Break Me
A Dark Romance Serial
by Alicia Alpha
© 2015 Alicia Alpha
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.
Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.
- Kindle Edition -
Want more Alicia Alpha?
Sign up for her mailing list - http://eepurl.com/be-Azn
This is the first book in the Break Me series.
Prologue – Of blood and bones
I was lying on the floor like a broken doll, my limbs twisted and turned unnaturally as I gasped for air. My hair was matted with my own blood which I could still feel rushing out of the gash in my forehead.
“Don’t leave me, baby,” I whispered with my last breath, choking on the words and the tears in my throat, choking on the remains of our love and the crushed shards of glass it had become. I was about to slice myself open on them and I knew it, but I was sadistic enough to keep looking in his eyes as I pleaded.
He was looking down at me on the floor – what was left of me anyway. Pity. All that was left in his eyes was pity. He feels sorry for me, I realized suddenly as a shiver ran through my body. This is the end, a premonition told me. I prayed for it to be wrong.
One last look between us, the passion, the love, the torment. I felt our eyes latching onto one another, his gaze holding mine like he was daring me to look away.
I did not.
But he did.
Without so much as another word, he turned his back on me and walked away.
I lay battered, bathing in a pool of my own blood.
Over.
Gone.
Done.
Chapter 1 – A pretty girl nonetheless
Don’t pity me. Never pity me. Don’t you dare.
I always thought it was such a pretty word … Something you might call a butterfly or something of the sort, a flutter on my lips. Gentle and so, so beautiful. The meaning behind it was not quite so.
Arrhythmias …
It slides off the tongue, does it not? I love saying it. I’m addicted to it. It’s the first thing I tell people when I meet them. I like scaring them these days, telling them about my condition straight away. Then I laugh in their faces as they stare at me, horrified.
I’ve been shaped and molded, not only by the hands of surgeons, but by the strange turns my life has taken, too. I’m a beautiful mistake. I’m a wild variation. I’m a wicked witch of the West … Call me anything you want, but I’ll claw my way inside your brain, and in your heart, too. Don’t believe me? Just you wait and see, baby.
Let’s talk about something else now. Do you want to know what I’m doing right this moment as I’m telling you all of this? I’m lying upon my bed, a mass of weight upon me, pushing in and out between my legs. I moan dutifully, letting out just the right amount of whispers, of caresses, of emotion, for this man to believe he’s the one that occupies my mind. Only him – no imaginary audience to listen to my rambles.
His trembling hand reaches up to caress my breasts, rubbing them every each way, all of them wrong. I’ve only known satisfaction with one man in my life … It’s okay, though. I’m only 24. I’ll fuck many more.
My nipples are hardening against my own will and I find myself moaning of my own accord. Would you look at that now, I’m actually starting to enjoy myself. I guess I can be human too if I want.
With a long, shaky groan he releases into me, pumping weakly a few more times to fill me up completely. I lick my lips, relishing the moment, too busy enjoying it to fake an orgasm. I hope he doesn’t expect it.
I see his disappointment as soon as he pulls away and looks at me uncertainly, so I do what any wise girl would. Dipping my fingers between my legs, I bring them up to my face and give them a good lick, moaning for good measure. His face lights up and I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. So predictable.
I watch him stumble to his feet, reaching for his wallet without quite meeting my eyes.
“What do I owe you?” he asks, rushing to get out of here. I don’t mind too much, to be honest. I need a good night’s sleep and I sure as hell don’t want him sleeping over.
“You know what you owe me,” I purr and stretch across the bed like a cat, making him blush violently. I love teasing them afterwards. It’s such a rush. “One thousand 32 dollars, 57 cents.”
He thrusts some hundred dollar bills into my hands and I grin happily, already imagining what I’ll spend my new pretty pennies on. He can’t get out of here fast enough as he slips on his coat, giving me the world’s most awkward handshake in goodbye and quietly closing the door of my apartment after leaving. Good boy, I think. Probably going back to his wife, where he’ll try to forget all about the fact that he just fucked his first natural redhead. And no, the carpet doesn’t match the drapes, I’m shaved clean.
I laugh giddily as I count the bank notes. Just as I thought – he added in a few for good measure. Guess he felt bad. As he should …
I slip off my bed and put on a silky robe I like to keep on in case there’s an unannounced guest (it happens a bit too often for me to be comfortable in the ratty old pajamas I used the wear in the good old days). I look at myself in my floor length mirror and trace my finger along the reflection of my wide eyes, my cherry lips. I don’t care if people say red lipstick doesn’t go with ginger hair. I think I look fucking fantastic with it and not many people seem to disagree.
I grin at my own reflection, sliding my tongue over my pearly whites, before discarding the guy’s money on my bookshelf, his name already slipping out of my mind.
I go into my kitchen and coo at my cat who is staring out of the window. Pearl is just about the only thing I care about in this world. I stroke her long white fur as she looks at me with those perfect, almond shaped blue eyes.
Pearl is deaf, as is the case with many blue eyed cats with white coats, but I don’t care much. It’s perfect actually – she’s damaged, just like me, I guess.
I started telling you a little bit about my condition, but ended up not finishing. See, that’s the thing about me. When things get too intense and I don’t know what to do or say, I like to hide. Within other topics, sex or by plainly running away. As long as I don’t have to do what I don’t want to I’m perfectly fine.
Sitting down on the bar stool by my counter, I cross my legs and flip through a magazine, my mind somewhere completely different than the world of celebrity drama in front of me.
I was born with it. My heartbeat is all messed up , and so is my ticker. You hear about this stuff sometimes, but you don’t really think it could kill you. I guess I was that unlucky fuck who got cursed with the condition as soon as I was born.
I might live to be a hundred.
But I might collapse and have my last breath right here, right now, a stranger’s wetness still dripping out of me.
I shake my head to get the nasty thoughts out and try to focus on something pleasant, like Pearl, who’s now sitting on the kitchen counter, purring as I stroke her long soft fur. We’re a lot alike, Pearl and I. We couldn’t care less, but we secretly long for affection …
Abruptly, I get up, scaring Pearl who jumps off of the counter and takes a stack of mail down with her. I see my doctor’s name on one of the envelopes but strategically choose to
ignore it, instead deciding to fix myself some tea.
As I busy myself with choosing the kind I want and boiling the water, I can’t help but remember a scene from my childhood. This particular one seems to be in my mind at all times, clenching my brain tightly as if it wants to lodge itself somewhere in there permanently. I can’t help but relieve those memories …
I was lying in a hospital bed, decked out in white. White, white, white. All around me. The walls, the sheets, the floors – everything. Even my skin had taken on a ghostly white tinge, with only the darkest of my blue veins creeping through, a stark contrast to my creamy complexion.
My mother was sitting on a hospital chair close to my bed, looking worried even in her sleep. I realized I must have just opened my eyes as my consciousness slowly slipped back. I started noticing the little things first. My mother’s pointer finger twitching as some dream tormented her, as if her real life was not hard enough. The ceiling lamp flickering but only slightly so, making it appear as if the difference in the lighting was only due to my own blinking.
I heard my mother moaning and moving restlessly and I realized she was waking up. I shut my eyes tightly, pretending to be asleep, not even knowing why I did not want her to catch me awake. I guess I had had enough of her patronizing me on every step of the way that would ultimately lead to my death.
I heard her rustling and then coming closer to my bed, stroking my hair as she probably gazed at me lovingly. I thought her pathetic even at the tender age of seven.
Then, the door opened and I heard someone come in. I kept up my pretense and listened closely to the conversation that was taking place in hushed tones next to my bed. From what I could gather, a nurse or doctor had just walked in and was now speaking to my mother.
“Her vitals are good … for now,” the nurse said, adding the last two word sympathethically as my mother probably looked at her with teary eyes.
“It’s so hard …” she muttered after a long pause and I could almost see the nurse stroking her shoulders to calm her down through my black, veiny eyelids.
“Well, but she’s a pretty girl nonetheless, isn’t she?” the nurse said in a false cheerful voice.
“Yes,” my mother responded, the relief obvious in her voice, as if my physical appearance was of any help when I was dealing with a life threatening condition. “She is a pretty girl nonetheless.”
So there you have it. I might die any minute of the day, I might have a psychopath stalking me and I might be a whore who has no emotions and only feels things when she’s hurting herself. But I’m a pretty girl nonetheless.
Chapter 2 – It’s just me and the music
It’s a workday. I don’t work everyday anymore, instead choosing to dance only twice a week. It’s better to be sought out on two days and make less than become a staple and bore everyone to tears, at least in my world. I’d rather spend my off days in bed with Pearl, eating pralines (which I’ll inevitably vomit down the drain in the end) than dance on some stranger’s lap, even though it would mean a few more dollar bills to spend.
I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me, really I’m not. I talk about all these things like they’re normal, all the while expecting you to pity me. I really don’t need pity. I’ve had enough of it my entire life. But I guess being sick and having a ‘condition’ made me feel like I could get away with anything. So whenever I want to get what I want, I bring out the sick card. It’s a nasty thing to do, and I know it.
As I stare at myself in the mirror today, I once again realize I look completely different. My red hair is all covered up by a bleach blonde bob wig, and I’m wearing a heavy layer of foundation to hide all of my freckles. Sometimes I’ll even put in contact lenses to hide my eyes, but I can’t be bothered today. They make my eyes itch.
I turn around and inspect every part of myself in the mirror. I’m wearing a spiked black bra and a thong, and I know I look good. I’ve been eating and vomiting pralines a client left me all week. There’s no fat left on me.
I hate the way I look.
Tracing my bones with my finger I sigh inwardly. I used to be prettier than this. Not all bones. I don’t even like what I’m doing. But all the other girls do it. Call me stupid, but peer pressure is a real thing.
I look away from the mirror, fluttering my false eyelashes until all I see is glittery blackness.
“Opal, you’re on in two,” someone yells in my direction and I find myself nodding mindlessly, even though I feel like I’m about to collapse. I spot another box of chocolates amidst the various makeup items on the counter and carefully unwrap a hazelnut toffee. I devour it in one bite, savouring the feeling of the too-sweet caramel sticking to my teeth. Then I lick them clean and make my way to the stage as I hear my name being called again.
I hear the music I’ve chosen myself. Melodic, sexy, but sad … I love Florence + the machine. I could never dance to anything else and I really don’t care if it’s inappropriate for what I do.
Licking my teeth one last time and enjoying the last remnants of the toffee I know I’ll be punishing myself for later, I make my way through the red velvet curtains. Immediately, cheers erupt from the crowd, but I look away shyly, smiling coyly. I don’t want them to think I am what I am. I don’t want to be an exotic dancer right now. I want to be a normal girl, dancing for her partner. Pretending everything is perfect, pretending this is only awkward because I haven’t done it before.
Hesitantly, I make my way to the front of the stage, standing in the front with my eyes turned downwards. It’s so smoky in here I fear I might choke. It would probably please some of the more hardcore clients in here, too.
Looking up through my false lashes, I hear them holding in their breaths. I move slowly, but deliberately, slipping off one bra strap until it reveals my creamy skin. Even that looks perfect, smothered with makeup to cover up all my freckles. My boss calls them imperfections. Disturbingly and paradoxically, it’s the perfect word.
I know I can dance. I know I can make them moan, make them cum, make them do what I want. And that’s what I intend on doing right this second.
I move slowly, but I know exactly what I’m doing. Every innocent, sweet move has been coordinated to perfection in front of my mirror at home. I used to dance ballet as a child, and I guess that is how I manage to look so graceful, so effortless. It’s the only thing I can do well. That, and fucking.
I feel their eyes on me and it turns me on. I become more confident. Cocky, even. I’m spinning as I dance, moves I shouldn’t be using, positions my boss will scold me for later, saying they’re ballet related, not sexy at all. I smile as I imagine him glaring at me, ruining his perfect little freakshow. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck. All I want to do is dance my heart out.
In the middle of a move I stumble. In a split second, I’m on my knees and the gasps from the audience are waking me up from my reverie. I’m not dancing on a stage. I’m not a prima ballerina. All I am is a high class whore.
I try getting up to whistles and cheers from the audience, stumbling over my broken heel. My bra strap is slipping and I feel hot tears of humiliation pricking my eyes, blurring my vision. This is what I’ve become and I’ll never be anything else than a slut.
As I try to pick myself up unsuccessfully, a pair of hands grabs me and pulls me up. I’m standing in front of the tallest person I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying something, because in my heels I’m well over 5’11’’. He’s glaring at me, his eyebrows knitted together in pure disgust.
“Pull yourself together,” he hisses at me, and the next second, he’s off the stage.
Humiliated, I make my way backstage with loud booing and whistling from the audience. At least they can enjoy the view of my ass in the thong as I walk back, I think bitterly as I push apart the velvet cushions and collapse on a chair in front of the lit up mirror.
The tears are coming now, and there’s no stopping them. They’re streaming down my face, ruining my caked on makeup. I’m staring as my re
flection, watching all of it melt off as people rush around me. No one stops to ask if I’m okay, not even boss. He doesn’t even bother scolding me – he knows I’m the best he has, and he’s too busy, anyway. I have bad days, and then I have good days. Not many, though.
A body etches itself on my memory. It’s blurry, like a photograph that’s out of focus. It’s the guy that picked me up from the floor. All I can see is an enormous mass of muscle, no face. He’s holding me as I’m slipping over the edge of a precipice.
I don’t know if he’s stopping my fall or trying to push me in.
I don’t know how much time passes, but everything around me stops moving. I’m alone now. Everyone’s gone and the place is about to close up. I look down, breaking eye contact with the other Opal in the mirror after what feels like hours staring at her. I take a wet wipe and angrily wipe all of the makeup off of my face. I don’t finished until my skin is red and raw, and I’m staring at my freckled skin with satisfaction.
Clean.
I change out of my clothes, or better yet, lack thereof. I don’t bother putting on underwear, instead slipping on a dress and a coat, hoping I won’t freeze to death. A look at the clock on the wall tells me it’s half past six in the morning. I bet it’s freezing outside.
I make my way past the last of the security guards and the cleaning ladies, clutching my keys. I took a taxi here yesterday, pretending I was all that. My fall literally pushed me off the cloud I was on and now I’ve hit rock bottom. I should walk. The cold air will knock some sense into me.
It’s December, and it’s still dark outside when I make my way out. As if that isn’t enough, there’s so much fog I can barely make out any shapes in front of me. I feel my cheeks reddening from the cold as I make my way from the back exit across the parking lot, my steps rushed, my heels clacking on the asphalt. My breaths are coming out in puffs of smoke, reminding me of my childhood when I used to pretend I was smoking cigarettes when it was cold outside.
Break Me: A Dark Romance Serial Page 1