by Elena Monroe
Rolling her hips on my lap at a faster pace, she laced her fingers in mine, using me to balance, “I want it all, Bowey. Please.” Eve was needy and greedy in a way that made me feel permanently marked by her.
“Say you’re only mine, Eve.”
Leaning into me, her fingers holding mine in her tight grasp, she whispered in my ear, “I’m only yours. I always have been, Bowey.” With her confession, I felt every tense muscle dissolve with an emptying orgasm as she stilled on top of me. Breathing heavily, I trailed kisses up her neck, watching her crumble into exhaustion.
That was all I truly needed to replace my wounds with butterflies.
Picking her up in my arms, I carried her to bed and made sure she had most of the blankets the way she always seemed to steal anyways. Sitting beside her, I watched her fall asleep before I left to search for hidden libations.
Wounds heal.
Forgiving is another story.
I don’t forgive the people who hurt her, and those parts needed to be dried out before they consumed me.
BOWEN
Island
Age 14
My life was all turned upside down and my parents expected me to get over it on their time frame.
I was still shaken so hard I felt dizzy by losing Eve, and not long after my twin brother Braeden stopped seeing the point in living when he jumped off the cliffs into the shallow part of the water where the rocks were as sharp as swords.
Nothing to dull them down.
Nothing to break his fall.
Nothing to comfort him.
We never saw eye to eye, fuck, we barely knew each other. All we knew was how much I was labeled the good twin and he was labeled the bad.
Neither of us asked to feel like halves, neither of us leaned into their assumptions and no one questioned why he took a running start off the cliffs he knew were a death sentence.
I had lost the two people who I felt any attachment to and all it did was drive a wedge between me and my old life.
Instead of comforts, I had trauma.
Instead of people, I had demons.
Instead of just being a half of two people I absorbed him and acted out like he was still here. I would move between being myself and Braeden until I couldn’t go back to myself. Until things changed.
I thought my parents were mourning and needed to get rid of me because my face looked just like his. Every time I passed by a shiny surface, I was reminded how much I look like him. There was no escaping him.
I wanted to rip my own face off. I wanted to pick fights and lose on purpose so my bones would be so deformed, and I would no longer resemble him.
The fighting, the skipping classes, the amount of warnings Patmos gave me were all more than enough to make my parents send me to the same place Braeden went every summer. Each time he returned he seemed less abrasive, at least for a little while, until the good behavior wore off.
I never questioned it.
I had been here for two days, and I wasn’t allowed to leave my bungalow. They delivered food, water, snacks and I had all the other first world amenities you could desire so it was a weird prison to navigate.
I didn’t feel trapped or persuaded to behave better. I even said out loud: Braeden couldn’t survive without Wi-Fi, seriously?
That was before my fourth night of captivity, and before a priest made his way into my room, sitting at the end of my bed and the silence swelled between us. Our elite families went to mass every Sunday, so seeing a priest and confessing your sins wasn’t abnormal. Seeing a priest in pajamas? A little weird.
I forced myself to focus on my heavy ring on my left-hand ring finger, it belonged to Braeden and he never took it off. A gold signet ring with a gold snake and the Clave symbol.
Twisting the ring on my finger I waited for him to drag me to a come to Jesus moment, make me confess my sins and set me straight. I was cataloging all my sins into priorities when his hand landed on the bare skin right above my knee where my shorts rode up.
All my attention was pointed right at him when he laughed at my pale, lifeless face. “It’s summer vacation, you aren’t supposed to be locked in your room.”
Wasn’t supposed to be, yet the door was locked from the outside every time I twisted it.
Reaching from behind his back, like a magic trick, he revealed a bottle of brown liquor. I was a teenager hell-bent on acting like Braeden and alcohol was the only kind of trouble I hadn’t found yet. None of my Father from church back home popping his eyebrows and encouraging me to give it a try felt quite right.
A slithering feeling sunk into my soul of how a snake might gracefully tangle itself in your limbs, getting you right where it wants you before the immobility starts to torment your body. I could feel every part of me go into survival mode before I understood what was happening.
Father stood, snagging two glasses, twisting the top off and pouring way more than a taste into the heavy glass. “I heard your parents are giving you a hard time… You’ve been through so much. Losing Braeden was hard for me too.”
The bitter alcohol made my face pinch, and suddenly this damn island provided the comforts I lost so long ago. I could see it in Father’s eyes that he missed him too, and that was enough for me to feel safe again—feel validated and heard.
The slithering feeling crawled up to my throat when he poured me another glass, and the room got hot enough for me to start sweating even with the cold air pumping on high. Pulling off my shirt, I felt my head fall back with the spins against my pillows. “I’m so tired,” my mouth muttered into the air but mostly into the pillow.
I felt Father’s body get closer, but my eyes were too heavy to open when his hot breath blew me. “You look just like him… he was so good to me, are you going to be good for me too?”
I shook my head, trying to figure out what his words meant—if he meant God or something else.
Braeden wasn’t good for anyone, so what was he talking about? He carried a razor-sharp tongue, a burning hatred for the world, a kind of cruelty that left stains and scars.
All I felt was a warm tongue licking the shell of my ear, and my body was too heavy to move. Even if I could, I wondered how far I would make it with my head so dizzy I felt like throwing up.
I thought this was the worst of it, my punishment for being horrid in the face of more loss than grown adults. I thought to myself that if I survive tonight, I would be reborn, saved, forgiven…
The tightness in my jaw felt welded shut when I felt his hand snake into my shorts and wrap around parts of me that I claimed as Eve’s.
She was the only girl I felt anything for, and now the snake in the grass was tightening around me with so much force I felt all of me dry up. In this moment, everything went numb and lifeless. I felt dead in ways that explained Braeden’s bad choices and choice words. I understood every rebellion in this one violating touch.
Swearing? Drinking? Hating everyone? Fighting? None of it mattered, because he died the second someone so unholy whispered he was good for him.
Braeden died long before the cliff, and no one saw it.
The bed squeaked against the force Father used, his hands burning my hips and my teeth clenched so hard I felt my gums begging to bleed. Every tear that hit the pillow was the old me seeping out, crushed under the pressure of him, while he fucked me right into dying the same way Braeden did.
My behavior never changed, only got worse and my parents had no choice but to ditch me on the island to sort it out. After a while, your mind turns it off, but that’s the problem—your body doesn’t forget, and as much as it didn’t forget, I wasn’t going to forgive.
Waking up from the memories I pried open by demanding Eve hit me to replace the pain with her had me flying to the bathroom. I could feel the tension pounding in my head from finishing whatever bottles she left unharmed in our fight.
I was hungover: from Hennessy and Eve combined. It fucking sucked worse than a normal hangover—not that I would know. I’m a se
rial drunk who had somehow laid off liquor enough to be completely slapped in the face by it this morning.
Standing over the toilet, I berated myself for the heaving I was doing with my hands on my knees. I eat anxiety for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, so how was Eve causing my body to revolt?
Oh right, her stepbrother raped her for years when I paid for her virginity. And how did I intend on fixing our wounds? Violent sex wrapped in morning guilt.
Once the heaving stopped, I stood up trying to regain my balance and recover at the same time. It was posing to be a problem when I moved to the sink. Palming a handful of water, I drank it down before my eyes caught my reflection.
I had bruises, hickies, scratch marks, and dried blood on the corner of my lip.
The guilt weighed down on my shoulders more seeing the marks. We loved marking each other, but this was something different, not our usual love bites. Scrubbing my face with my wet hand, I tried to get it together, but our sex was only a distraction from the truth.
Elias hurt Eve in ways my mind couldn’t comprehend, and all my hands itched to do was be around his neck. I couldn’t just give into the desire without a plan. Until then, I had to drown out the memory with the one thing Eve made sure to destroy: alcohol.
Turning back into my room, I stopped to watch Eve twist against the blankets, her entire body on display and the covers simply tangled between her legs while draping over her breasts. She was beautiful and equally covered in marks. I winced seeing the bruises peppering her hip when I convinced myself maybe I was too broken for her.
Maybe we were only bound to hurt more together.
Maybe slaying each other’s demons only makes ten more spawn in their place.
She stirred, light moans leaving her lips as her hand reached for me when I wasn’t beside her. The action yanked at my heartstrings, but I knew I couldn’t be anything but callous until Elias was taken care of. Leaning down into her, I placed a single kiss on her cheek and whispered, “I’ll be back. Sleep.”
Sneaking into my closet, I got dressed quickly. It wasn't really hard when everything in my wardrobe was similar to the shit right next to it. All button downs and simple shirts, skinny black jeans and plaid pants, boots lining the floor. All dark colors.
Buttoning only three buttons, I just needed it to cover any and all scars for my trip to pick up more alcohol after my considerate wife was trying to make our home a dry one.
Jogging down the stairs, I pushed my arms through my double breasted peacoat and realized I was leaving Eve alone. I didn’t know if she would panic or even remember hearing me whisper in her ear, and that was creating a soreness where the bruises weren’t left behind.
Stopping myself, I found paper and a marker to write her a note and left it on the kitchen counter where she would be sure to find the white tented piece of paper.
Closing the door behind me, I made sure to jiggle the handle to confirm it was locked before I headed for my car. As soon as I sat down behind the wheel, my phone in my lap went off, buzzing against my thigh. Smiling to myself, I expected it to be from Eve. She would be the one person in the world to sense my disappearance.
The buzzing was simply a notification on my calendar.
Reminder: 7 days till the anniversary of Braeden’s death. Keep it together, asshole...
EVE
I woke up alone with the blankets I normally selfishly stole clinging to my skin like a thread instead of coddling me the way Bowen didn’t subscribe to.
Patting the bed next to me, I was searching for Bowen when I came up empty and cold. The space next to me wasn’t even warm anymore which meant he had been absent for longer than my body realized.
When I sat up, I felt the soreness hit me like a mac truck when I examined the bruises around my joints: ankles, wrists, hips, and probably others in places I couldn’t see from this vantage point. Last night I broke the news to Bowen that we did match after my brain had buried the trauma somewhere I couldn’t even find it because Denmark was hard enough to survive on its own.
I broke the news and he had to control himself from breaking everything around him, me included.
Now I was a prime example of how thin the lines between restraint and neglect are. Both of us neglected our trauma, and now restraint was pretty much unattainable.
Reaching for my robe, I felt the brutal agony of what we did last night between my legs. I was barely used to Bowen before he turned into a weapon assaulting purity.
Tying it tightly, I grabbed my phone and read the time, it was later than normal. I chalked up his absence to going to work despite telling the guys he wouldn’t be in for an undisclosed amount of time. I couldn’t even see him taking a sick day or even missing work because of his beloved avoidance in the shape of a forty ounce.
Wandering downstairs, I took the long way around the kitchen with a stupidly permanent smile lighting up my features. It was stupid to want to match something so ugly, yet I wanted nothing more than to be his equal even in pain.
My stomach clenched and I felt an unfamiliar feeling that felt like torture when I brought my hand to my stomach to soothe it.
Hunger.
I was hungry for the first time in years. I was starved and finally giving in.
There is something freeing about speaking your demons out loud.
In religion, when someone is demonically possessed, the demon will hide its name in an attempt to kill time, digging its claws deeper. The priest will collect clues until they find the name of the demon, doing the possessing and ultimately rendering it powerless when its name is spoken out loud.
Had I exercised myself by remembering? By telling Bowey?
Passing on coffee, I opened the fridge and found nothing of interest when I pulled my phone off the counter to find something to order. I hadn’t enjoyed food in years, and I wanted my first real meal to be epic.
While my phone was in my hands, I looked for a text from Bowen when I came up empty. The only messages I had were continuing conversations that spanned days with CeCe and Grace.
I felt light in ways I couldn’t explain. I matched with my Bowey, and I stopped holding hands with my demons the minute I could hold his hand instead.
Letting music blare from my phone, I finally let go and accepted my happy ending that I survived every hardship for. Dancing around the kitchen, I let the upbeat music not match the lyrics about troubled souls.
My letting loose was cut short when the doorbell rang through the house. My stomach came alive again as I swayed my hips all the way there.
I wanted to scream I’m back bitches! Demon-free and pretty kick ass.
Prying the heavy door open, my phone dropped from my grasp when it wasn’t the Grub Hub driver dropping off my juicy burger and fries.
Elias.
His eyes were dark, posture nearly perfect even at his height, and his hands were in his pockets, but I knew better when he pushed out my In-N-Out bag towards me.
Just because you look tough doesn’t mean you are.
“What are you doing here?” I knew better than to assume the boxing tips would be applied perfectly to help me in this situation as the bag hit the floor, fries sprinkling the dark wood as he charged the small space between us.
I felt his eyes glide over me when his hand grabbed my mine, pulling my arm to inspect between us when he pointed out my bruises. “He’s hurting you?”
Elias was deception at its greatest. He could mimic every feeling and you wouldn’t know the truth from a lie by the end of his demonstration.
Yanking my wrist from his grasp, his hand only tightened. “Elias, please.” His fingers were wrapped around my arm so firmly I swore I felt the muscle melting down to nothing.
He wanted to control me in ways that would make me his.
I didn’t belong to anyone but Bowey and that killed him.
Wrapping his arms around me from behind, I struggled against his tight grasp, but it only made the satin of my robe fall open even more.
His lips touched my ear in a hot exhale that made me cringe. “What do you think you’re wearing? My angel doesn’t dress like this.”
Elias liked to pick apart my every decision, every move, every fabric that touched my skin like he was the all-seeing eye, and I had no say. His old habits fell right back into place like I wasn’t married, or this wasn’t LA but Denmark.
“It’s for Bowey not you... Why are you here, Elias? You’re hurting me.” I fought against his grip on my arm when he used his strength to throw me around like a ragdoll.
Pushing me against the wall, he forced my cheek against the cold wallpaper. His chest pinned me in place, and I felt his hand trail up the back of my thigh under the unsubtle satin of my robe.
None of it was intended for his eyes, but he was going to enjoy me regardless. “All these bruises, just like Denmark. He doesn’t like your mouth either unless it’s busy?”
Pig.
After remembering what he did to me in Denmark, I realized that I was completely healthy before that. I was unhappy and depressed, but my body wasn’t frail the way I was now. The only reason I had these bruises was because I stopped eating, and when I had to, I forced myself to stick my fingers down my throat far enough to make me regret eating at all.
It was my own subconscious defense—to stop my period from coming all together. If I didn’t have a period, then I wouldn’t have to drink the tea and live through that nightmare over and over.
Struggling under his grip, I needed to make this stop. He had to listen to me. “Elias. Please, stop. I’m Bowen’s now. You… you need to leave.” I said it like I believed it was true when we both knew if it came down to it Bowen would choose a bottle of Hennessy over me because his demons didn’t just hold his hands—they held a firm grasp around his throat.
Elias dragged his hand up my skin, pushing the robe up enough to expose my bare ass when his body pressed further into me with so much motivation it was hard to think straight.