Monster in His Eyes

by J. M. Darhower

  He's a drug, an addictive one, and I'm not sure it's a habit I can kick. All it took was one hit. One strong, euphoric hit and I was hooked.

  Naz just stands there, in front of me, not reacting for a moment. The fire in his eyes fades, his stance relaxing.

  "I'll just come back," the girl says. "Sorry."

  She's gone before I can even think to tell her it's okay. What happened to my manners?

  I turn away from Naz, glancing back at the stove, and switch off the noodles before they turn to mush. Sighing, I grab the seasoning packet as he holds it out to me.

  "Are you mad?" I ask him as I stir the seasoning into the pot. He's being too quiet. I worry I've offended him.

  "No," he says quietly. "I'm just wondering if me being here is wrong."

  "I'm allowed to have guests," I reply. Granted, I'm supposed to have him show ID in the lobby and sign in, but still… him being here isn't wrong.

  "That's not what I meant."

  I grab two bowls and divide the noodles before turning to him. All that anger is gone, but he seems genuinely conflicted. "Does it bother you that I'm so young?"

  He looks at me incredulously. "If it did, I wouldn't be here."

  "Okay, then," I say. "There's nothing wrong."

  He doesn't look reassured, but he doesn't press the issue. After doing a quick clean up job, we vacate the kitchen and head back to my room, bowls of noodles in hand. I hand him a plastic fork before grabbing one for myself and sitting down on the edge of my bed. I expect him to sit beside me, or at least take a seat at the chair at my small desk, but instead he leans against my dresser, towering above me.

  I take a few bites, too starving to ignore my food, while he mostly stirs his noodles around with the fork. I watch him as I eat, smiling to myself when he takes his first bite. It's small, and tentative, his nose scrunching up as he chews and swallows. His eyes are focused in the bowl as he takes another bite, forcing it down.

  He doesn't eat anymore.

  After stirring his noodles for a few more minutes, giving me time to eat, he sets his bowl on the dresser behind him as his eyes seek me out.

  He steps over to me and takes the empty bowl from my hand, setting it on the desk. Grasping my chin, he pulls my face up so I'll look at him. His thumb brushes across my bottom lip, and he's quiet for a minute before whispering, "Only a fool would be bothered by being with you."

  Those words make my heart skip a beat. I exhale shakily as he leans down and kisses me, softly and sweetly, over and over again. He pulls back after a moment, still holding me in place, but I'm not ready for the moment to end. Instinctively, my hand moves to his head, fingers running through his hair, as I force him right back to me. He chuckles, not fighting it, and kisses me deeper.

  Soft and sweet turns firm and frenzied, the once feather light kisses now brutalizing my lips. I'm not sure which way I prefer it. One way makes my heart flutter; the other sets my chest aflame.

  Needing air, I pull away for only a second to take a deep breath, my eyes opening. I look up at him, seeing a smirk touching his lips, when his voice rings out. "Are your neighbors home?"

  "Uh, no. Well, except for that girl we saw, but she's on the other side of the hall."

  "Good."

  "Why?" I ask as he kisses me again.

  "Because," he says, "I want to make sure nobody will hear you."

  A chill tears down my spine. I'm shivering from it when he pounces, forcing me back onto a pile of discarded clean clothes I left on my bed, his body covering mine. His kisses steal the air from my lungs as his hardness presses against me.

  His hands are rough as they tear at my clothes. I'll be lucky if he doesn't rip these, too. He strips me, flinging material around, pulling his own off just as hastily. Grasping me around the waist, he yanks me back onto the small bed, not giving me any time to adjust when he settles between my thighs and pushes inside.

  The thrust is so hard, so deep, that pain stabs my stomach. It feels like I've been impaled. I gasp, clawing his back, my nails digging into his skin. He pauses when I cry out but only stills for a few seconds before thrusting again.

  And again.

  And again.

  It doesn't hurt as much as the first, but it isn't gentle, not in the least. His body is heavy, his grip strong, his hands rough as they fondle my flesh. He's smothering me, covering me, as I feel nothing, see nothing, live nothing except for him, existing only in the moment as he buries himself inside of me. I barely even register that the light is on anymore. The man is a wrecking ball, pounding me, and I come to pieces almost instantly.

  He pulls out to finish, coming near my navel, just inches from where I yearn for him to stay.

  "I'm on the pill." The words are strained as they come from my lips. I'm breathing heavily. My heart is racing. He's sitting back on his knees, and I suddenly feel exposed. "I've been on it for a while."

  He stares down at me, nodding once in acknowledgement as he grips his cock, stroking it. My eyes are drawn down to it, and I'm mesmerized, watching him touch himself. My fingertips tingle with the urge to reach out and touch him, to feel him, to give him the pleasure he's giving himself, but I don't get the chance.

  In a blink, he's back between my legs, slowly pushing inside of me again. My eyes flutter closed as he once more covers my body with his, picking right back up where he left off moments ago.

  He goes longer this time, every few thrusts bordering on ruthless, that agony stabbing me again and again. I let out small yelps, unable to help myself, strangled cries of pleasurable pain echoing through the room. It seems to do something to him, rousing something inside of Naz. Every time I cry out, he lets out a throaty groan, the sound prickling my skin.

  He's enjoying it.

  He pulls out again when he's done. I don't know if it's intentional, or if it's instinctual, but he comes on my stomach instead of inside of me.

  My body is a ball of tingles, my legs weak, like he's knocked the bones right out of me. Naz wraps his arms around me as he shifts us around in the bed, squeezing in behind me. There isn't room for him to move away from me here, not enough space to feel any distance between us. It doesn't seem to bother him, though, as he nuzzles into my neck, his hand resting on my bare stomach.

  And just like that, I go to sleep.

  The room is dark when I come around much later, the light turned off at some point while I was asleep. I'm still naked, but a blanket covers me... one I rarely use... one that's kept stored in the cabinet.

  The bed feels empty, no body beside mine. I instantly feel the void. I sit up, clutching the blanket around me, and jump when I catch sight of the form in the shadows.

  Naz is still here.

  He's standing in front of my dresser, fully dressed, holding a picture frame he picked up from it. It's a photo of my mother and me the day I graduated high school. It's hard to believe it was less than a year ago.

  His head turns my way as he sets the frame back down on the dresser. "You're awake."

  "You are, too," I say. "What are you doing?"

  "What I shouldn't."

  "What's that?"

  "Thinking."

  I laugh lightly, wrapping the blanket tighter around me as I survey his face in the darkness. "What are you thinking?"

  "I'm thinking that I like you, and that's a problem for me."

  His serious tone startles me. "Why's it a problem?"

  "Because I don't like people," he says bluntly. "I deal with people. That's what I do. But rarely do I particularly like anyone... like them enough to want to deal with them in ways that aren't work to me."

  "I don't get why that's a problem."

  "Because I wasn't supposed to like you, Karissa."

  I'm baffled, unsure what to make of that. "When you say you like me, you mean...?"

  "I like you," he says again, as if that answers my question. He pauses for a moment, glancing back at the frame on my dresser. "There's something about you... something I've sought for a very long
time. Something I've always wanted. And now that I've found it, I don't know if I can let it go."

  "Then don't," I say.

  "You don't know what you're asking," he responds. "I'm not a man who just gives up in the middle of something. If I go any further, if I don't walk away now, I won't be able to."

  "I don't want you to walk away," I say. "I like you, too."

  "You don't even know me."

  His voice has a hint of anger behind it, a bit of bitterness that makes my stomach knot.

  "You don't know me either," I say. "You don't even know my favorite color."

  "Pink," he says. "You've had on something pink every time I've seen you… your phone case is pink… so are your sheets."

  Maybe that was too easy. "My favorite food."

  "You'd probably say Ramen. You accept what you think you deserve, but you deserve so much more, whether you admit it or not. You want to indulge. You like to give in to cravings. That's why your real favorite is chocolate."

  "What kind of chocolate?"

  "Whatever kind of chocolate you can get your hands on."

  Okay, he's right… I do like chocolate. "How about my favorite movie?"

  "Peter Pan."

  He answers without an ounce of hesitation. I just stare at him, stunned. "How can you possibly know that?"

  "Easily. You still see yourself as a child, and not an adult, like you believe you'll never grow up." He pauses, eyeing me peculiarly. "Not to mention you let a strange guy whisk you away with promises of magic, and he had you floating on cloud 9 all night long."

  "I, uh..." What the fuck? "How...?"

  Before I can get out a coherent thought, he laughs and continues. "You have a copy of the cartoon on your shelf. There's a Tinker Bell poster beside your bed. It wasn't a hard guess."

  I feel silly and am immediately grateful the room is so dark so he can't see my blush. "Well what about my—"

  "It doesn't matter." He cuts me off as he steps forward, closer to the bed. "We could play this game all night long, Karissa, but those things mean nothing. My favorite color's black, my favorite food is steak, and if I had to pick a movie, it would be Twelve Angry Men, but that doesn't tell you who I am."

  "Who are you then?"

  He takes another step forward, so close that I can see the blue in his eyes now. He stares down at me on the bed, his expression serious. "Someone you should stay far away from."

  Those words make me tremble. I believe it—he has a way of making someone believe whatever he says—but still, they don't stop the traitorous feelings inside of me. Maybe I should stay away from him, but I don't want to.

  I don't think I can.

  Instead of responding, I reach out toward him, running my hand along his thigh. The yearning to touch him still lingers in me. His reflex is startling fast as he snatches ahold of my hand, stilling it on his leg, his grip strong.

  "I'm telling you," he says, his voice strained. "I'm warning you. I'm not a good man, Karissa, and I never will be. So don't think you can fix me, or that I'll ever change, because I won't. I can't. You have to know, if this goes any further, if you ask me to stay, I'm not going to be able to let you walk away."

  He lets go of my hand. I hesitate. It's only a few seconds—seconds of thinking, something I've spent my whole life doing, before I concede to feeling, the one thing that's brought me more pleasure than before. The seconds feel like an eternity as he stares down at me, our eyes locked, as if he's challenging me. He's waiting for my decision, waiting to hear the outcome, like I'm those twelve angry men with his life in my hands.

  My hand, which inches up his thigh again and grazes over his crotch, delivering the final verdict—he's not condemned, but maybe I am.

  His eyes drift closed, a soft sigh escaping his parted lips, and I know then, as I feel his cock through the material of his pants, hardening against my palm, that I signed on the dotted line. I'm in.

  It's needless, but I say it anyway. "Stay."

  His eyes reopen, a smirk tugging the corner of his lips. "Red."

  My eyes widen. "What?"

  "If you ever need me to stop, you just say red."

  "Red," I whisper, goose bumps coating my arms.

  His smile fades at the sound of it. "Don't say it unless you mean it. If you just need me to back off, to slow down, to take it easier on you, say yellow. It works like a stoplight. Understand?"

  I nod, my heart in my throat. I'm not scared, but damn if he doesn't have me a bit nervous. He actually gave me safe words. "You're not going to, like, beat me, are you?"

  "No," he says right away, his voice sharp. "I'll never hit you. And I'll never hurt you, unless you want me to."

  I can't imagine ever wanting that, but the ache between my thighs, the memory of the way he hurt earlier, when he was inside of me, sends a differing chill down my spine.

  "They're just in case," he says. "In case I get too rough, in case I lose myself and you've had enough. Better safe than sorry, right?"

  "Right," I mumble, reaching for his zipper. I start to tug it down when he grabs my hand again, laughing as he pulls away.

  "Not tonight," he says as he holds on to my hand. "I need to go."

  My brow furrows. "You're leaving?"

  "Yes," he says. "I have work to do."

  My gaze shifts to my alarm clock. One o'clock in the morning. "Now?"

  "Yes," he says again, lifting my hand and placing a light kiss on the back of it. He follows it up with a quick peck on my lips before letting go and turning away.

  He says nothing else.

  I stare, watching incredulously as he disappears out the door.

  Days pass.

  Days of nothing.

  The soreness from our encounter fades from my body as another ache seeps in—the ache of not feeling his touch in days. It's a double-edge sword, a strange sensation I've never dealt with before.

  I feel so empty.

  It's crazy. I know.

  I'm crazy.

  He's driving me insane.

  Naz steamrolled into my life and then strolled right back out in the middle of the night, offering me nothing more than a sweet goodbye kiss.

  I don't know what to do about it.

  I don't know what to do with myself.

  I spend the days alternating between hiding out in my room and venturing out into the city, slipping back into my world of solitude and cheap food.

  And I wallow.

  I wallow.

  Ugh, I'm pathetic.

  This isn't me. I don't fall apart over guys. I don't mope, and stress, and wallow.

  So why am I doing it?

  After glancing at my phone for probably the hundredth time, waiting for the bastard to ring, I toss it aside with a groan. I could call him; I should call him. But I keep waiting for him to call me. I'm becoming one of those girls.

  I'm turning into Melody.

  Speaking of Melody, she comes back tomorrow, and I haven't heard from her once. I know she's busy, on vacation with the friends she's known for years, so I'm not surprised, but it admittedly hurts to realize I'm so alone.

  I don't just mean that because everyone's vacated the premises. I mean it in the 'I could go missing and I'm not sure anyone would notice' kind of way.

  A shrill ring echoes through the room. I snatch it up, my heart stilling those few seconds before I glance at the screen. Please be Naz. Please be Naz. Please be Naz.

  It's Mom.

  Scratch that. Someone would notice.

  She would.

  Sighing, I drop down onto my bed as I answer it. "Hey, Mom."

  "Hey, Kissimmee! How are you?"

  "Good. You?"

  She sounds good, confirming it when she launches into stories from Watertown, gossiping about the people around town. I only vaguely remember most of them but I listen and occasionally chime in. I worried about leaving her all alone when I moved to the city, but she seems to be doing well.

  Dare I say better than even me today?

&
nbsp; "Are you sure you're okay, sweetie?" she says after a moment. "You're awfully quiet."

  "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... bored."

  And lonely.

  And kind of hungry.

  I'm a mess.

  "You should've visited this week," she says. "We could've spent some time together."

  "I know... I'll see you soon, though."

  "Can't wait," she says. "Anyway, I should get going. I'll call you later, okay?"

  We hang up. I toss my phone down, waiting for it to ring again.

  It doesn't.

  I eventually head downstairs, grabbing something to eat from the dining hall while it's open. It's slim pickings, a few scraggly students hanging around from the building. The sun is still shining when I come back upstairs. I crack open my philosophy textbook, trying to get ahead on it, but end up falling asleep with the book on my chest.

  I'm awakened much later by a noise. The room is encased in darkness, a soft glow swaddling my desk beside the bed. My phone. Reaching over, I pick it up and glance at the screen as it rings.

  Naz.

  I answer tentatively. "Hello?"

  "You looked beautiful today."

  No hello. No greeting at all. I'm stunned. Beautiful? Where did that come from?

  My eyes are drawn down to myself. I haven't even changed out of my old ratty pajamas in what I think might be two days. "How do you know?"

  "I saw you."

  My stomach is in knots. He saw me? "Where?"

  "In my dreams."

  The moment he says it, a smile lights up my face. "Are you just fucking with me?"

  "No, but I'd like to be fucking you."

  I laugh sharply. My body heats at those words. How does he do that, his responses so slick, so quick?

  "I do know you looked beautiful today, though," he says. "I wasn't lying."

  "How?"

  "Because you always are."

  I'm not sure how to respond to that. I start stammering. Thirty seconds on the phone and I've turned into a blubbering fool because of this man.

  He laughs, genuinely amused. "Goodnight, Karissa."

  Before I can respond, he hangs up. I stare at the phone, biting my bottom lip, as I whisper, "goodnight," into the quiet room.