Crowned with Guilt (Remember the Reaper Book 1)

by S. K. Rose

  They are unscathed, unaware.

  They are unsullied, they are free.

  They are everything that I am not.

  ʢ ʢ ʢ

  When the morning sun begins to peek through the curtains of my barred window, Trent gives a final grunt. With a glimmer of satisfaction in his eye, he gets to his feet, zips up his pants, and unlocks my wrists. I flip slowly onto my side, drawing my knees to my chest I stare ahead blankly. There’s some relief knowing he’s done with me.

  Trent says nothing more, simply walks out the room and closes the door behind him.

  I angle my head to stare at the door. Pain throbs all over and becomes sharper with each passing minute. I try to assess the damage to my body with slow, calculated movements. I can wiggle my foot a little so I don’t think my ankle is broken, probably just a bad twist. I reach up to my face, which is mostly swollen, and feel a sticky gash above my ear. My biggest fear is that some ribs might have been broken during the initial punishment. I make a move to sit up, but my side screams in agony. I see a swirl of colors and then everything goes dark.

  Unsure of how many hours or days slip by, I fall in and out of consciousness as my mind and body attempt to mend themselves.

  When my bedroom door slams open, I’m instantly alert. I struggle to open my left eye where blood has coagulated around the corners and glued it shut.

  My mom stands just inside my room. Her eyes take in the scene, I watch as she takes note of my shredded clothes around the floor, the splatter of dried blood, and the fresh cuts and bruises purpling my skin. For a moment, I see something. Remorse, or perhaps guilt.

  But whatever I think I see is instantly replaced by a look of disgust.

  “Just couldn’t keep your legs closed, could you? Ohhhh, yes, I know who was here, I can still smell him.” Her eyes narrow to slits. “You got your father taken away for being a slut, and now you’re seducing my boyfriend? You—you disgust me.” She rubs her temples as if she’s nursing a headache.

  I don’t have the energy to respond.

  A single tear rolls down her cheek. Something I’ve never seen; my mother doesn’t cry. I wonder if her cold heart is softening with the gravity of the situation. She has to take me to the hospital—surely this is bad enough for her to step up.

  I am still her daughter.

  I deliriously imagine her coming over and wrapping me up in a big hug, running her fingers through my hair and reassuring me that everything will be okay, that he’ll never touch me again.

  “Sometimes I wish you would have died instead of that poor innocent boy.” She shakes her head and disappears back into the dark hallway.

  I always did have an overactive imagination.

  I don’t move, I don’t blink.

  I continue to stare ahead at the door, not shedding a single tear over my mother's cruel words. It doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters.

  I sleep away the better part of two weeks, only moving to eat bits of a protein bar, drink water from the bathroom sink, or use the toilet. Each task proving more difficult than the last, but I push on nonetheless.

  I don’t know why I didn’t give up. It would have been easy to just lay there and do nothing, to wilt away. But in my darkest moments, I would grip the silver crown around my neck and draw strength from it.

  After a few more days of recovery, I would pack my meager possessions, walk out the front door, and never look back.

  Or so I thought.

  Chapter 11

  ─────

  Seventeen Years Old, Present Day.

  I walk directly to the desk that’s as far from the front whiteboard as humanly possible. I get here early everyday just to have this spot, not that anyone would really have the balls to sit here. Being at the back is an integral part of the slow process to becoming invisible, something I’ve proved to be quite adept at over the years.

  Well, that and swearing like a sailor. I’m really good at that, too.

  I take my seat and prop my boots up on the metal bars that crisscross underneath my desk. I pop an earbud in one ear and rearrange my hair until it’s completely hidden. My iPod Nano’s previous owner liked shit music. It was originally jam-packed full of happy pop garbage. However, now it’s the Tessa channel twenty-four-seven, where you’ll only hear weird alternative rock, metal, and the classics.

  I’ll admit I did leave that one Britney Spears album loaded up. That bitch had a full shave-your-fuckin’-head meltdown and is still killin’ it! Gotta respect that shit.

  Powering on the tiny music machine, Living Dead Girl by Rob Zombie begins pouring into my eardrum and I feel a little more at ease. Living dead girl, hmmm. . . that would be a spot-on nickname for me the more I think about it. Unfortunately, my fellow classmates are pretty attached with the one they gave me freshman year.

  I lean back and absentmindedly thumb the jeweled crown that hangs around my neck and stare blankly ahead, avoiding all eye contact from my classmates who have begun to filter into the classroom.

  In general, I follow a set of whimsical rules for this despicable circumstance called life.

  Over the years, I’ve found the rules are quite helpful for keeping me solely focused on school and graduating; the alternative being I go on a murderous rampage.

  Fun, but frowned upon.

  Rule #1: Keep your trap shut.

  This first one has really cut down on my detention time. I have a bit of a mouth on me you could say, but this rule doesn’t just refer to my snarky mouth. I also don’t wave my hand trying to volunteer in class, I keep my lips zipped when I see bullies pick on weaklings in the hallway, and I certainly do not partake in any extracurricular activities. I trudge through the school day with my mouth clamped shut, eyes focused straight ahead, and perfectly content with minding my own business.

  Teachers initially assumed I was quiet because I wanted to avoid being called out for not following along or paying attention. Their eyes would narrow in on me and then light up, excited to catch me unaware and stuttering. They would call on me with a smirk on their face and I would answer each and every question immediately, and with one hundred percent accuracy—and then revel in watching that smirk drop right off. After the first month, most of them got tired of looking stupid and stopped trying to call me out, and thankfully, they began leaving me alone. Sometimes it physically hurts not to just tell them to fuck off, but as much as I hate school, I need good grades, and I need my diploma. I need to have one tiny accomplishment in my life, to prove to myself that I’m not worthless.

  Rule #2: No attention whoring.

  Most of the girls ‘round these parts paint layer after layer of foundation on their skin, or pluck the bejesus out of their eyebrows so they look perpetually surprised. They trot around in uncomfortably high heels and wear such tiny shorts that I fear one day their vaginas might pop right out. Let’s not forget the kids who cry noisily in the hallways or spread mean rumors about their supposed best friends. Basically, school is the place where all self-respect goes flying out the window for the off chance you might receive a little attention, preferably from the impressionable opposite gender. Bad media is better than no media, if you catch my drift.

  Now, my night job? Sure, that requires a little unavoidable slutting up, a necessary evil if I want to put food in my stomach and clothes on my back. However, when I’m at school and not in a club, my vag and tits are put away and I’m focused on my own shit. What a wild concept!

  Rule #3: Avoid sheeple.

  You know who I’m talking about, the cookie-cutter kids strutting around, trying to be carbon copies of the celebrities they read about on the internet. Incapable of having even a single original thought. All of them running around, doing exactly what they’re told is “trendy” by the media, blindly herded into ignorance much like. . . you called it. Sheep! Sheep-people, SHEEPLE! Get it?

  To be honest, with all my previous sunshine and rainbow-filled experiences in life, I generally make it a point to just stay away from e
veryone. Parents fuck you over, friends betray you, teachers lie to your face, shit, even strangers are assholes half the time. Each day I go out of my way to have as little interaction with humans as possible, and mostly I’m successful.

  Honestly, it’s not too difficult to manage. My classmates all walk around in their self-absorbed little bubbles and don’t notice anything that doesn’t directly affect them. So, like I said, most days I’m pretty damn successful.

  Today does not happen to be one of those days.

  Chapter 12

  ─────

  So far today, English class was decent. I love when we get the chance to dissect passages from dark and twisty novels like Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. I mean, she’s basically the mother of all things horror, which coins her as one badass bitch in my book.

  Dragging my feet to Trig, I worry there will be a pop quiz today and inwardly groan. I’m god-awful at math. I have to bust my ass for the B averages I barely manage to get. I missed a lot of school last year, so I’ve been having to bust my ass in all my classes just trying to play catch up.

  As I look out the window near my desk, I admire the oversized pine trees that run rampant here in Oregon. Living at the eastern foothills of the Cascades does mean the winters can get cold and dreary. Fortunately, the rest of the year the weather is quite temperate, beautiful, even if you reside in a small shit-hole town like Alder Grove.

  I love days like today best. There’s no rain or humidity, but the sky is still gray and overcast. As students start to trickle in the classroom, I decide it’s time to focus and prepare for the next hour. After unzipping my faded backpack, I pull out a notebook and toss it on my desk. Reaching for my pencil, I find it’s not in the side pocket where I always keep it.

  Shit, that was my last one.

  In my peripheral, I see unexpected movement that’s way too close for comfort. Looking over, my eyes are immediately drawn to. . . hair? Yep, cotton candy pink hair with a tiny smiling girl beneath. In the blink of an eye, she’s managed to get even closer. Hand outstretched towards me is someone I’ve never seen before. Her outfit is a little too preppy for my taste, with her button-up blouse, plaid skirt, and wedges. Her makeup is light and shimmery, her hair stops just above her shoulders—not a single pink strand of hair out of place. Did I mention she’s fucking tiny? The only thing that seems out of place is the silver double hoop piercing in her nose.

  She must be new, I would remember this chick.

  Confused and more than a little irritated about her proximity, I turn my attention to her face, readying myself to threaten or scare the little fluff away—maybe both. I’m overdue for a little fun. I open my mouth to say something unquestionably nasty, but my chest abruptly constricts, the air around me becomes thick, and I find it difficult to breathe.

  Those are his eyes.

  I close my eyes tight and try to calm myself by counting backwards from ten. They are just green eyes; lots of people have green fucking eyes.

  But why do they remind me so much of him?

  Nope, no. I’ve locked all my thoughts and feelings of him up in a box for years now, and for good reason. I’d rather not open that can of worms, thank you very much. Opening my eyes back up slowly, I glare up at her from my seat.

  “What do you want, Frenchy?” I snarl, becoming more irritated by the second.

  She’s completely unfazed by my snippy tone. “Oh, I love that movie! Also, I think you dropped this,” she says brightly. In her outstretched hand I see she has, in fact, been holding out my pencil. Snatching it out of her hands, I slam it onto my notebook and hope that once she sees my eyes sliding back toward the window, she’ll take a hint and fuck off.

  Instead, to my complete and utter horror, she sits down in the seat right next to mine.

  I watch incredulously as she flips her zebra print tote bag up and starts meticulously taking out her things and laying them on her desk. This includes a pink pencil box, a pink notebook, and surprise-fuckin’-surprise, a pink calculator.

  You’ve gotta be shitting me.

  With one eyebrow raised, I continue to stare as she carefully organizes everything neatly on her desk. Once she seems satisfied that everything is in its perfect place, she places her bag gently in the metal basket under the seat. Without missing a beat, she swivels her body toward me with a bright smile that displays her pearly whites.

  “Hi, my name is Mary-Elizabeth Blackwell, and it is so very nice to meet you. I just started here at Silver Creek High. Everyone so far has been very nice, which is awesome because I must admit I am a little nervous, and when I’m nervous, I tend to talk a lot, but I talk a lot in the first place so sometimes it can just get a little crazy if you know what I mean.” She laughs nervously.

  My mouth opens and shuts repeatedly, and I get the distinct feeling I resemble a gaping fish.

  Did she take a single breath through that speech? Holy balls.

  It’s safe to say I am beyond fascinated at this point. What teenager introduces themselves, and willingly, no less? More importantly—why, oh why, so much goddamn pink?

  Questions whirl through my brain as she continues her monologue, “My family and I just moved back here from Chicago. God, I won’t miss the crazy wind constantly whipping my hair around! It would always get stuck in my cherry lip gloss.” She scrunches up her nose as if that’s the worst thing that could happen to a person. “Anyways, enough about me, my friends call me Beth, what’s your name?”

  I continue to stare at her with wide eyes, not entirely sure what to make of this babbling girl. She begins tapping her pink nails on the desk, impatiently waiting for a response.

  “Tessa,” I recover, trying to relax back into my chair and act like I’m not completely caught off guard right now. All I know for sure is that I don’t have friends.

  And I don't need friends.

  And as sure as birds fly, I don’t want this motor-mouth as a friend.

  A loud ring interrupts our dramatically one-sided conversation. Saved by the bell.

  “Alright, students, that was the second bell which, as you should know by now, means everyone should have their journals out starting their morning math work. Let’s get to it and be prepared to share your responses.” Mrs. Fontaine begins reeling off names for attendance.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Tessa.” The pink-haired freak is leaning toward me and attempting to whisper, trying to avoid the attention of Mrs. Fontaine. Key word here: attempting. This girl is fucking loud. “I just wanted to say I just really love your shir—”

  I put my hand up and shoot daggers in her direction until she stops talking.

  “Look, Strawberry Shortcake,” I whisper back forcefully.

  “Oh, my nickname is actually B—”

  I wave for her to stop. “You seem like a very sweet girl, I am totally digging the whole bubbly vibe you got going on here.” I wave my hand, motioning her whole body. “But I’m not in the market for a new buddy.”

  Her eyes widen in confusion. “I’m a little talkative, I know, but— “

  “Do I need to write it across my forehead? I’m trying to work here, capiche?”

  “I was just thinking tha—“

  “Buzz off!” I whisper-yell a little too loudly, but after a quick glance around, I see that Mrs. Fontaine is busy talking on the phone and doesn’t notice.

  And for a wonder, she does stop talking, although her eyebrows are furrowed in frustration. For whatever reason, I feel the need to explain a few things.

  “Hannah Montana, look at everyone around in this classroom, and then look back at me.”

  “Oookay. She doesn’t even have pink hair, so—”

  “Zzztt! Just do it, Beth.”

  Her eyes scan around the class and return to me, lips pursed shut.

  “Of all the nice, normal-looking guys and girls in here, why the hell did you sit next to me? Did you mistake my scowl for a friendly smile? Did you not see the bubble of space around me where nobody wants to sit?
Did the fact that I am practically dripping in animosity and you’re made of sugar and spice and everything nice not register in your tiny pink brain, Blossom?”

  Her eyes widen, and her ears turn a little pink, but she doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns back toward her desk and begins working on the math problems listed on the whiteboard.

  “That’s what I thought,” I mutter under my breath as I turn to get started on my own work.

  Good, always better to shut that shit down quickly.

  After what feels like forever, the bell finally rings. I practically jump out of my seat and rush out, fighting the urge to look back and see if she’s still upset.

  Why the hell do I care if I hurt her feelings? Ugh, I must be going soft.

  Thankfully, the rest of the school day is blissfully uninterrupted. I do notice that the pink bit of fluff is in quite a few of my classes, but thankfully she’s learned quickly to keep her distance. Which doesn’t even matter because I have more important things to worry about anyway, like what I’m going to be able to find for dinner tonight. I can’t bear going to bed with my stomach grumbling three nights in a row. I ran out of my stolen stash of protein bars a few nights ago.

  Sighing, I head toward the city bus stop that’s just a few blocks from the school. I desperately need some cash for food and a few other essentials.

  Looks like I’m heading to Oasis.

  Chapter 13

  ─────

  Just barely catching the last bus of the evening, I head downtown. It’s been a long day and I’m a hot mess, emphasis on mess. It’s freezing since the sun’s gone down, I hug my jacket tight around me as I walk the rest of the way to Oasis. The outside of the nightclub is a relatively plain, red brick building, and at first glance it appears to just be a rather grimy, rundown warehouse. However, once you step inside the giant metal door, it’s a whole other story.