Under My Enemy's Roof: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Collection (Under Him Book 7)

by Jamie Knight

  Unfortunately, it got stretched out to over a hundred pages. Even though when she is good, she is very, very good. Speaking to the soul of the young malcontent, decades before even Albert Camus thought to do the same with The Stranger.

  Camus was a lot less cliché, painting a clear and scintillating portrait of a man who genuinely didn’t care about society anymore. Though MacLean could be largely forgiven for her cliché on the grounds that it wasn’t cliché at the time she was writing. She was one of the trailblazers who started it, which is something in itself. I never thought that Edward Bulwer-Layton, the first brave soul to use ‘it was a dark and stormy night’ got enough credit. Especially after Snoopy turned it into a meme before there was even an internet.

  I should let it go. Obsessing over things never really helped anyone. Even the people who harnessed their obsessions. Fine for them but I had yet to find a hill that I was willing to die on. Until Rachel.

  There was obviously something very wrong. Who bursts into tears at the sight of someone who never hurt them? Granted I was in her apartment at the time but was also doing my very best to explain my presence. In calmest and logical terms. I even had visual aids!

  To be fair, I should have known there was something different about her, possibly in the way there’s something different about me, when I saw the burns. Especially the cross.

  Not that I was one to judge with my tattoos and the not insubstantial pentacle scarred into my back. The main difference, so far as I could tell, was that my markings were all completely found lethargy and I didn’t regret a single one of them. In my, admittedly limited experience, regret was genially for those who cared what other people thought, and we never did.

  I didn’t know what it was, but I got the feeling that Rachel’s marks had been forced on her. Something to do with the location and the slight waviness of the lines. Like she had been struggling at the time.

  Shit, she was at most eighteen and just barely legal to get such alterations and the ones she had looked older than that. The healing was far too deep. Meaning she had been even younger when it was done. In no position to legally consent even if she wanted to, which somehow, I doubted. Particularly with what the Bible had to say about marks upon the flesh. One of the primary reasons for tattoos, branding and scarring among the members of the Temple. Tell us not to do something and it is pretty much guaranteed that we will.

  I just couldn’t let it go. Particularly if there was potential child abuse going on. We got a lot of shit about all the SRA crap. Even though there had yet to be a single verified case of it happening anywhere, ever. Which was a hell of a lot more than could be said for the Catholic Church, despite their best efforts. Slapping on my sleuth cap, in the metaphorical, got out my laptop and held my breath for some deep diving.

  There tends to be an assumption that because I didn’t grow up in the middle class my childhood must have somehow been deprived. We didn’t have everything. That was for damn sure. As well as to be expected with five kids in the house and my dad working construction.

  It got a bit better when my brother, and then I, got big enough to work as well. Putting more money in the family pot. It was part of why I almost thought of Amelia more as my daughter than my sister.

  While we didn’t have everything we still had enough and certainly what we needed. Which my parents always considered counted computers. They were almost always hand-me-downs, straddling the line of what the companies swore up and down was ‘obsolescence,’ but we had them.

  I didn’t have skills in a whole lot of areas, which I would be the first to tell you. The one thing I always seemed to be wonderful at was research. Which was how I got the grades to let me get into a top university. Money was a different matter, but we managed to work it out.

  Rachel wasn’t an exceedingly rare name so it was going to take some doing to track her down. For all its drawbacks, and there were many, one thing Facebook had going for it was a streamlined search process. I looked for Rachels in our state, assuming we were children of the same soul. There were still over a thousand. To narrow things down a bit I added the university as a factor, getting the number of results down to and even forty. Much more manageable.

  Most of the profiles didn’t have pics. I’d noticed that some girls had become somewhat camera shy, their Friend counts similarly vacant, despite the ‘pictures or it didn’t happen’ ethos stalking our beleaguered generation like a specter.

  Within minutes, I was tapping to open the public profile of the ethers cutie sequestered in the room beside me. Locked away as though she were in protective custody. At least whomever had hurt her couldn’t get to her anymore.

  There wasn’t anything too unusual. Or there at all really, much of the page having been left blank, at least in terms of text. There were photos though. Albums of them. Most of them including the same two people, who I took to be her parents.

  There was a shock of sick recognition. Those eyes, smiling but vacant. That smile, stilted and humorless except in the most macabre way. Yes, I knew the bastard. The one Rachel probably still called ‘daddy’ because he had her in such a fucking age regression. Mentally if not physically.

  I had seen it so many times. My family making a habit of taking in kids rejected from ‘civil society.’ Sometimes just for dinner, others for the night until their pious parents had a chance to sober up. I didn’t laugh when Amelia once asked me how many brothers and sisters we had. Honestly, I had lost track myself for a while.

  I could feel the rage rising inside me. The ones I had been taught to repress. Certain people had the philosophy that others were going to hate us anyway. No need to give them more ammunition or reason to think that they’re right. If we did what would be the point? Our opposition became gang rivalry and ‘fuck that stupid bullshit.’

  It wasn’t what they did to me that I minded. O’Flanagan and his flock of Jesus stalkers. I could take it. It was when they went after the younger kids, calling them ‘vile spawns of Satan’ that really got my hackles up. They were kids and names like that could really mess them up mentally. Though not nearly as much as the rocks the bullies would routinely huck at us, Old Testament style.

  The computer lost power so hard the desk rattled. Taking a moment for several long, deep breaths, I tried to calm down.

  The chair rolled back so hard it bounced off the opposing wall. Dropping to my knees before the shire of vinyl I made my selection and put on some of the most brutal Black Metal known to humanity.

  I’d long considered starting a band called All Gods Are Bastards, or AGAB. Our first and likely last, record would be called Songs for Exorcisms.

  “The power of Satan compels you!” I bellowed, surprising even myself.

  The first song came to an end, along with my gusto. My exhausted carcass collapsing to the carpet in a mix of pants and sobs.

  Chapter Nine - Rachel

  As the rooster crows. Not actually a saying but it should be. Though indeed that wouldn’t express how early I woke up the next morning. Even nature's alarm clock still fast asleep in their coops when my eyes eased open to the dim blue dawn.

  I listened for a moment, no sounds forthcoming. Not even the low rumble of fresh morning traffic. I checked the clock. Five in the morning. Late enough to be morning but early enough that most of the world would still be deep in slumber. Perfect.

  Tossing my blankets aside, I touched down as light as you please. My bare feet made not a sound. All but tip-toeing through the early morning light to the ghostly looking door. With customary stops to look under the bed and check in the closet just in case.

  The chair was still in place under the doorknob so it didn’t seem likely that anything would be amiss. Though my dad had well and true put the fear of God in me.

  It was odd seeing the apartment that early in the morning. The same as in the daylight only with a slightly surreal edge. Empty and slightly other worldly. Like the furniture hadn’t quite woken up yet.

  Keeping things on the down l
ow, I whipped up a hearty but low-cal breakfast, using only the stove, since the toaster or the blender were a bit too noisy to risk trying.

  I couldn’t believe I was roomed with him. Let alone that we were in lockdown. Forced to share a space in a form of imposed house arrest unseen since the Russian Revolution.

  I was suddenly reminded of the book I’d read about the boy who got stuck in a life-boat with an adult tiger. Dad threw it in the fire, saying it promoted heathenistic beliefs because it was set in India but I had managed to finish it first.

  I wasn’t afraid that Augustus might eat me or even that he would hurt me. At least not in the corporeal sense. It was my soul for which I was most concerned. From what I could remember the TST never really fought back. At least not against us.

  Dad and his friends would pelt them with all manner of horrible things, from tomatoes to rocks, and yet they stood firm. Loathe as I was to admit it, I could really admire their conviction as well as their passive resistance. Practicing the teachings of Jesus much more than we were.

  Augustus really didn’t seem like a bad person. No matter what his beliefs might be. Other than his outburst the night before, I’d never actually experienced him acting out aggressively. Even if his shout of ‘the power of Satan compels you’ did keep me from sleeping.

  I liked him well enough when we first met and I didn’t know who he was. I hoped we might be able to get back to that. Particularly if he didn’t find out who I was. Though there was a lot from the past and a thick cloud of doubts that made me skeptical this could happen. The Bible said to love your enemy but it was easier said than done. It was the world’s eternal fate at stake.

  The sound of a click shook me back to reality.

  Oh, no!

  He was coming out of his room?

  How was that possible?

  I could still hear him when I went to sleep the night before.

  Did he really just wake up after no more than three hours sleep?

  Oh, my Lord, he was a machine!

  Before I had time to fully contemplate the full implications of this new information, I was already running. Flying as fast as I could back into my room. The door clicked firmly. Fumbling in the mostly dark, I grabbed the chair and put it back in the position, not really knowing why. It was like the people who had to open and close the door three times before leaving a room.

  There was no real reason to it, but I felt compelled just the same. I had to protect myself. Though from what I had honestly no idea.

  Chapter Ten - Augustus

  A storm cloud hung. Not only the one over the campus but another, smaller one, directly over my head. Blasting thunderbolts at my barely waking head, like in an old cartoon.

  The night hadn’t been good. The tricky muses deciding to take up arms and I, subsequently, took up my pen, metaphorically anyway. Composing an album’s worth of lyrics which, at that moment, looked like poetry. I still had yet to buy or learn guitar but that was just a technicality.

  My hilariously out-of-date laptop was only one element in the total rebellion taking place. When the spirit calls, I knew enough to answer. The only real question being exactly whose spirit it was.

  As so often happened in such instances, the triumph of creation was soon replaced by the terror of fear. I’d been having nightmares for a while. An embarrassing fact that I’d tried to keep secret because only kids were supposed to have nightmares. Or so I thought at the time.

  It was Amelia who’d figure it out. Hearing me thrash as she snuck to the kitchen for a midnight snack. Sweetheart that she was, she did her best to help. Even though she was only twelve at the time.

  Talking actually helped. Not only did it make me feel less alone, I had a better idea of what was causing the trouble in my skull.

  Life hadn’t been easy then and there were a lot of things that happened despite my parents’ best efforts. There is only so much shit you could see before it started having an effect when you’re young.

  I started working on my head, trying to deal with everything. I told Jax what was happening, and she did her best to help and things got better. Right up until it happened.

  Since then the only thing I saw when I closed my eyes was her falling. The warm, vivid blood splashing on me, Jax trying to speak despite the damage to her lungs.

  It was the angriest shower in history. Everything I’d been holding came out in a first full wave. Aggression rechanneled into what could only be considered self-harm. Rinsing the blood from the tiles, I bandaged my knuckles and dried off.

  The apartment stood empty and quiet. Rachel must have still been asleep, leaving me functionally alone in the apartment. One of the few advantages to getting up as early as I did, despite the lack of sleep the night before. I worked it out once and on a good night I got maybe five hours of sleep. Three hours generally being more usual.

  I generally liked being around people but it was also nice to be alone. Not only in the crowd but seemingly in the world. The apocalyptic, last person in the world feeling held a certain appeal for me. Most of what I knew would be gone, yes. There were lots of people I would miss, but there was also great potential, at least at the beginning.

  I couldn’t deny that it was tempting. With us being locked down and Rachel avoiding me like I was already infected, I was getting the chance to live the dream. Albeit in a limited and controlled environment. Like people who like pain during sex but only do it with a trusted partner in the context of a scene. Where they know everything is safe and there are pain-killers, ointments and cuddly blankets close by.

  The pan was still on the stove when I got there. Subtle evidence of cooking present in the lovely kitchen. Either Rachel had the same penchant for nighttime snacking as Amelia, or she was doing her best to avoid me.

  Waking up before most sane people would and dashing away like fawn at the first sign of potential trouble. Either way, it was kind of cute.

  Trying to keep things quiet, in case the princess had returned to slumber land, I pulled together my closest approximation of a full English breakfast. I’d had people ask how I stayed so lean. Few people fully comprehending the full effects of stress.

  Setting things at the table an odd notion struck. I flashed back to English class and Shakespeare of all people. The Merchant of Venice to be precise. Lots of people decided to take it as anti-Semitic in theme. Leading me once again into the world of the contrarian. Everyone, including the teacher, insisting the portrayal of Jews as intractably villainous and me pointing out that Shylock was the one and only example of a ‘villainous’ Jew in the entire dramatis personae. Wondering if we had all read the same play.

  Some persisted of course. Saying one villainous Jew was one too many and the kind of thinking that led to the holocaust. The fact that this was mostly said by privileged Gentiles was not lost on me.

  Eventually, I would be pushed into pulling out the ace in my sleeve. While they were questionable at best, Shylock’s actions were motivated, as encapsulated by his impassioned soliloquy, about the basic humanity of Jews. Crying, bleeding and dying like anyone else. It was a lesson which needed to be taught again and again, rarely being fully grasped. The ones who really did comprehend the very reason to keep trying.

  Filling up on fried and toasted goodness, I washed my dishes as well as the pan and set my mind to more immediate matters. Returning to my quarters, to begin work on the labors of the day.

  The administration had made good on their promise to put most of the classes online. The more practical ones like Chemistry and Landscaping had to be done with limited class-time. Everyone at least six feet apart and wearing a mask or face-shield the second they were out of their dorms. Cameras had been installed at the end of each corridor to enforce the issue.

  Part of the film course going on was a continuation of the in class discussions. A feat achieved by the imposition of a class forum, where students could post and reply to comments. Everyone had to post a minimum of three comments per film we watched. Those who d
id ten got five bonus marks.

  The only catch was that every one of the comments had to be relevant to the overall discussion as decided by the instructor. An element that made sure everyone paid really close attention to get everything they possibly could.

  Most of what I would say was already in the notes I gave to Rachel. Scorpio and Fingered the first two films in the initial section on ‘transgressive cinema.’ Personally I would have started with 1947’s Fireworks.

  Reputed as one of the very first films to openly break societal taboos, particularly around sex and sexuality. Something Anger could have literally been arrested for at the time. Not least because he was gay, which was still listed in the DSM as a mental illness back then. My best guess was that the instructor was going more for the artistic angle rather than agitprop.

  I wasn’t looking for her. At least not consciously. Yet, as though steered by forces from above, or below, my attention wandered to Rachel’s posts. Or, rather the lack there of.

  She seemed to be struggling to get to the minimum number, let alone the ten required for bonus points. It was likely that she had fallen into the age-old trap of assuming that, because it superficially involved watching movies all day, Film Studies was easy.

  Nothing could be further than the truth. Film was an art form like any other and as with English Lit and to a degree to deeper forms of History, required a lot of very precise analysis.

  At least if it is going to be done properly and there were, of course disagreements about which interpretations were best. Going so far as to contend that even what the filmmaker says they meant wasn’t the final word. Taking a page from Roland Barthes and the Death of the Author.

  I hadn’t really interacted with most of my classmates. At least not in a meaningful way, outside Rachel of course. Yet, there they were. Roughly a dozen replies to my posted comments asking if they could chat with me.