did.

  “How did you know?” He grins, stepping all the way into the apartment, closing the door behind him. We’re completely alone now. Yes, if I screamed loud enough, my neighbors would hear, but I’m not sure they would do anything.

  “I don’t want you here. Leave. You can’t keep barging into my apartment. I’ll go to the police.” The threat doesn’t meet its mark and only seems to piss him off.

  In a second, Jackson has me cornered, his huge body towering over me, making me feel small and insignificant.

  He leans into my trembling form and whispers into the shell of my ear, “Call the police. They won’t help you. No one will. No one can save you.”

  “Please, just leave.” I lift my hands out of instinct, mainly to push him away, but find the moment my hands touch his chest, the noise around me becomes a low hum. As if my touch burns him, he takes a step back, and my hands fall away, coming to rest at my sides.

  “No can do. I’ve come to collect my payment. It’s time to use that mouth of yours. My cock is only so patient.” I swallow the scream of terror, trying to claw its way out of my throat.

  “Jackson, please… please, don’t do this…” The fear is so real. The memory of that night is all I can see inside my head. The way they held me down and used my mouth over and over again. I can still feel their hands on my skin, feel the saliva sliding down my chin.

  “Such a fucking slut. You think Jackson can protect you?” Fingers dig into my head, ripping the hair from my scalp, still, no matter how bad the pain, I don’t open my eyes. I refuse.

  “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, bug. All you’re doing is sucking my cock. You owe me some fun, don’t you think?” Jackson’s voice pierces through the hazy fog around my mind, but every muscle in my body has locked up. Words refuse to come out of my mouth, and when he reaches for me, his hand grazing my shoulder, I wince and tuck myself against the wall.

  “You want it rough, is that it? Do yo
u want me to…” His words trail off, and his body comes to a standstill.

  When I look up from the floor, I see his eyes glued to a spot on my bookshelf. It only takes me a second to realize what he is staring at. In a small pink frame is one of my favorite pictures of Jillian and me. It was taken on my thirteenth birthday. We were blowing out candles of my giant pink cake together. We did it together because she was making me laugh so hard, I couldn’t do it on my own.

  “You don’t get to have a picture of her,” he says, his voice is low and gravely, laced with so much hatred it’s dripping from each word. “You don’t get to look at her! You don’t even get to think of her!”

  Boots hit the ground heavily with each step as he walks over to the shelf. He grabs the picture and holds it in his hand. With his free one, he swipes the entire contents of the shelf off. Books, pictures, and knickknacks fly through the air before they can hit the floor, Jackson has already wiped out the shelf below.

  He doesn’t stop until the whole thing is cleared, and all my stuff is scattered out on the floor. Then he walks to the cabinet and continues his path of destruction there.

  I just stand there with my back pressed against the wall. Invisible restraints holding me down. I feel like my feet are cemented to the floor, my body unable to move, even my lungs barely work. I don’t think I’ve taken a full breath in the last ten minutes.

  He continues destroying my apartment for what seems like forever. When he is finally done, he is out of breath and sweat covers his face. His eyes look dark, manic, and there’s this profound hurt, so much hurt in those green orbs. I want to go to him. Wrap my arms around him and tell him how sorry I am, but I can’t, nor would he allow it.

  With a clenched fist, he takes a step toward me, but then as if rethinking what he wants to do, pauses. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to strangle me again. There is so much pain rolling off of him. I doubt he would be able to stop this time.