Faith.
Trust.
Pixie Dust.
The words shine bold, written in gold, on the colorful old poster. I saw it a few times in the past, hanging in Karissa's dorm room, but I haven't seen it since she moved out of there.
Until now, anyway.
The big eyes of the little blonde fairy glare at me across the bedroom, from where she's now affixed to my wall, haphazardly tacked there. The poster is crinkled, and crooked, the bottom right corner torn.
It looks like it belongs in a trashcan, not hanging beside my bed.
The sight of it makes my skin crawl from anxiety. I want to tear it down... or, hell, at least hang it up straight, smooth out the wrinkles and make it presentable. But I don't. I do nothing but stand in the doorway, irritated, and stare at the goddamn thing in the dim lighting.
Shaking my head, I turn around and head downstairs. I'm too exhausted to deal with its sudden appearance right now. I spent all afternoon dealing with things for Ray, handling business, and I just want to be able to unwind for a bit, put that all behind me and relax.
The only light on in the house is the den, the sound of the television filtering out when I head that way. More cooking shows, I assume. Always the goddamn Food Network. Stepping in the doorway, I pause again from surprise when the same little blonde bitch from upstairs greets me on the screen.
Tinker Bell.
Huh.
Karissa's sitting on the couch, wearing pajamas, her feet tucked beneath her. I stroll over and plop down beside her, so close my thigh brushes against her leg.
She tenses, her body rigid, but she doesn't look at me. Instead, her eyes are fixed on the screen. I watch her for a moment as I loosen my tie before kicking my shoes off and turning to the television.
Peter Pan.
It puzzles me.
I know a lot about her, but one thing that confuses me is why she loves this movie so much. I've thought about it, considered it, and I know she's young, but it feels so juvenile for someone so mature.
"You know," I say, "some people think Peter Pan is actually a horror story."
From the corner of my eye, I see her forehead wrinkle with confusion. She casts a disbelieving look my way.
"I'm serious," I say, meeting her eyes. "There are theories that Peter Pan is the grim reaper and Neverland is purgatory. That's why they don't age there." She stares at me in silence, not yet turning away, so I take it as an opening to keep going. "But of course there are other theories, too, that the Lost Boys don't age because Peter kills them before they can. There's a line in the book, I don't know if you've read it, but it says: When they seem to be growing up, which is against the rules, Peter thins them out. Pretty self-explanatory, don't you think?"
I run two fingers across my neck, simulating slitting my throat.
Karissa stares at me.
And stares at me.
And stares at me some more.
Her expression is blank, but her eyes shoot fire. If she could burn me with them, she would. After a moment she turns away, snatching up the remote and pressing the power button. The television cuts off as she stands, tossing the remote onto the cushion beside me.
"You have to ruin everything, don't you?" she grumbles, not giving me a chance to respond before she disappears from the den.
Once she's gone, I tilt my head back, resting it against the couch as I close my eyes.
It's a lost cause.
It's obvious, I think, but unacceptable. I can't seem to do anything right when it comes to her. I'm sure she thinks I have all the power, that she's at my mercy, but that's only because I fight day in and day out to maintain some semblance of control around here.
Because without that? I know I'll lose her completely.
And if I lose her?
We both might as well be dead.
Standing up again, I head out of the den, leaving my things lying where they are, too drained to maintain order today. Tomorrow I'll deal with it, deal with everything around me that seems to be falling to pieces, but tonight I only have enough energy to deal with her.
And I can't deal with her the way I deal with everyone else. They get a knife to the throat or a bullet to the back of the head. All I have for her are words, and they seem inadequate at best.
She wants nothing to do with my kindness.
Doesn't believe a word of my promises.
Machiavelli believed it was better to be feared than loved, because attachment is easily severed, but the terror of pain is ever present. I have her fear. I know I have her fear. I see it sometimes when she looks at me. But what I don't know is how to keep her love when it feels close to dissolving every time I talk to her, like she picks apart every syllable looking for something else to hold against me, something to prove to herself that I'm the monster she believes me to be.
And maybe there is a monster inside of me.
Scratch that, I know there is.
I feel it rear its ugly head sometimes. I feel it eating away at my body, poisoning my thoughts when the darkness takes over. My insides are black but my heart still beats.
It still beats.
And it fucking beats for her.
So there is a monster inside of me, yes, but it doesn't make up all of me.
Besides, isn't there a monster in everybody?
The lights are off upstairs, the bedroom obscured now that the sun has finally set outside. My eyes adjust to the darkness easily, used to adapting to the blackness after years of training them, and the first thing I notice is the poster.
It's not there.
I stare at the empty wall, seeing the tacks still forced into the plaster, corners of the paper stuck to them.
She ripped it down.
My eyes scan the room quickly, spotting it on the floor beside the bed, torn straight down the middle, both halves crumpled.
I stand in the doorway and stare at the destroyed poster for a moment before a quiet sound registers with my ears, the softest whimper that I almost hadn't caught.
I know that sound, know it intimately, a sound that haunts my existence.
Fuck.
It's a catch of breath, the faint gasp of air from a chest that desperately needs it.
I live every day tortured by the memory of that.
My gaze shifts right to the bed, to where Karissa lies, wrapped up in the blanket like she's trying to shield herself from the world outside of it. I can't see her face, can't make out much more than the shape of her body, but as the sound resonates through the room again, I know.
I know she's crying.
She's crying because of me.
It feels like my chest is caving in, the weight of her grief a heavy burden to carry. I don't place all the blame on myself, but I know, as much as I don't want to admit it, I had a hand in hurting her.
I tried not to.
I swore I wouldn't.
But I did.
We can't help it sometimes, I think. We regularly fuck up just as easily as we breathe. The only missteps I ever make are the ones I have no control over, the shoves by fate that are unavoidable, but even still I always manage to keep my balance.
But with her, I'm losing it.
I'm losing my footing.
She's going to bring me to my knees if she makes that sound again.
Slowly, I walk over to her side of the bed, my footsteps quiet. I can see her body tense as I pause beside her, my shadow blocking the little bit of moonlight streaming in through the window. I stare down at her, seeing her eyes are open, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. Without saying a word, I reach for her, gently brushing a trail of tears away with my knuckles before pushing some hair back off her face, tucking it behind her ear.
She stares blankly at nothing, not meeting my eyes, not acknowledging my presence. Leaning down, I press a kiss to her cheek, tasting the salty wetness, reveling in her warmth. The moment my lips meet her skin, she does it again, makes that noise, the sharp inhale of desperation that runs through
my body, settling in my rigid bones.
I kneel beside her and force her to look at me, to see me. There's no way I can possibly sleep tonight, no way I can relax, with her this way. "What can I do, Karissa?"
The question is quiet, but she flinches, like I shouted at her. Her lip curls into a sneer, hatred brewing in her eyes. "Go to Hell."
She chokes on the words, chokes on them like they're the bitterest things she's ever tasted. The passion makes my skin prickle. It's probably wrong, to get a thrill out of it, but fuck if her hostility doesn't make something stir inside of me, something primal and seedy. A twisting, a coiling, a brewing that makes my cock harden and my skin thicken.
The sensations are dangerous to evoke.
I run the back of my hand down her cheek again, wiping away more tears. "I've been heading that way for a long time, sweetheart."
The words are barely from my lips when I'm shoved, hard, nearly falling backward. I catch myself with my hands as she sits up, the blanket dropping from around her as she wraps her arms around her chest. She's not crying anymore, the resentment drying her tears.
The anger I can deal with… anything but the heartache.
Before she can speak, before she can react, I'm up again, my hands on either side of her on the bed as I lean forward, so close my nose brushes against hers.
She inhales sharply, this time from surprise.
"Careful," I whisper, my voice low and raw from the restrained emotion. "You know I like it when you fight."
"Fuck you."
I press my lips to hers, kissing her roughly.
She doesn't kiss me back.
It lasts only a few seconds before she pushes against my chest, shoving just enough space between us for her to hit me.
Hard.
She clocks me right in the mouth, her fist unexpected, catching me off guard. I grimace at the sharp stab of pain and grab ahold of her wrist before she can punch me again. She winces, flexing her fingers, glaring at me, her nostrils flaring as she shakes from anger.
The metallic tang of blood coats my tongue as I run it across my bottom lip, feeling the small gash where my teeth sliced into it. It burns, already pulsating to the rampant beat of my heart.
It isn't often someone has the guts to swing on me. Even more rare is my guard being down enough for them to actually connect.
The feelings I shoved down just a moment ago boil over, the fuse lit, everything I keep caged in all exploding out. I drag her back onto the bed as I climb on top of her, and she yells something, but her voice is barely a breath in the breeze, a dull murmur drowned out by the humming of electricity inside of me.
There's only one word that will break me out of this haze.
Red.
Red, the color of rage, the color of hate, the shade that takes over my life to the point I can barely think straight. Red, the color of blood, the thick ooze that seeps into hardwood floors and soaks fabric, rarely removable once its been spilled. Red, like the flush of her cheeks, and the curve of her mouth that just begs to meet my lips again. Red, like the claw marks she rakes down my arms, my chest, my neck, and my face. She's fighting, but she's pulling and not pushing, holding me to her as she annihilates my skin.
Red.
Red.
Red.
I kiss her hard again, the sting from my split lip absorbing deeper, seeping into my muscles, fueling me on. I bite her, not enough to draw blood, but enough for her to feel it like I do.
"Say it," I growl, pressing myself against her. I'm hard, so hard it hurts. "Say the word."
I want her to say it.
I need her to say it.
Because if she doesn't—if she doesn't scream it at the top of her lungs, if she doesn't spit it at me like venom—I'm not going to be able to stop. Red tints my vision, a hazy coating over everything, and 'red' is the only thing that can take it away.
"Say it," I tell her again, my lips hovering just above hers, so close I can feel her quick breaths, "but don't say it unless you mean it."
She glowers at me with more fury than I've ever seen from her before. My little kitten transformed into a ferocious beast, a hungry lioness that's capable of tearing me apart. And she will. She'll shred me.
All she has to do is say that word, and I'll be in pieces.
"Say it," I taunt. "Fucking say it."
Her lips part, and I wait. Every muscle inside me tightens, straining, my chest constricting as I wait for that word to greet my ears, but all I get is a shaky exhale. It comes out like a growl, the sound lingering in the air around us for a fraction of a second before she lifts her head just enough to smash her lips to mine.
And I'm gone.
Clothes are tattered and bodies are battered as we strip away every stitch of fabric separating us. There's nothing gentle about it, nothing loving.
This isn't love.
This is hate.
Real hate.
She hates me, and I think it soothes her, pacifies her heartache, letting her unleash that rage on me.
I don't mind.
I welcome it.
She can hit me, beat me, torture me, and I'll take it all. I'll happily absorb the impact of her fists and the bitterness of her words. She can purge her aggression, lose herself with me, and I'll never begrudge her for it.
Because I know the feeling.
I know the anger, the hate, and the pain.
And looking at her, as she pulls from my lips for a fraction of a second to stare me in the eyes, is like looking in a mirror again… a broken, jagged sliver of glass reflecting my soul back at me.
This time, it's the dark half.
She's just as fucked up as I am.
And maybe I did that to her.
Maybe it's wrong of me.
But fuck if it doesn't feel right this way.
I kiss her cheek, chin, neck, chest, again, and again, and again, my teeth nipping at her flesh as I drag her further onto the bed, settling between her thighs. She's already wet, her skin flushed, every part of her heating in anticipation.
Grabbing her legs, I shove them apart, forcing her knees to her chest as my lips meet hers again. I push inside of her, hard, thrusting deep, and she cries into my mouth, growling a lone curse. "Fuck."
"I'm going to," I whisper against her lips. "I'm going to fuck it all out of you, every bit of it." I pull out and thrust right back in, eliciting another cry. "I'm going to fuck you until you beg me to stop." Another thrust. Another cry. "And then I'm still not going to stop, not until you say the word to make me." I pull back to look at her as I thrust again, deeper than before. Her breath hitches. "I'm not going to stop until you say it… until you mean it."
She stares at me, stubbornly, defiantly… silently. It's a battle of wills, one she'll never win.
I'll fuck her until my heart gives out.
Hell, without her, I don't need it, anyway.
She says nothing, and she doesn't have to, because I don't give her much of a chance. I'm pounding into her so hard each thrust forces her deeper into the bed. She tries her hardest to stay silent, her face contorted, her jaw clenched to keep from making noise, but I can hear her compulsive whimpers, feel her swallowing back the cries as I lick, and suck, and bite all around her throat, giving her every bit of myself.
I don't hold back.
I'm done holding back with her.
She knows who I am.
She knows what I'm capable of.
She doesn't get the kid gloves anymore.
Minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
It might be half an hour.
It could be half a day.
The room is deathly dark but I can make out her strained expression as I refuse to let up, moving her and twisting her around, treating her like the ragdoll I learned she likes to be. She takes it all in stride for a while before it gets to be too much, her whimpers more agonizing, her muscles tenser, her orgasms coming on stronger and closer together, her entire body spent.
I can feel her le
gs twitching, her hands vicious against my skin. The claw marks on my back throb, burning from the sweat dripping along them. She's drawn more blood, a ripped fingernail tearing a slice across my cheek, but I don't bat an eyelash.
She can wound me.
She can scar me.
She can do whatever she wants to me.
I can feel her body taut beneath mine, the onset of another orgasm. She inhales sharply, the breath leaving her lungs in the form of words. "No more."
"What's that?" I ask. "I didn't hear you."
"No more," she says, pushing against my chest. "I… I can't take any—" Her breath hitches. "Anymore."
The word is strangled as she comes, convulsions gripping her body. She clings to me, a tear leaking from the corner of her eye. I don't stop. She knows I won't. She starts fighting, hitting me again, biting whatever she can reach, and drawing more blood as I restrain her.
"Say it," I tell her again, knowing I've found her limit, the place where she draws the line. "Say the word."
All I want is for her to admit defeat.
For her to break out of this rut again.
She stares into my eyes, breathless, as I pin her to the bed, her wrists clasped in my hands. Her lip quivers. I have to fight the urge to nibble on it. After a second she exhales sharply, and I close my eyes in anticipation. I can feel my orgasm brewing, straining my muscles.
I'm dangerously close.
Her voice is so low it's nearly drowned out by the sound of sweaty skin slapping, the lone word little more than a whisper. "Yellow."
My eyes open right away. It's instinctual. I rein myself in, moving slower, gentler, as I stare down at her.
"Yellow," she says again, chanting the word. I slow until I damn near stop, but still she says it, again and again.
Yellow.
Yellow.
Yellow.
She knows I won't ignore it.
A shiver rips down my spine as I come, but I get no pleasure from it. I pull out before I'm even finished, letting go of her wrists and moving away. I sit back on my knees, running my hands through my hair and gripping the locks tightly as I stare up at the ceiling in the darkness. My cock throbs as my skull pounds. I watch the ceiling fan spin around and around as I breathe deeply, counting to ten.
Torture to Her Soul Page 4