To Burn In Brutal Rapture

by Nyla K

  I refuse to believe he’d take that scumfuck Ted’s word over his own daughter without even speaking to me. He needs to at least answer the phone so I can explain myself, but it just keeps going to voicemail.

  I even tried calling Lazarus a couple times, but apparently he’s ignoring me, too. I feel completely helpless. My mind is spinning out of control, like a cyclone on a rampage; swirling and twirling, sucking up bullshit and becoming more and more dangerous with every second it gains traction.

  If Ted got to Dad first, then I’m sure he’s pretty fucking pissed off right now. I mean, his only daughter ran away from home before her eighteenth birthday, assuring him she needed to spread her wings and fly, only to resort to working in a strip club.

  Gentleman’s Club. Let’s get the facts straight, at least.

  Of course I know why I worked at Boom Boom, and I don’t regret it. I learned a lot about myself, and I got to experience life outside being a spoiled rich girl, sheltered and handed everything she could ever want.

  Well, almost everything…

  And then there’s that. I’m not sure if Lazarus would have ever started coming to me the way he did if it weren’t for my job at Boom Boom. I’d like to think fate would have brought us together somehow, but the way everything’s been going, I’m not so sure anymore.

  Shaking those thoughts away, I attempt to focus. I can’t think about any of that right now. I just need to get ahold of Dad. I need to talk to him and come clean about the stripping. Despite how afraid I am of disappointing him, he’s still my father and I know he’ll love me no matter what.

  That doesn’t make it any less terrifying, though.

  Staggering up to my dresser, I grab my weed pen, sucking in a long drag. It tastes bitter, which I’m more than used to at this point, since I pack crushed up Xanax into it with the weed to calm myself down more. I’m trying not to let the miserable state of my life get to me, but I’m so stressed and burnt out that the drugs are barely even working anymore.

  I’m exhausted and wired at the same time, and I can barely see straight.

  I just need my dad.

  I lie down on my bed, and I guess I black out for at least an hour, because by the time a loud banging is waking me up, it’s darker outside, like the sun is just setting. I rub my eyes and glance at the clock, noting that it’s evening now, and I passed out without even realizing it.

  Getting up, I stumble out of my bedroom toward the front door, my head pounding in sequence with the thud thud thud of whoever the hell is smashing their fist on my door. I whip it open, forgetting where I live for a moment, and that it’s never smart to open a door when you’re home alone without knowing who’s on the other side.

  Thankfully, it’s just my father. Which is only a relief for a split second until I note the look on his face. And then my entire body stiffens and goosebumps sheet my skin in fear.

  He looks pissed.

  “Hey, Dad,” I gulp, stepping aside so he can come in. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

  My father stares at me for a moment, stock still. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t speak. He barely even looks like he’s breathing.

  He’s just staring with a dead expression on his face, green eyes exceptionally dark and ornamented with a silent fury, and some mild confusion.

  I’m sick to my stomach in an instant.

  “Dad…?” I croak, waiting, jittering in place, for him to say anything.

  I already know what’s coming. Ted must have gotten to him first and now he’s going to scream at me until my ears bleed about how I’m a fucking moron for taking my clothes off for money.

  I supposed I should mentally prepare myself to grovel and beg for his patience and understanding, something my dad has always given me my entire life. I just pray I haven’t burned him too much with this mess.

  Without a word, he scoots past me into the apartment and begins wandering about like he’s searching for something. I’m not sure what it would be, but he has this investigative way about him, scrupulously rifling all around my living room while radiating tension.

  I decide to intervene, because I had planned on talking to him about this anyway, if he would have just answered the damn phone. I wanted to tell him about my job before he heard from Ted, although I know in my guilt-ridden heart I should have done it sooner.

  I should have tried right away, instead of waiting for some prick to tell him, and I’m mortified at the idea that he may never trust me again.

  He has every reason not to.

  “Dad, just listen to me please,” I stammer over to him, grabbing his arm and tugging him a bit. He yanks his arm out of my grip and aims a fiery glare at me I’ve never seen before. I shrink and cower, though still forcing myself to go on. “I wanted to tell you. I really did, but I knew you wouldn’t approve.”

  His head cocks to the side as he remains dead-quiet, which is so unlike him and even scarier than the look he’s giving me right now.

  I swallow over my desert-throat. “I just wanted to build my own independence. It wasn’t even really about the money. I just… I don’t know.” I sigh and glance at the floor. “It made me feel powerful. I liked the feeling… At first, I mean!”

  I peek back up at him and his nostrils flare.

  “Tracien…” He finally speaks, my name sounding like a threat leaving his lips, and I’m now really fucking frightened.

  “No, Dad, seriously. Please listen to me!” I beg, pressure building behind my eyes. “I only worked there for a short time, and I never did anything bad. It was mostly just… dancing. A performance, I guess. Like showgirls.”

  My father continues to glare at me for many tense moments. He has a myriad of emotions all over his face, and none of them are good. Mortification, despair, distrust, sadness, wrath, disbelief. But more than anything, he appears pale, exhausted, and not ready to really hear what I’m saying.

  This is confirmed when he releases a huff of breath and goes back to stomping around the apartment. He picks up pillows and cushions off the couch, tossing them, then moves over to ransacking through everything on our coffee table.

  I’m so confused right now. I have no idea what he’s doing.

  “Dad…” I whisper as he stammers past me toward my bedroom. I follow him, rubbing my temples. “What… What are you looking for?”

  Severe unease in my belly brings nausea with it. My mind races frantically over anything I could say, but the problem is that now I’m not so sure I’ll be able to talk him into forgiving me for what I’ve done.

  And it’s when he finally comes to a quick halt in front of my nightstand that I discover he’s not here to talk about my short-lived stripping career at all.

  I stare at his back for a moment, watching as his shoulders rise and fall along with some visibly aggressive breathing, like he’s panting in furious duress. My bottom lip trembles, and I bite it hard, regret and sorrow seeping from the cracks splintering in my heart.

  My father turns around, holding something in his hand, his face is no longer harsh or angry. He’s not silently fuming anymore, or preparing to rip me a new one.

  He looks lost. Completely gone.

  My eyes don’t need to fall to his hands to know he’s holding Lazarus’s Rolex. But they do anyway. And when they come back up to his, the green irises of my father contain a visibly detrimental pain.

  Pain that I caused.

  This is it. He knows…

  My life is over.

  Dad’s brows stitch together, and he sucks in an audible breath. “What is this…?”

  My lips part, but I’m shaking violently down to my core, almost convulsing, tears instantly streaming down my cheeks as I gape at him, speechless.

  After all, what can I say?

  I fucked up. I ruined everything.

  “Tracien… Tell me,” he insists while I pull in gasps of air, struggling to catch my breath. “Why is this here? Just tell me. Tell me now.” His words come out shaky and jumbled
, my knees wobbling just the same.

  I sob, “Dad… please…”

  “Tell me, Tracien.” He steps closer, then roars, “TELL ME!”

  I jump and let out a nervous squeak, my cries turning hysterical. My chin bobs as I cover my eyes with my hands and crumble to the floor. I curl up into a ball, and my father paces around me.

  “This isn’t happening. No no no… Why? I can’t. I don’t. I’m not…” He mumbles to himself, and when I look up, I see him ripping his hair hard in his fists.

  “I’m… sorry…” I sniffle, the world around me spinning so fast I’m dizzy. I might throw up.

  Dad stops moving and chucks the Rolex across the room. “Tracien Layla Wright, you need to tell me right now. Say the words -” His voice cuts out and he whimpers. “Tell me the truth. Now.”

  I blink over tears clouding my vision. “You already know…”

  A gust of air flows from between his lips. “So it’s true…? Did you… and Lazarus…” His voice dissolves again, eyes wide and searching, for what I’m not sure. “Were you…? Jesus Christ.”

  He stumbles backwards and plops onto my bed, his face falling into his hands. I crawl over to him, kneeling at his feet.

  There’s absolutely nothing I can say or do to fix this. The damage is done. I’ve destroyed my father, and his relationship with his best friend. The only thing I can do now is tell the truth and hope he can see through the devastation I’ve caused.

  “Yes…” I cringe, my heart shattering inside me like glass. “We did. We were… together. I’m so sorry.”

  He grunts from behind his hands, head shaking repeatedly. He can’t even look at me.

  He can’t… even… look… at me.

  “Sorry… You’re sorry?” He laughs quietly, not in the slightest bit humorous, bending over to crouch at the waist, covering his head with his arms.

  He looks broken; wrecked with misery. A man reduced to rubble, thanks to me.

  His whore daughter who fucked his best friend.

  “Dad, it’s not what you think,” I sob through my incessant cries. “I love him.”

  His head snaps up suddenly, and his eyes are bloodshot, hair all over the place from him ripping at it. I’ve never seen any face, let alone my father’s, convey so much gut-wrenching betrayal.

  I’m so uncomfortable I can barely breathe. My lungs are tight, chest stuffed and compacted, as if there isn’t enough room for them and the remains of my heart together in one confined space.

  “You and Lazarus…” He’s hoarse, unable to even speak the words without almost choking. “Holy fuck. Oh my God, what is going on?” He leaps up and starts pacing again. “How? Why?? This makes no sense. God dammit, Tracien. Do you have any idea?”

  My trembling hand lifts to him, but I can’t speak. I don’t have the foggiest idea what he’s talking about, or what he wants me to say, but it’s getting harder and harder to breathe, see, think.

  It’s all just a big, fat, ugly blur of fuck.

  Chomping down on my lip to stifle my cries, I shake my head because… I don’t know!

  My heart has been surgically removed from my body. I can’t even feel it beating anymore. The only thing I feel is aching sadness in the empty socket in my chest.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you,” my voice finally rattles, though it doesn’t even sound like me.

  My father aims his eyes at mine, pressing his lips together. He stares at me for moments on end that draw out like hours, during which neither of us says a word and we both suffocate in this awful situation.

  And then he bursts into a laugh that startles me. My gut seizes while I shiver through cold sweats. He looks and sounds insane, and I’m worried. I think he might have gone off the deep end.

  Or was pushed… By me.

  “This is fucking hilarious, if you really think about it,” he gasps, cackling like a madman. Then his hand flies to his throat, the laughter stopping abruptly.

  He seems to be bouncing between extreme sadness, severe rage and psychotic amusement. I wish there was something I could do to help him, but I can barely get my body to sit upright, or to stop crying.

  My dad growls and bangs his fist against my wall, causing me to flinch again. “I’m going to kill him.”

  I force my tremoring body to react. “No. Dad… No. Please.”

  He laughs again and shakes his head at me. “Oh, Traci. You just have no idea…”

  “Why does everyone keep saying that?” I whimper.

  For a brief moment, my dad resembles himself as he bends down to run his fingers through my hair. It gives me the tiniest bit of comfort, and my eyes lock on his, pleading with him to help me…

  To talk to me and stop freaking out.

  But instead he sighs and murmurs, “I’m going to fucking kill him, Tracien.”

  Then with no further discussion, he storms off before I can process what’s happening, slamming my front door on his way out.

  The newfound silence in my room, in this apartment, is deafening.

  What happened…

  What did I do?

  Guilt gnaws on my insides, everywhere, like a beast devouring its prey. From my brain to my lungs to my heart to my stomach. All my extremities, my entire body feels this menacing disaster I’ve caused.

  The sadness stings me like acid, burning me over and over like someone’s putting cigarettes out on my soul. My body is heavy; every part of me weighs a thousand pounds.

  I lie on my bedroom floor for several minutes, staring at nothing and feeling everything.

  The weight of my decisions. The uselessness of my existence.

  You just have no idea.

  Clearly, I don’t. I have no clue what I’m doing, what’s wrong with me, or why I’m even trying.

  Why I’m even breathing…

  Eventually, I drag myself to my nightstand, using my numb fingers to open the drawer and pull out my bottle of Xanax.

  I want all this hurt gone. I don’t want to feel this anymore. I don’t want to remember that I’m such a stupid, foolish, lonely girl, who ruins lives without even trying.

  Who ruins people by existing.

  I need to erase what I’ve done. To my dad. To Lazarus.

  I’ve made the biggest mess of everything with my idiotic heart. It’s time to shut it all off for a while.

  I just want to forget.

  I dump the contents of the bottle into my palm and toss all the pills into my mouth at once. Forcing myself to swallow them, I gag repeatedly, my mouth filling with saliva that helps them down.

  Each and every single pill… Disappearing into the hollow abyss of my body.

  I lie back down on the floor and face the ceiling.

  And I close my eyes, waiting for sleep.

  Rest.

  Because I just have no idea.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Lazarus

  Five Years Ago…

  Well, this fucking sucks.

  There’s really no other way to put it. This is complete and utter bullshit, and you bet your ass if I ever make it to heaven - so far my chances are debatable - I’ll have a few choice words for God about this decision.

  His plan, in this case, was totally fucked.

  My best friend lost his wife. His daughter lost her mother. And I lost… Well, I lost Ophelia.

  It’s hard to describe with words exactly what Lia meant to me. She was a bit more than a friend, but slightly less than a sister. My closest, or only, friend other than Damien, and the bubbly, energetic voice of reason to our dynamic little threesome. Foursome, if you count Traci, which I might not, since believe it or not, I don’t really know the kid all that well.

  But that changes now.

  It’s been about a year since Ophelia passed, and as expected, Damien’s still ambling around like the soulless shell of a human being I had the misfortune of meeting on the day of her funeral.

  In the three years following Lia’s diagnosis with the evil monster they call pancreatic cancer, Dami
en assured me he was getting ready. After the second round of chemo, when the tumors just kept coming back, he said he knew she was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Imagine having a conversation like that. It broke my heart wide open, and she’s not even my wife.

  Despite his forced front, used mostly to keep his daughter calm and his scared, sick wife smiling, I knew that as soon as she was gone from this world, we would be left with a version of Damien Wright very different from the man I grew up with. And much to my dismay, I was right.

  Day’s always been good at faking his feelings and acting like he’s fine. When we first met in high school, I used to think he just didn’t give a fuck about anything. He was so casually likable that it was impossible not to be drawn to him, and the blasé way he made the world seem easy, and good.

  So naturally when his college sweetheart passed away after battling cancer, he wore the shit out of that mask, until it was damn-near weathered and falling apart.

  And to everyone else in the world, he was doing okay. Grieving, of course, but that was to be expected. Yet he still seemed to be managing. At her funeral, he smiled a few times when people shared their favorite Lia memories, and kissed Traci’s head as she cried, whispering words of consolation to her, while keeping himself as sturdy and hardened as a statue.

  I wasn’t buying it. Because I’m the only one who knows him well enough to see right through that mask; the act. While everyone else was applauding his performance and calling for an Oscar, I felt like I was cringing at a one-man-show in the Theater District.

  And because I knew it was only a matter of time before he snapped, I prepared myself to clean up the mess from the explosion of despair and devastation, thinking of any possible way to be there for my best friend when he needed me the most.

  Ophelia and Damien were bound together by an invisible tie, which was snipped when she gave up her last breath. She left behind someone quiet, and cold, and so unlike my best friend, who was always the most outgoing, charming, and overall best person to be around, ever since we were young, dumb teenagers.