Quod Me Nutrit Me Destruit: That Which Destroys Me with The Alternate Ending

by Kimber S. Dawn

  Once I get to the front door, I swing it open before throwing her ass out by her hair with every ounce of strength I possess. After her naked body slams into the elevator doors, I toss the handful of clothes at her.

  “If I ever see your ugly goddamn face again, bitch, it’ll be the last time anyone else ever does!” I slam the door shut, lock it and head into the library where I pour a scotch, slam it back, then repeat.

  I sigh grabbing the bottle before sinking into my couch and muttering, “Fuck the glass.”

  And yes, I’m still stark naked.

  Leaning my head back, my eyes trace the intricate detail carved into the molding of the ceiling when suddenly, my mouth starts voicing the thoughts plaguing my mind, “What the fuck have I done? What in the FUCK have I done?”

  Okay, I gotta calm the hell down.

  Think. Last night -I force my mind to return to the unwanted snippets of last night and flip through trying to piece together what I can.

  I was at Molly’s with Jude. I read his outline. But, other than remembering it was good, I can’t fucking remember anything else!

  No! Shit, I was… I WAS with Stella last night. Wait. Wasn’t I?

  I remember my eyes tracing her spine, the slope of her back. I remember sliding my hand from her ass to her hair. But when my fingers sank into it, it didn’t feel fine and silky like Stell’s hair, no, it felt dry and course like…Rachel’s.

  “Oh my fucking God! I did! Shit!” I kept telling myself there had to be an explanation, that somehow, no matter what it looked like, there was a rational reason for why I was in bed with Rachel and neither one of us had on a stitch of clothing! “Oh my FUCK! What have I done?!?!”

  You’ve royally fucked yourself. That’s what you’ve done, you stupid motherfucker!

  I sit there trying to understand how I got from Molly’s to my place with Rachel for I don’t know how long. Long enough for me to polish off the fifth of scotch and talk my drunk ass into getting up and heading towards my office…for more scotch.

  Hell yes, I’m sorry, but I fully intend on drinking until I can’t feel the agony and torment caused by the look on Stell’s face before she rushed out of my life, taking every good thing left of me with her.

  Stumbling-slash-staggering my way from the library towards my office, my foot slips on something in the hall. Immediately I throw both arms out gripping the walls on either side to catch myself. Using both hands to brace me, I shake my head trying to clear my thoughts. When I open my eyes, I see trash - wadded up paper on the floor. I snatch them up from the floor and after scanning the first few words, I realize they’re from Stell’s file. Confusion sinks, weighing even heavier on my drunken mind.

  Why would I wad that shit up? And why in the hell would I bring it from my office? It doesn’t make any sense. None.

  The first thing my eyes see are both of Stell’s files wide open on my desk with more of the pages wadded up and scattered across the floor.

  “The fuck?” I glance at a trash bag lying on the floor in front of my desk with broken scotch bottles spilling out. Then my confusion shifts from bearing weight to a noose tightening around my neck.

  I would give almost anything to remember, or understand, what happened last night.

  I flatten out the pages using the edge of my desk and start sorting them out. Half of the first file is missing and I honestly don’t know how much of the second file is because—Fucking page numbers!

  After I piece the second file back together, somewhat like the game Memory, I conclude that I’ve lost a little less than half of both files combined.

  “This is such bullshit! And none of this makes ANY fucking sense!” Fury, confusion, and anguish are tearing through me like a goddamn hurricane. “GAHHHH!!” I leap from my chair causing it to smash into the book shelf behind my desk, sending books, decorative globes and bookends crashing to the floor. I begin assaulting the sheet rock of my office wall, pummeling it with my fists, while splitting the skin covering my knuckles; but I still keep hammering the goddamn wall as rage swells and swells inside, spilling over from my mind and onto my heart. I smash the wall until my fist goes all the way through it.

  When I try to yank it back through, I realize my fucking fist is stuck and I yank; once, twice—thankfully on the third yank it, and chunks of sheet rock, come out flying out.

  I grab my chair up, setting it right and slump into it. I pull open my desk drawer and grab the half empty fifth, chugging it back until I need a breath. Then I set it on my desk and allow my eyes to scan what’s left of Stella’s files.

  Concentrating on what I’m doing becomes utterly impossible the more I drink; but I can’t stop drinking until I forget Stella’s face frozen in horror.

  So I continue to hit the bottle… Until, finally, I face-plant onto my desk and pass the fuck out.

  I’m not sure what time it is when I wake up. I do know it’s dark outside. After I’ve cleaned my office of the trash, sheet rock and shredded, sopping wet files, (I may have knocked a bottle of scotch over) I place a call to the building maintenance manager and explain that my penthouse needs a little tape and float, and possibly some paint.

  When I get to my bedroom door, I find more wadded paper littered on the floor from outside my bedroom to just over the threshold… Exactly where Stella stood looking at me like I’d just rammed a blade into her stomach. The memory of the blood draining from her face flips the switch and suddenly the puzzle pieces click into place.

  OhmyfuckingGod! She found the files. She found the files, then busted into my room to confront me. SHIT! What the fuck did she say? Something about men… Of all the men? Goddammit! What was it?

  Her words rush me, each syllable of each word a dagger to my heart. “Of every fucking man to ever fucking destroy me, you’re the one I won’t live through! You fucking knew all along you motherfucker!”

  Like a loop, or a scratched vinyl record, playing over and over in my mind, “You fucking knew all along you motherfucker!”

  That’s… I couldn’t be more fucked. I lost her. I knew I’d lost her when I saw Rachel in my goddamn bed. Even when I thought there was no way in hell I’d cheat on my angel, there was an explanation. I knew then, I’d lost her. And now, when I can’t even lie to myself, now knowing I fucked Rachel, and Stell charged my room knowing I knew about her past all along, only to find me in bed with Rachel?

  This is it. This is the end of everything. I’ve lost my angel.

  I’ve lost everything which ever mattered.

  But what I can’t stand to bear, what cripples me the most, is as soon as I realize I’ve lost her forever, I realize that I have always loved her, from the moment she walked into my office for the first time with her head high, her shoulders back, like she owned everything and everyone around her.

  And she did. She owned me in that moment, and every moment after.

  Chapter 39

  Breaking Beauty

  I will kill her.

  It’s obvious that my Beauty died days ago.

  It’s obvious that I’m ramming my cock into a woman who has checked out - mentally, physically, and emotionally.

  And it infuriates me. Ever since I sat atop our school and watched as the ambulance carried her away, I have dreamed of being not only the reason for her screams but the hand that delivers the agony behind them. The thought alone swelled my cock until it ached. Only now…She won’t even scream! Cry! Nothing! “Fuck!”

  My flaccid cock slips from her.

  Tracing the curve of her neck from her chin to the tops of her breasts with my eyes, I wonder, “Do you remember the cover photos you chose for ‘Twisted Obsession’? How does it make you feel knowing I’ve raped you as both now? Knowing I’ve defiled you as both the epitome of his ‘Obsession’ as well as the fractured silent woman portraying his ‘Twisted Obsession’?”

  My fingers slowly wrap around the taped end of barbwire dried in her blood and old pieces of flesh before lashing it across the front of her body ca
using a new split in her skin from her lips to her cunt. “Knowing I’m the one responsible for carving you into… How did you word it? Oh yes, ‘someone in the midst of a silent scream to stop their fracturing sanity. ’ I know, it probably would have been more fitting had I used broken stained glass to flay your skin from your bones.” I sigh briefly wondering where I might obtain stained glass and glance back down at my hideous Beauty. Disappointment and repulsion flood through me.

  “You broke much sooner than I ever gave you credit for, Beauty. I find it difficult to wrap my mind around how quickly you shattered.” I walk around the table she’s lying on to stand over her head and put myself in her line of vision, gripping her face with my fingertips I whisper into her ear, “Easy or difficult, nothing will ever be as precious and sacred as destroying you, Stella.”

  When her eyes of every color clear and flutter then lock on mine, delight and excitement surge through my veins.

  My usually worthless cock stiffens as I watch her slowly trying to sit up and other than wincing, her eyes never leave mine. My adoration of her swells as she sits up and turns her broken and bloodied body towards me, hanging her battered legs over the edge of the table. I moan when her bloody delicate hands cup my face. Our eyes remain locked. I know I’m bewitched, entranced.

  I lean into her like a moth to a flame and as our lips brush, she whispers in a dry tone with her cracked voice, “Preston Stone, you could never be man enough to cause my destruction. Your worthlessness and pitifulness alone steal your ability to ever break me. I hate, no, no, no, no, no, I love to be the one to tell you this, Preston - Wesley Jacobs destroyed me, shattered me, cracked my sanity and left me ruined long before you ever laid a finger on me. You’ve been raping and paring the skin from nothing more than a void where Stella Reese used to exist.”

  She blinks as her hands slip from my face then turns, pulling her legs up onto the table before lying back down. Her head lolls to the side and she resumes blankly staring at the wall behind me.

  Rage, as red as her blood, floods my vision.

  CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

  Did you know when your sanity completely separates from your consciousness, it creates a sound?

  Beauty’s words unleash the rutting demons who’ve been crawling and scratching just beneath my surface. Their fingertips brush the chain links before grabbing the electrical tape and taping the sharp new strips of barbwire and chain together.

  After they’ve constructed a new apparatus for torture they continue where I left off; raining down strike after strike, slash after slash.

  Standing on the outside looking in, I witness my brittle sanity separating from my consciousness - listening to the unmistakable sound it creates with every break. And it amuses me at how much it echoes the sound of the chain and barbwire splitting the surface of my already broken Beauty’s skin.

  Hell bent little demons seeking the pleasure of her warm wet blood splattering across their face.

  Hell bent little demons seeking the thrill of breaking.

  Unlike me, the hell bent little demons are unable to distinguish between the breaking of Beauty’s bones and skin, and the breaking of Beauty alone.

  When the obtuse hell bent little demons discern her skin has been as broken as it can be, they thrill at the sight of the sledgehammer.

  Before grasping it, swinging it, and bringing it down to thud, cracking my Beauty’s knees.

  And I succumb to my new role as nothing more than a semi amused spectator by virtue of being robbed of my life long retribution of breaking my Beauty.

  Chapter 40

  The Quiet Little Boy in the Shadows

  The motivation behind my actions and words to Preston came from where? I’ll never know. And the flicker of desire to consider the conundrum burns out as quickly as it sparked.

  I numbly – silently - lay there as Preston, the quiet little boy who always hid in the shadows, tirelessly continues shredding my skin into ribbons.

  I’m sure you expect me to be grateful for the numbness, and I would be…but I’m numb. Every lash goes utterly unfelt. Unfelt physically and unfelt emotionally.

  When Preston grasped my face with his bruising fingertips and cheerfully exclaimed, “Easy or difficult, nothing will ever be as precious and sacred as destroying you, Stella,” it ripped me from my numb trance, blazing agony across every nerve ending, and pain unlike anything ever conceived by rational thought completely consumed me.

  How I was able to squelch the screams tearing their way through my throat, sit up, deliver my reply and lay back down? I’ll never know.

  I can, however, easily recite the definition that every shrink, counselor, and therapist repeated during every session, over and over, throughout my life: Compartmentalization is an unconscious psychological defense mechanism used to avoid cognitive dissonance, or the mental discomfort and anxiety caused by a person's having conflicting values, cognitions, emotions, beliefs, OR HAVING TO ENDURE TORTURE, within themselves. Yeah, I may have added to it a bit.

  Now, I’m no doctor, but I’m willing to place a bet on either compartmentalization being somewhat held responsible, or I’m finally actually at the brink of death. The latter being preferred, if I were able to crave or yearn…if I were able to hope.

  Instead, I numbly and silently lay here as Preston, the quiet little boy with blue eyes so dull they looked silver, whales across my knees and thighs with a sledgehammer, splintering bone after bone with every swing. And I continue to stare at the rust stain running from the ceiling to the floor, watching the water slowly trickle down, drip after drop, remembering the quiet little boy from my past.

  “Hey, Jeff, has he always been like that?” I ask jumping from the tire swing when I spot Preston.

  “Huh? W-W-Who b-b-been l-l-like what?” He stutters.

  “Jeff, calm down, breathe buddy, it’s okay. It’s just me and you.” Smiling at Jeff, I turn away with Preston at my back and my body obscuring his view I motion with my thumb for Jeff to look behind me. "Preston, see him up on the roof? Why is he always trying to hide, I wonder?"

  “Oh, I-I d-don’t know. H-he’s always been that way.” Jeff takes the stick from my hand and starts poking at an anthill.

  I sit beside him and grab another stick, poking the anthill with him. “I feel sorry for him. I wonder what his parents did to make him so sad.” I rest my chin on top of my knees, still poking the anthill.

  “S-Stella I don’t think he’s s-sad. H-he’s really really really m-mad. Don’t t-tell n-nobody, b-but I-I’m s-s-scared of h-him.”

  I look up at Jeff, “Scared of him? Why? That’s dumb.”

  “I-It’s j-just that one t-time, on m-my way h-home, I t-took a s-short c-c-cut through the woods, a-and I-I s-s-saw…” He shudders and clenches his eyes shut before finishing, “…H-H-He h-h-had a knife, a-a-a-nd w-w-was c-c-cutting up a-a, s-s-some kind o-of a-a-animal.” He shudders again before gagging.

  “Really? Nuh uh! You’re so full of it, Jeff.” I playfully shove his shoulder.

  “S-Stells, I’m n-n-not l-lying! I s-s-saw him!”

  “Okay! Okay! Sheesh, Jeff chill out.”

  I never did believe Jeff, though.

  Every time I saw Preston, he either looked like the saddest boy I ever saw or like he was in terrible pain. And I always felt so bad for him - when I remembered him - and I only remembered him when I saw him. Which was pretty rare.

  Now, as the quiet little boy from my past raises the bloody sledgehammer over his head while standing over mine - his deranged silver eyes jump from my left eye to my right eye - I feel absolutely nothing for him at all; even as I watch him swing it back over his head, bringing it down, down, down, I feel nothing for anything except numbness.

  And when the head of the bloody sledgehammer smashes into my face, finally, blessedly ending my life, I feel peace.

  Chapter 41

  Missing Angel

  It’s been a week since Stella left me alone in the depths of Hell. A we
ek. Seven days. A hundred and sixty eight hours - of pure torturous hell. I’ve lost motivation to do anything. I’ve lost desire for everything—other than scotch. Mostly, I’ve lost hope of ever having contentment or happiness again in my life.

  The only explanation for my actions last Saturday night that I can conceive is someone drugged me. At first, I blamed Rachel; but I had to discredit that line of assumptions because I don’t remember seeing Rachel until Sunday morning.

  I looked at Jude, stacking blame on him was incredibly tempting, because I hate the motherfucker. But hating him doesn’t fall in line with explaining why the hell the cocky bastard would drug me. I didn’t wake up in bed with him, a date rape victim. I am left with nothing. My current state of misery is the product of some ass hat drugging the wrong persons fucking drink.

  Goddamn drink drugger. I hate my life has been severely altered and I have no idea who the culprit is. I am left looking at every single person who walks by, wondering if they are responsible.

  I tried to go to work on Monday and Tuesday, but ended up unable to function and going back home. I worked the rest of the week from home, conferring with Barby over the phone and telling her to tell everyone else I’m ill and I said to go fuck themselves. Barby being the good, proper girl she is, only relayed the first half of my message.

  Monday morning has arrived and I’m pulling into the parking garage of the JPH building, I pull into my reserved spot parking my R8, grabbing my espresso, and step from the car.