Micaden’s Madness

by Mason, V. F.

  I finally see him sitting on the chair a few feet away from the bed, and I realize we’re in the cabin.

  The room is surprisingly spacious with three windows that are blocked with black blinds, two bedside tables, and a closet with a bar across it. In the other corner is a door, which probably leads to a bathroom.

  All the furniture is made from the finest oak, the freshly polished wood shining brightly in the light while different paintings decorate the walls. He sure likes to dish out money on his expensive toys.

  I’m sitting on a huge, king-sized bed with my ankles chained to it by metal cuffs, and I follow the chain farther, only to see the end of it in Micaden’s hand.

  He smirks, tugging on it lightly, and immediately I slide a little closer to him, the action causing the cuffs to bite into my flesh. “Like a dog on a leash,” he comments, and without thinking, I throw a pillow at him, breathing heavily. But it barely reaches him, falling on the floor between us with a soft thump.

  He glances at it, then at me, and then sighs dramatically. “Your character is unbearable.”

  “Fuck you, Micaden,” I seethe, but it doesn’t faze him. Instead, a light smirk curves his mouth.

  “Let’s proceed, shall we?” He takes out a folded piece of paper from his jeans pocket and opens it up, while the cigarette I hadn’t noticed before dangles from his mouth. “I’m going to read you a story.”

  “What story?” I scoot farther away again, grabbing the blanket and covering myself as much as possible despite the heat that drives me crazy.

  Who knows what his plans are?

  “Your story.”

  “My story,” I repeat dumbly, wondering if he found my manuscript. I never wrote anything else.

  “Mmhmm. It’s called Testifying Evidence Against Brochan,” he says, and coldness slips into my veins as his words try to make sense in my head.

  Testifying? Wasn’t he supposed to get out of prison after twenty-four hours? And what would I have testified anyway?

  He must have done something bad after all if it came to this. That’s why he hates me? Because he did me wrong, and I wasn’t afraid to punish him?

  I eagerly await the so-called story, because it’ll finally shed light on all the blanks in my head. It will explain.

  But one saying is true.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Micaden

  Some things in life are inevitable.

  But the one thing that was always inevitable for me?

  Make Emerald feel the myriad of emotions only I am capable of evoking.

  And we are about to go down memory lane.

  Ten years to be exact.

  Emerald

  Micaden holds the paper with one hand, while exhaling smoke and pointing his cigarette at me with the other. “What happened on August 23rd, 2009?” he asks, greedily inhaling his cigarette, and I hate how the smell spreads through the entire room and disturbs my nostrils.

  My birthday.

  I shift a little, because every moan and tender touch is still fresh in my mind, and he gives me a sinister grin.

  All right then.

  I lift my chin high, and gaze straight into his eyes, when I reply, “We had sex. The first time.” I mentally high-five myself for keeping my tone calm and cold, not giving him the satisfaction of my turmoil. He has enough stuff to get off on as it is.

  Micaden rubs his chin, frowning. “Was it? Because this”—he waves the paper—“says otherwise. Shall I read it for you?”

  “Whatever you read to me, I know exactly what happened. No need to tell me the details.” Is this his way of bringing me more humiliation? He wants to remind me how I used to crave him? He wants me to hate him more?

  He is on the right path to do it; I’ll give him that. “Is that so?” He laughs and it bounces off the walls, sending chills down my spine, but he stops quickly, anger flashing across his face as he clears his throat. “You will listen nevertheless.” He puts the cigarette in the ashtray by his foot and starts reading, each word shocking me more than the last while I shake my head in confusion and denial, not understanding any of it. “We came onto the boat where Brochan promised a surprise for me. It was all going well until he came to me on the deck and wrapped his hands around my throat, and the next thing I remembered, I was lying on the bed, chained while he took off his clothes.” He rises, the letter falling on the floor as he tugs on his shirt and it drops besides the ashtray.

  His hands travel to his belt buckle and the sound snaps me out of my shock. “What are you doing?” Although I know the answer, I pray he’ll say something else.

  But my prayers fall on deaf ears. “I remember it word for word. But don’t worry, darling. You will hear everything.” He continues without the letter, “I thought it was a joke, but he was serious. I told him to let me go, but he didn’t listen. Instead, he ripped open my dress and underwear, leaving me bare for his assault. The belt lay on the bed, as he kept it for his dark desires.” The pitch of his tone rises a little on the last words while I scoot back, but there’s nowhere to go.

  I dash to the side, recognizing his plan. He wants me to relive everything I apparently wrote, or confessed, or whatever he thinks I did, and make me experience rape.

  I won’t give up without a fight!

  But he quickly grabs my hips, flipping me onto my back, and loops the belt around my hands, tying them tightly, and when he settles between my thighs, I have no room to push him away. His hands rip the dress open, along with my bra and panties, leaving me bare for him. Revulsion and fear combine while my heart beats like crazy inside me, because I’ve never seen him so detached.

  It’s like I’m not even here with him. All his actions are practiced and methodical, like it’s not a big deal to make me suffer so much. “I screamed and begged for him to let me go, but he wouldn’t stop, and then forcefully, he pushed his mouth on mine.” He takes a beat, and then whispers above my lips, “Beg, love.”

  I shake my head, but then he slams his mouth on mine, his thumb pressing on my chin so I have no choice but to open, and immediately his tongue slides inside while I still do my best to fight him off.

  But then something changes, because instead of assault, he tenderly sweeps inside my mouth, causing me to respond, and nips softly, breathing in my scent, and I blink in confusion.

  Was it all just a game then? Had he acted in order to get me into this position?

  My body reacts to his touch, so used to his tenderness, and I answer the kiss as if the world is ending, and we are alone in it.

  Then his teeth scrape my chin and his lips slide to my neck, sucking on the skin there and leaving hickeys in his wake. My hips rise as he trails his teeth to my collarbone, biting there too, and then closes his mouth around one of my nipples, murmuring, “See the goose bumps breaking out on your skin?” His index fingers rubs them a little while he bites on my nipple and then moves lower, shouldering my thighs wide open. “That’s how they react to my touch.” Then he cups my core, and to my horror, it’s wet from desire, and he chuckles. “But that’s not what you said there, is it? No, your words were different.” He raises his eyes, and they clash with mine, when he says, “I hated his every touch and breath, and he used my body, bringing me nothing but pain. Is it pain, Emerald?” he asks, and then I feel his breath on my sensitive skin right before he puts his mouth there, sliding his tongue from my clit to my lower lips and then pushes it inside me, just giving me the tip. But it’s enough for electricity to travel through my entire body. His fingers dig into my skin, and then as quickly, he takes it away, licking up and closing his mouth around my clit, pressing it with his tongue while his finger slips inside me, spreading fire through my entire system.

  “Please don’t—” My body might react to it, but this is… this is madness.

  It’s humiliating and degrading, but he has no intention of stopping, because he removes his finger and then darts his tongue back inside, and I moan as pleasure and fear mix together to alert ever
y hair on my body.

  “And you know what came next?” he says against my skin right before he snatches his mouth away and then rises back up. “You wrote that I pushed inside you forcefully and raped you for hours. Is this what happened, my sweet?” I hear a zipper being pulled down, and that snaps me out of my haze, with reality quickly sinking in. Once again, I see his hard-as-granite face with hate-filled eyes. “Tell me, damn it. Is this what happened?” He fists my hair, bringing us closer while we breathe heavily with me completely at his mercy.

  A tear slides down my cheek, because I don’t know what to say. I have no memory of this so-called evidence, and as such, no way to defend myself or him.

  But something in him changes, because with a roar, he lets go of me, gets up, unties and uncuffes me, and then disappears behind the closed door.

  Micaden

  Roaring, I hit the door with all my power, leaving a dent, while a deep rage continues to burn in me, igniting everything inside and demanding I go back to the room and finish what I started.

  But the human part of me, the one I thought no longer existed, the Brochan part, doesn’t let me. Instead, it reins in the wild part and takes me farther away from Emerald, from her sobs that can be heard through the walls.

  Her tears should mean nothing. She’s to blame for everything that happened, and her actions have finally caught up with her.

  I plaster my hands on the table near the captain’s cabin and breathe through my nose, needing to find my iron-willed control, but I fail, because those emotions can’t be stopped.

  My fury needs blood and justice. My conscience, or what’s left of it anyway, needs peace and truth. But none of those parts is getting what it wants, so instead, my body shakes with desire to do what I truly want.

  That’s the problem though, always has been.

  Micaden hates Emerald so much he can taste the hatred on his lips and the acid forever burns his throat.

  Brochan, however, loves her so much he’s willing to do anything for her to be happy, even if it means he’s not.

  So the internal battle continues while I feed them both with their desire, not knowing anymore who I truly am.

  Because to satisfy one part, I need to squash the other.

  And I have a feeling Micaden will win, because being Brochan destroyed me.

  While Micaden allowed me to survive in the never-ending nightmare.

  Chapter Twenty

  Micaden, 22 years old

  Wincing slightly, I go outside and block the sun with my hand, as it brings nothing but a fucking headache. I adjust the bandage around my forehead a bit, barely restraining myself from snatching the stupid fucking thing off and just letting the bruises heal on their own.

  Several men wave at me since we work together during our shifts, and I acknowledge them, dropping onto the bench and opening the latest book I took from the library.

  Several inmates play basketball, or do some other shit, as long as the weather allows them to anyway. This perfect fall weather should never be missed by being inside. I see guards scanning the place, pacing back and forth with Tasers in their hands, ready to strike at any moment a fight breaks out or rules are broken.

  I hold back a bitter laugh, which wants to erupt whenever I see them. They certainly know when to look away when needed.

  I shift a little to my right side, because my ribs are still sore, but at least the proper medical attention allowed me to get better.

  After the attack that happened two months ago, Patrick demanded that I be transferred to another prison, and oddly enough, they agreed, stating it was too dangerous for me to stay in the old one. I spent one month in the hospital, where a doctor barely managed to save my life. Broken ribs, legs, arms. A concussion and burned skin as well as various knife scars from where the fucking asshole carved shit into my skin. And I had other internal injuries I don’t want to think about.

  Doctors claimed I was lucky to have survived, although there was no luck involved.

  No, it was the desire to get revenge.

  Of course, they never found the guilty party, and mysteriously the guard who had been on duty that day didn’t see anything, but they claimed he’d get his punishment.

  Please, more like everyone would divide the money between themselves.

  I’ve made a life here, although no one asks me much, and they don’t touch me, which I find weird, and I always expect someone to bring up the reason I’m here.

  Maybe this time they would kill me for good, because I had a long time before being able to stand my own in a fight.

  I flip a book on economics open, finding all the equations and explanations fascinating. Before prison, I planned to study in community college and even had some money saved up.

  One more thing to add to the pile of crushed dreams.

  A shadow looms above me, and my gaze travels up to land on a tall, old man who has several tattoos decorating his skin. He’s tanned and, despite his age, his brown eyes are bright and his body muscled.

  It doesn’t escape my notice that several people glance at us. Two guys stand behind him, acting like a wall from anyone wanting to come closer to him, and I curse inwardly.

  Sure as fuck didn’t take long for the boss of the place to come at me. “May I join you?” he asks, surprising the fuck out of me, and his voice is calm, so calm it sounds almost soothing.

  “Sure,” I reply, and he gracefully sits next to me and then looks around.

  “Nice weather.”

  This chitchat would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic. No need to prolong the inevitable thing or wait till the second shoe drops.

  “Brochan,” I say instead, and his brows furrow, so I elaborate. “My name is Brochan, the new guy. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? And yeah, I got here because a girl accused me of rape and they found me guilty.” I expect him to get up or bark orders or promise me all kinds of hell.

  He does none of those things, but instead nods and rests his arm behind me on the bench, gazing at the basketball court. After a beat of silence, his question catches me off guard. “Did you do it?”

  In all the months following the trial, no one ever asked me this question except during my trial, but even then, it was merely a formality. Those few who were on my side never questioned me, but more likely they were afraid of my answer. The majority of the people just accused me of it and cursed me to hell and back, proclaiming that people like me deserved to die in prison.

  Some even wondered if she was my first victim, and who knew what other shit I was into. I heard from Tom that they wanted to implement some new law in town to protect girls from the likes of me.

  Clearing my throat, I firmly say, “No.” Not that it’s enough or anything, because it’s only my one word against all the evidence.

  But he surprises me for the second time, because he gives me a sad smile and speaks the words that mean the world to me. “I believe you.”

  And just like that, I find a mentor who will make this life a little less unbearable but who will also teach me how to be strong when you get nothing but shit from the world.

  Fox Daniels will forever change my life. But as I sit on the bench with relief flooding my system, because this stranger doesn’t disturb my peace, I have no idea just how much.

  Because he will give me a new identity.

  He will give me Micaden.

  ***Two Years Later***

  My feet slap against the concrete and my raspy breath accompanies the rhythm as music blasts from the speakers. I continue to run all over the prison yard, welcoming the winter breeze that hits me right in the face and gives me respite from all the humid air inside the prison.

  Life here certainly has perks if you mingle with the guy who rules this place.

  After that fateful day, Fox took me under his wing and acted as if I was his son.

  He had close connections with guards, which allowed him to have nicer things, like the fucking headphones in my ears right now. He also supplied me with ne
w books on economics and finance, giving me advice and talking with me for hours about various business models.

  In the morning and evening, he was adamant about building my muscles and dealing with my anger issues, teaching me how to give proper hits and blows that the enemy might not expect. How can one small dig of the finger be more effective than an entire punch?

  Fox spoke about his journey from a little boy to a motorcycle club president and how a man he once considered a friend betrayed him, killing his entire family and landing him in jail.

  But he never regretted anything, never cursed or so much as raised his voice at anyone. People followed him and never went against him, because they respected him, not because he inspired fear.

  I’m so much in my head that it takes me a moment to register someone calling my name, but I finally do and stop abruptly, hooking my ear bud around my neck, and breathing heavily before taking the bottle of water from Cruz who’s jogged toward me. “Thanks, man.” He has been by Fox’s side all this time, and although the silent guy never shared much about his past, I predict it wasn’t pretty.

  That being said, he was convicted of mass murder… so yeah. “Fox wants to talk to you.” The bottle pauses midair, and my brow rises but he shrugs. “He requested you meet him there.” He points at the secluded bench far away from anyone else, where Fox sits, an open book in his lap.

  Probably Shakespeare, one of his favorites to read. “Sure.” The request is unusual, because Fox never lets anyone interfere with my workout, claiming that muscles need to be used every day.

  I quickly run to him and drop onto the bench. He winces, adjusting his glasses, and still he doesn’t take his eyes away from the poetry or tragedy or comedy or whatever the fuck it’s called. He’s tried to educate me on literature, but I didn’t give enough fucks to learn. Maybe because the arts are forever associated in my head with her. “Hey, what’s up?”