All The Lies

by Kent, Rina

  The ground is so far away. If the ropes fail, my skull will be crushed to pieces. There are no people in sight.

  I’m going to fall.

  I’m going to die.

  No.

  Not now. I didn’t survive this long to die now.

  Panic won’t help me. Not at all. I grip the rope with both hands and drag my unsteady leg on the solid edge.

  The pole creaks behind me. The ropes loosen, moving me farther out.

  I lose my footing and scream. My nails dig into the rope and I hold on to it with all my might.

  My fingers scrape, and a hot liquid trickles from underneath my nails.

  Air suffocates me and I can’t breathe. For a moment, I let that gloomy cloud take over my mind.

  Why don’t you let the rope drop you?

  Why don’t you die?

  I shake my head furiously, inhaling shaky breaths.

  In my dream, I made a promise to that female voice not to die.

  Slowly, I inch my leg to the edge, clenching the rope in a death grip. The material scratches against my bloody nails.

  My senses heighten and every little sound registers in my ears: the squeaking of the shaky pole, the desperate drag of my leg to the solid edge, the roaring pulse of my heartbeat.

  I attempt to sit down. My leg nearly slips, and the ropes tighten around my wrists. I stop, sucking in a shaky breath.

  Carefully, I stand back up with one of my legs suspended in the air.

  This is it. I have to rip it off like a Band-Aid.

  Inhaling deeply, I claw at the rope with my nails and push myself back.

  The loud squeak of the pole registers first.

  Then the loosening of the rope.

  Tears fill my eyes as my entire body leans downward, toward my imminent fall.

  I’m so sorry I couldn’t keep my promise.

  I’m so sorry.

  A brute force pulls me back by the rope. My body jerks to the edge and the bindings tighten around my wrists due to the power.

  I topple over and fall into a solid embrace.

  Cold, but also warm.

  Hard, but also safe.

  My heart, which was ready to die a second ago, resurrects back to life with a shocking force.

  I gasp for air as if I haven’t been breathing for days or months.

  The need to cry hits me like a hurricane. I’m caught in the eye of the storm, begging for some sort of release.

  Blinking away the tears, I stare up at my savior, the one whose arms surround me like a cage.

  He has the most beautiful eyes, my savior. Green like a dark forest, but also like a tropical sea during a storm.

  He’s a dream and a nightmare, my savior, like darkness and light.

  He’s Asher.

  She looks her best when she’s hanging by a rope. Bound and exposed.

  Stripped bare.

  I admire my handiwork: the knot around her wrists, the duct tape on her mouth.

  My dick becomes hard thinking about fucking her in that position.

  Will she cry? Will she beg?

  My dick has to wait, though.

  Reina Ellis’ nightmare is far from over.

  The following day, I don’t go to class.

  I don’t know how I got back to the house last night. I vaguely remember Asher carrying me, and that’s it.

  He asked me who did it, but I found no words. If I’d said anything, I would’ve let the tears loose. I chose silence instead.

  Silence is safe sometimes.

  Silence is also when the gloomy cloud strikes. You can feel it, you know, those thoughts occupying your mind and refusing to come out.

  Thoughts like last night’s.

  I felt that yearning to fall and end it all—but Asher stopped it. He…breathed life into me again—against my will.

  I didn’t know how much I needed life until my heart kicked into gear, its beat filling my whole being.

  It was almost as if it screamed at me to stay alive.

  To ignore the gloomy cloud.

  So today, I decided to do just that. The pull to remain in bed all day grips me like a vengeful ghost, but I manage to push the covers off and stand, to shower and freshen up.

  The only thing I can’t do is look at myself in the mirror.

  Baby steps.

  I come down the stairs around ten. I stop in the vast living area with all its flawless marble and sweeping staircase. For some reason, it feels vacant and so…wrong.

  Wrong place. Wrong life.

  Those thoughts from when I first woke up at the hospital assault me again.

  I flop down on a chesterfield sofa. The need to lie down and sleep surrounds me like a lullaby, but I don’t surrender to it.

  A disaster happened the last time I did that.

  Who would do that to me and why?

  If I want to find answers, I need to know more about myself.

  I pull out my phone and google my name. Several pictures come up, in cheerleading uniforms, at fundraisers alongside Alex, and at parties.

  The smile on my face is so sickening and fake. I hate that smile. It’s not me.

  There are a few articles about my disappearance for a month when I was twelve, some speculate there was a kidnapping. Others say, it was a runaway case. The picture where I was shot as Dad held me showed me in dirty clothes, my hair in a disarray and my face blank –so blank it’s frightening.

  I run my fingers over the picture. “What happened to you back then?”

  Dad’s name appears as a related search: Gareth Ellis. I googled him before and spent hours looking at his pictures. They always brought me a sense of safety and calm.

  Gareth Ellis was a tall, fit man like Alex. He has that all-American look with blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a squarish jawline. He always wore English-cut suits like he was born in one.

  I run my fingers along his face, feeling the pressure building behind my eyes.

  Miss you, Papa.

  According to his Wikipedia page, Dad was a bachelor his entire life. There isn’t a single picture of his wife—my mother—anywhere. No matter how much I dig, I only come up with gossip articles speculating that my mother could be a whore my dad impregnated.

  My nose scrunches. From what I’ve gathered about Dad so far, he was never caught in a scandal about women. In an article, he told them, “I have the only girl I need by my side, my Rei.”

  I close the search results so I don’t start bawling like an idiot. What right do I have to grieve my dad when I don’t even remember him?

  My finger hovers over Instagram before I open it. My profile is as plastic as my life.

  It’s all about rallies, cheerleading, and partying with the rest of the squad. My selfies are perfection incarnate with perfect makeup and perfect settings and perfect everything.

  Sometimes, Owen and Sebastian take pictures with me, which should mean we’ve kept in touch over the past three years.

  I scroll farther to my oldest pictures. Considering I’m an attention whore who posts often, it takes me several minutes to reach memories from high school.

  My only picture with Asher stares back at me. It’s three years old, which means we were seniors at the time.

  He stands in the middle of the empty field wearing white and blue football gear. His jersey sticks to his abs with sweat, and black lines sit underneath his eyes accentuating their forest color.

  He grins in a wide and slightly cocky way, appearing every bit the gorgeous bastard he is.

  He carries me bridal style in his strong arms. I’m wearing a matching white and blue cheerleading uniform with ‘Blue Tigers’ written on top. One of my legs is tossed high in the air as both my arms form a V with blue pom-poms.

  Friday night lights shine behind us, creating a picture-perfect couple. There’s no caption, but there are hashtags.

  #TigersForTheWin #We’reTheBest #StateHereWeCome #MyHero

  I gawk at the last hashtag as if I can get into my head at the time
and figure out why the hell I called him that.

  Then I watch my smile in the picture. Wide and goofy, almost…happy. It’s not fake like all my smiles afterward. If anything, my picture with Asher is the last one where I had a resemblance of a genuine smile. Everything after that is plastic, dishonest…fake.

  What happened three years ago?

  I attempt to stalk Asher’s social media and see if the change is mutual. Then I recall Lucy telling me he doesn’t use social media. He never did, not even in high school.

  I wonder why.

  I check my DMs. They’re all either from Bree or the rest of the squad. They’re asking why I’m not answering my phone and haven’t returned to school.

  I only reply to Lucy, telling her I have a doctor’s appointment.

  Hopefully she believes it and asks the others to leave me alone.

  I’m about to exit Instagram when a new message pops up on my screen. The username is Cloud003. I click on it out of curiosity then gasp.

  Cloud003: Do you want to know who bound you like a slut?

  My heartbeat picks up as I read and re-read the message. Is this the person who did it?

  I scroll up and find other messages from the same user.

  The first one he sent was two years ago.

  Cloud003: I enjoyed your pussy tonight. Happy Halloween.

  Cloud003: By the way, that mask you wore was such a lousy disguise. I obviously know who you are.

  Reina-Ellis: What makes you think I don’t know who you are too?

  Cloud003: Doubtful. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have opened your legs for me so readily. You wouldn’t have come that hard on my cock. Admit it—you like the thrill of the unknown.

  Reina-Ellis: So do you.

  Cloud003: But I already know who you are, my slut. Are you my slut, Reina?

  Reina-Ellis: I am.

  Cloud003: Only my slut?

  Reina-Ellis: Only yours.

  I gawk at the messages. That can’t be possible. I would never call myself a slut.

  Besides, who the hell is this guy?

  I click on his profile. It’s set on private and there’s no profile picture. He has zero followers and follows two accounts, but I can’t see what they are.

  Dammit.

  I go back to the exchange between us.

  After that exchange, there was a message from me.

  Reina-Ellis: Can we meet?

  Cloud003: That’s not how it works, Reina. Repeat it and say it right this time.

  Reina-Ellis: Can we meet, please?

  Cloud003: I love it when you beg, but no, I’m not interested in you outside the unknown.

  Reina-Ellis: But you already know who I am.

  Cloud003: Exactly.

  Reina-Ellis: You’re a jerk.

  Cloud003: One whose cock you rode all night.

  Reina-Ellis: Screw you. I’m not talking to you anymore.

  No more messages came from him until a year later, last fall, in October.

  Cloud003: I knew you would change your mind, my slut.

  Reina-Ellis: I didn’t.

  Cloud003: Then why did you come to the same Halloween party dressed in the same kitten mask?

  Reina-Ellis: I didn’t come to this party because of you.

  Cloud003: Is that why you keep watching me from across the room when you think I’m not looking?

  Reina-Ellis: Fuck you.

  Cloud003: I would rather fuck you.

  Cloud003: Get your ass to the same room in five minutes. When I walk in there, I want you fully naked on your back, your legs spread wide apart. Don’t turn on any lights or I’ll go.

  Cloud003: Leave the mask and the heels on.

  Reina-Ellis: What makes you think I want to fuck you?

  Cloud003: Four minutes, Reina.

  Reina-Ellis: Jerk.

  Cloud003: One who’ll be fucking that tight pussy all night.

  A day later, there’s a message from me.

  Reina-Ellis: You still don’t want to meet?

  Cloud003: No.

  Reina-Ellis: Why not?

  Cloud003: Don’t you have a fiancé?

  Reina-Ellis: He doesn’t matter. I’m your slut, remember?

  Cloud003: And that’s all you’ll ever be. Don’t ask for more or you’ll regret it. See you next year.

  I stare at the words as if I’m learning to read. The evidence of my infidelity stares back at me with ugly, disgusting words.

  What the hell have I done?

  No more messages were exchanged between Cloud003 and me until a day before my accident.

  Reina-Ellis: I won’t meet you again.

  Cloud003: Nice try, my slut.

  Reina-Ellis: I mean it. I’m turning the page and you chose not to be part of it. I know you’re blocking any feelings you have for me and I understand. I probably should’ve done the same. I’m sorry and goodbye.

  He didn’t reply. The only other message is the one I just received.

  How does he know I was bound to the roof last night? My first knee-jerk reaction is to ask him if he’s the one who did it.

  I stop myself at the last second. He could be a psycho. Scratch that, he’s most likely a psycho.

  It’s better not to engage with them. Besides, I clearly told him goodbye.

  My heart somersaults in my chest as my screen lights up with another message.

  Cloud003: Be careful, my slut. Someone is after your life. I’d hate to see those beautiful eyes vacant.

  I lean back in my seat and watch her rosy cheeks through the camera.

  The way she bites her lower lip as she stares at the phone.

  The way her slender body straightens, her tits straining against her cotton T-shirt.

  She’s beautiful and she knows it.

  Maybe that’s why she chose to be a bitch queen.

  I reach for my dick and readjust it.

  Blackwood will soon have another tragedy.

  Reina will play the main role.

  For the next three days, I go to college, but I barely concentrate on anything. I keep watching my phone, expecting Cloud003 to send me another text.

  He doesn’t.

  I should be thankful, but the unknown is killing me. At night, I re-read our exchanges and contemplate reaching out to him. He probably doesn’t know I lost my memories, and I could indulge him to get information.

  But what if he knows and I put myself in danger?

  My self-preservation instinct is better than that.

  I push the door open and sigh heavily.

  “Hey, Izzy.” I greet her as she carries grocery bags into the kitchen.

  “Oh, you’re back,” she says with a bit of surprise in her tone.

  “Am I not supposed to be?”

  “You usually spend as much time as possible out before coming home.”

  The squad did invite me to go out, but I wasn’t feeling it. I went with them yesterday, and it ruined my mood instead of lifting it.

  “What are you going to do?” I motion at the grocery bags.

  “Bake.”

  My mood brightens. Finally something out of the ordinary. “Can I join?”

  She completely freezes as if I just drove a knife into her heart. She blinks three times. “You…want to join me.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “To bake?”

  I nod.

  “In the kitchen?”

  “Is that so weird to ask?”

  “It’s just you never step foot in the kitchen.”

  “Well, that’s Old Reina. I’m a new person now.” I say the words louder than needed, as if I need to convince myself.

  Every day I spend at college, I discover the atrocities the old me did. Even if I want to change, I can’t possibly undo what I did in the past.

  Or can I?

  Redemption is so hard when you don’t know where or how to start.

  With a deep breath, I follow Izzy to the kitchen. The vast area is filled with stainless steel appliances and wh
ite marble.

  “Must be a bitch to clean all this white,” I tell Izzy as she busies herself behind the counter.

  “Tell me about it.” She pauses. “I mean, I’m fine with it.”

  “You don’t have to watch what you say, Izzy. I swear nothing will get back to Alex.” I make a motion of zipping my mouth, locking it, and tossing the imaginary key out the window.

  Her kind eyes crinkle on the sides with a smile. “It’s like you’re an entirely new person.”

  “A better one?” My tone holds so much hope, it’s pathetic.

  She nods. “Well, yes. You’re more vocal, and less…”

  “Snobby,” I finish for her. “I know. I kind of figured that out.”

  She smiles awkwardly, and we silently agree to let the subject go.

  We get to work. Izzy prepares the dough and speaks about Jason and the NFL draft. It’s their dream coming true.

  My heart warms at how proud she is of him, but also at the sacrifices she’s made to get him here. When her husband died, leaving Izzy with a toddler, she moved from the south to escape her conservative family after they tried to force her into marrying a man ‘to take care of her’. She worked several jobs until she got to Alex’s house.

  “Jason is lucky to have a mother like you,” I tell her as I shape the cookie dough with her.

  “I’m lucky to have him as my son.” She grins.

  “Izzy?” I don’t meet her eyes as I ask. “Since you’ve been here for a long time, have you ever met my mom?”

  She shakes her head in my peripheral vision. “When I came to work here, your dad was your only parent.”

  “Then have you ever heard anything about her?”

  “I think she died during childbirth? That’s what I heard from the servants around here.”

  That’s the only information I know.

  My hands falter around the dough, trembling. I even killed my own damn mother.

  “What is wrong with me?” I murmur, not meaning to say it aloud.

  “Hey.” Izzy pats my hand with an affectionate expression. “It wasn’t your fault. No one’s birth is wrong.”