by Kent, Rina
I cry out at the intrusive gesture. A zap bolts straight from where he’s gripping me to my entire body.
Aiden is watching me with those sadistic eyes. Only now, the glint is becoming darker. Hazier. Stronger.
He loves having this effect on me. He’s getting high on it.
Like a drug addict who can’t get enough, he seems ready for more.
The harder I refuse, the more drastic his methods become.
It started with demanding my phone then he wanted me to call him by his last name then he wanted me to apologise.
Whenever I say ‘no’, his assault becomes relentless.
Ruthless.
Remorseless.
I’m provoking a monster.
A full-blown monster.
During my years of struggle against bullies, I learnt to never give them what they want. If I acknowledge their bullying or show them I give a damn about what they did, it’d give them the incentive to push harder.
Aiden is darker than the usual bully, but he’s still a bully all the same.
Only he doesn’t want those apologies or for me to beg or even the damn phone. He wants my struggle.
He wants my helplessness.
My weakness.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt and try to mean it.
He pauses his ministrations for a second, but he doesn’t release my sex. His gaze meets mine and his left eye twitches before he presses his thumb on my clitoris above the cloth.
My legs shake and I briefly close my eyes, willing the feeling to go the fuck away. I shouldn’t be affected by whatever this monster is doing.
“Why did you say that?” he asks.
“You told me to apologise.”
“You don’t mean it.” He leans closer and whispers in hot breaths against my ear, his voice amused. “Did you seriously think I’d fall for that, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart?
Sweet-fucking-heart?
It takes everything in me not to let my anger seethe to the surface. I want to push him so badly, but I know it’ll only give him the upper hand.
Aiden’s type gets off on hysterics. It’s their driving force.
I level my tone. “I apologised as you asked.”
“Apology denied.” He muses. “You of all people don’t get to play games with me.”
You of all people? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“You said you’d let me go. This isn’t fair.”
“Who said anything about fair, hmm?”
How am I supposed to win if he keeps changing the rules?
An idea flashes in my head. It’s something I learnt from old Chinese war books.
When cornered, use your opponent’s attack mechanism.
“What do you want, Aiden?” I soften my tone. “Tell me.”
There must be something he wants. If he asked me the question then he must already have an answer of his own.
“Let me guess.” He smiles without humour. “You’ll make it happen?”
“If you let me go.” It’s a dangerous game and he might decide to not play fair again.
“You never cry.” He observes me, sliding his thumb back and forth over my clit.
I clamp my lips against the sound trying to claw its way through. I want him to stop, but I also want something else.
What, I don’t know.
“Why do you never cry, Frozen?” he asks with an almost gentle tone.
I want to tell him I do cry, just not in front of him or any of his bully minions, but I keep that information to myself.
If I get worked up around him, it’s game over.
“These eyes should be filled with fucking tears.”
“Aiden, seriously, what the hell is your problem?”
“Cry and I’ll let you go.” He deadpans. “You have to be convincing, though.”
My lips part. Is he serious?
“I won’t cry.”
He tightens his grip on my sex, and I whimper. Pain shoots through my core along with something else I don’t want to think about.
“Hmm. I’ll be generous and give you the right for two moves. Either cry or we can stand here all day and I’ll see how far I can take your sexual assault report.”
I look over his shoulder, desperately trying to find anyone. But I should’ve known better. Kim purposefully chooses this place because no one wanders this far in the back garden.
When I stare back at Aiden, he’s watching me with a strange mixture of emotions. Interest? Curiosity? Hate? I don’t know what it is, but I need this freaking psychopath as far away from me as possible.
If crying will push him away then so be it.
“Do you need me to count to three?” he asks.
“Tears don’t come on demand.” I can’t help but snap. I’m too angry and flustered to just cry.
“Let me help.” Still gripping my core, he uses my bound hands to push me back until my breasts thrust in his face.
He glares at the scar as if it’s a person he loathes.
“This should’ve killed you.” His warm breath tickles against my skin and goosebumps erupt in its wake. “You should’ve died, Frozen.”
My nose tingles and pressure builds behind my eyes.
With a few words, he thrust me back to my child-self. To the fear. The helplessness. The unknown.
He’s right. That heart surgery almost killed me. But that’s not the reason behind my unshed tears.
It’s the memories surrounding the surgery — or the lack thereof.
The reason I hate the scar so much isn’t because of the surgery or the non-aesthetic appearance.
It’s because the scar is a reminder that everything before it is blank.
All I have left are nightmares and phobias and a distant reminder that I once had parents.
The scar represents that missing part of me.
Before I can try to seal those emotions into their dark box, Aiden bites on the flesh of my breast. I cry out as his teeth sink into the skin and then he sucks and bites along the scar with such animosity that leaves me breathless.
And terrified.
It’s like he wants to bite the skin off.
Unleash those memories.
The nightmares.
The smoke and the flames.
And the blood… so much fucking blood.
“Aiden, s-stop.”
He doesn’t.
He continues feasting on my skin like he’s a cannibal.
Everything will be out.
All of it.
This can’t be happening.
“Stop!” My lips tremble as tears fall down my cheeks.
Aiden lifts his head. He stares at my face, at my tears, and the expression of hate that must be written all over my face.
His features are expressionless.
Closed.
Impassive.
“Good girl.”
He finally lets me go. The space between my legs feels kind of strange when he removes his hand. My shoulders ache from how he locked my wrists behind my back.
I expected him to step back and leave me be.
But Aiden never acts like you expect him to.
His upper body leans over and he darts his tongue out.
Aiden licks the tears falling down my right cheek. My skin turns hot and cold at the same time.
He moves to the left cheek, taking his time in tasting my tears.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t appear as shocked as I feel.
However, his devil mask slips.
I get my first glimpse at the real Aiden.
The one he hides behind the smiles. The true form.
If the smirk on his face and the manic look in his eyes are any indication, then the fucking psycho enjoyed licking my tears.
A phone rings, startling me out of my stupor.
He checks it and sighs like someone is ruining his fun.
He gives me one last, unreadable look. “Be smart and stop making stupid moves.”
Mor
e tears continue falling down my cheeks as I watch his stupid tall frame disappear behind the trees.
I turn in the opposite direction and run.
Chapter Five
Running in the rain steals my breath.
Ruins it.
Smashes it.
Nearly eradicates it.
When I arrive home, my soaked clothes are stuck to my skin. My shoes are slouching. My toes are cold and stiff.
Erratic strands of my hair stick to my temples and forehead, dripping all over me.
I stand in our small garden, catching my breath, and press a shaky palm to my chest.
My heart’s palpitations grow uneven and out of beat as if protesting. I close my eyes and tip my head back, letting the rain beat down on me.
Soak me.
Rinse me.
The droplets pound on my closed lids almost like a soothing caress.
I’ve always loved the rain.
The rain camouflaged everything.
No one saw the tears. No one noticed the shame or the humiliation.
It was just me, the clouds, and the pouring water.
But that’s the thing about the rain, isn’t it? It’s only a camouflage, a temporary solution.
It can only rinse the outside. It can’t seep under my skin and wash away my shaky insides.
Wiping away my memories isn’t an option either.
It’s been barely an hour since Aiden had his hands on me – all over me.
I can still feel it.
His breath.
His nearness.
His psychotic eyes.
I lock the encounter deep in the darkness of my head and trudge to the entrance. I need to change before I catch a cold.
Our house sits in a cosy upper-middle class neighbourhood. It’s two-storey and with more rooms than we need. The three of us did everything to make it as homey as possible. We planted an orange tree. A few roses. Uncle and I made sure to take care of the gardening ourselves — but lately he doesn’t have time to.
My movements are numb as I hit the code and step inside.
The interior design has been carefully picked by Aunt Blair. Despite being minimalist, it’s classy and modern. The lounge area has dark blue and beige sofas. The bookshelves are also dark blue with a touch of strength that doesn’t only represent Uncle Jaxon’s alpha character, but also Aunt Blair’s.
Not bothering to open the tall, french windows, I drag my numb feet upstairs.
Aunt and Uncle wouldn’t be around until late at night. The more their company grows, the less I see of them.
Sometimes, they pull all-nighters — whether in their company’s office or their home one.
Sometimes, one of them returns to spend the night, but most of the time, they don’t.
I’m going to be eighteen soon and I’ve always acted responsibly, so I stay alone just fine.
Deep down, I know they don’t like leaving me alone — especially Aunt Blair. When I’m by myself or with Kim, she calls a thousand times — even with the safe neighbourhood and the alarm system.
God. I can’t believe I ditched school.
I just couldn’t sit in the same class as Aiden and pretend I was fine.
For two years, I took pride in walking the halls with my head held high no matter what the minions said or did to me. Today was too raw.
Too deviant.
Just too much.
The steel will I thought I had crumbled in a matter of minutes.
I always heard about people’s breaking points, but I was too delusional to think I didn’t have one.
I discovered the hard way that I do.
A breath leaves me as I step into my room.
My sanctuary.
I always joked with Aunt and Uncle, calling it my kingdom.
The decor is cosy with a mixture of pastel pink and black. I have my own library stacked with psychological and Chinese war books organised alphabetically. CD’s hang from the ceiling like a curtain separating my bed from my desk.
The wall across the bed has two huge posters of my favourite bands; Coldplay and Bastille.
I let my backpack drop on the floor and press play on my Ipad. Hipnotised by Coldplay fills the space.
Tears barge into my eyes as I strip from my soaked clothes and step into the bathroom.
My hand itches. The need to scrub the filth off it fills me with an obsessiveness.
I stop at the sink and wash, scrub and rub my hands together until they become bright red.
When I lift my eyes to the mirror, my lips part.
It’s me. The witchy, white-blonde hair. The baby blue eyes. But at the same time, it isn’t.
There’s a void in there.
A… numbness.
I’m about to move to the shower when something else stops me.
My scar.
Several angry red marks surround it. Did the psycho leave freaking hickeys around my scar?
What in the ever living hell was going on in his defective brain?
I rip my gaze away from the mirror and take the longest, most scalding shower in history.
When I step back into the room, the song has changed to Good Grief by Bastille. I let the music drift around me as I climb into bed, still in a towel, and close my eyes.
I fight the tears and lose.
I startle awake.
My hair sticks to the side of my face with sweat.
Heat smothers my body and my breasts tighten against the towel.
That’s not all.
Oh. God.
My hand rests between my legs and I’m… wet.
I jerk my hand free as if I was caught stealing.
I don’t even remember the dream, so what the hell is this reaction supposed to mean?
My surroundings come back into focus. The soft light from the lamp. The music I left on. The chorus from Grip by Bastille strikes deep inside me. Something about the devil having him by the arm and pulling him into the night.
The neon red numbers on the nightstand read seven pm.
I slide from the bed, willing my body temperature to go back to normal.
With a deep breath, I put on my pyjamas shorts and a T-shirt, gather my hair in a bun, and sit at my desk.
My first day at senior year started with a disaster, but nothing will take Cambridge away from me.
I retrieve my books and tasks organised in Eizinhower’s method and dive into it.
For thirty minutes, my mind is tuned to studying. Then, I start drifting.
The pen grazes my bottom lip as my thoughts spiral into directions they shouldn’t.
Even when I want to forget, my body has a memory of its own. My body still remembers how Aiden held me. How he was hard because I struggled.
My eyes still remember that dark, bottomless emptiness and disregard.
If I didn’t cry, what would he have done?
A shudder goes through me at the thought.
In old Chinese war books, it’s said that the best way to understand someone is to see things from their perspective. To think as they do.
There’s no way in hell I’m doing that with Aiden.
Depraved bullies don’t deserve to be understood.
After being singled out as an outcast, I thought that one day, karma would bite bastards like Aiden in the arse and he’d stop tormenting my existence in RES.
I was only fooling myself.
Aiden might be a psycho, but he’s a smart one. He knows when to push buttons and when to step back.
He took me by surprise today.
Ha, understatement of the freaking century there.
He rattled me.
He shook my world.
He made me doubt myself.
Since he kept his distance for two years, I never thought he’d get close. That close.
I’m still all too confused about what I felt. What I feel. And whatever dream – or nightmare – I just had.
I know for sure that he took something he had no right to take and
that I fucking hate him for it.
But more than him, I hate myself for letting him take it.
A knock sounds on the door. I startle, biting the pen and my lip.
Ow.
I smother my expression. “Come in.”
Aunt and Uncle walk inside, both of them still wearing their work suits.
When Aunt Blair leans in for a hug, I stand up and remain in her embrace for a bit too long. Beneath the cherry perfume, she has Mum’s scent. Something that resembles cotton candies and summer.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about that right now when I don’t even remember my mum.
Today, I miss her.
I miss the life that I don’t remember.
Reluctantly, I pull away from Aunt and hug Uncle Jaxon. He plants a kiss at the top of my head.
Uncle is classically handsome with brownish blonde hair and cobalt blue eyes.
Although his build is above average, he has a beer belly.
“I called and you didn’t pick up.” Aunt studies my face in that scrutinising way that brings her clients to their knees.
It’s like she’s detecting the lie before I even say it.
“Sorry, I forgot it.”
“I called the school,” she says. “They said you went home?”
“I…” Darn. I didn’t think that far when I left. “I didn’t feel so good.”
Uncle Jaxon looms over me, his forehead creasing. “Are you having palpitations, pumpkin?”
“No.” I force a smile and hope to hell they believe it. “I just had a headache and wanted to come home and rest. Sorry I didn’t call you.”
“We were so worried about you, honey.” Aunt smooths my hair back. “I came home to check on you earlier, but you were asleep.”
“I told you she would be fine.” Uncle chimed in. “Where did you forget your phone?”
“At... school.”
Real classy, Elsa. I’m shooting one freaking lie after the other.
It hurts to lie to them, but I’d rather die than put Aunt and Uncle’s company in jeopardy.
Their names and Aiden fucking King’s name shouldn’t exist in the same sentence.
Aunt continues scrutinising me and checking me up and down like she’s expecting me to collapse any second. “A headache out of nowhere is suspicious. Maybe we should visit Dr Albert.”
“It’s just a headache, Blair,” Uncle says on my behalf.
“Headaches are symptoms for the nastiest diseases, Jaxon.” She scolds.