Smoke and Mirrors (8 page)

Sitting here and watching him, knowing I can never have him. Every day he comes home from work, dressed in his expensive suit, silk tie, and designer shoes and kisses her on the mouth with the same words.

“How was your day?” he asks her. Every single day I see it, and every fucking day I want it.

I want what he gives her. I want what she takes. I want him. Simple as that. He shouldn’t be with her. It’s not like she’s not beautiful, or even lovely. She is. She’s the perfect wife who stays home and looks after the kids. She cooks and cleans and is an amazing person.

She’s the definition of the dictionary word “flawless”.

Her long, golden hair is always immaculately styled, her makeup always so pristine. Her clothes never have a damned wrinkle in them. She’s the exceptional woman every girl wishes she could grow up to be.

I want to be her because I want to feel him.

He’s tall, with broad shoulders, a body he works hard on, and eyes that pin you with one simple gaze. I’ve wanted him ever since my hormones kicked in and I saw him for who he really was.

Sexy, compassionate…a man who takes care of his responsibilities; a man you can rely on. And powerful, so damned powerful.

Simply put, he’s fucking sexy.

“Good. How was work?” she usually replies, making him a drink the moment he steps through the front door.

Who the hell
does
shit like that? Meet their spouse with a drink, waiting on them hand and foot?

I know I would. I’d do anything for him. If he wanted a Stepford wife, I’d be happy to oblige.

But right now, all I can do is imagine him.

Fantasize that he’s in here with me, gently stroking his long, warm fingers up and down my thighs. A silent promise that soon he’ll do what he wants with me. Take me from behind, or maybe he’ll let me ride him. Or maybe, if I’m lucky enough, he’ll allow me to fall to my knees and worship him with my mouth.

Surrender. I want that with him. I want him to take my pain, my mind, my body and grant me the gift of forgetfulness.

I hate being so vulnerable to my mind, allowing it to control how I feel. The darkness inside me is so scary, it screams words that cut and taunt me.

“End it all,” it yells. The cruelty and hatred is never too far away.

It’s always there, tormenting, taunting, pushing me to the edge of my sanity.

When I wake in the morning it’s already alive and planning its next carefully constructed sentence, ready to wound me.

“Make it hurt,” the voice says.

The scariest part isn’t what the demon’s voice says as it tries to make me angry; the most frightening is the sinful, low whispers it forces me to listen to.

There are some mornings that the voice is so malicious and sadistic, the only way I can survive it is to take matters into my own hands.

I go into my bathroom with my small tool kit, carefully remove my clothes and slice my skin to let the devil slowly seep out, giving me a day or two of respite.

The demon likes it when I do that, and I like it when I do that, too. Because then the voice stops its heartless taunting. But when I’m around
him
, I don’t hear the cruel whispers. I don’t feel the cold finger of the devil’s hand as he slides it through my veins, turning my blood to ice, letting me know I’m not worthy.

This darkness is a place I’ve called home for a long time. It wasn’t always so hurtful to me. The first time I experienced it I was sixteen years old. I was a senior in high school – yes, I skipped a few grades – and the kids were truly horrible.

They didn’t understand why I was there, why I was different, nor did they want to give me a chance. At lunch I was isolated, so I took to sitting in the library and devouring books instead of eating.

Thinking back, it was a particularly bad day. There were three girls who made my life a living hell. The things they’d do to me, or say to me, would cut me to the bone. Their words were full of hate, spite, and true malice.

But they didn’t care; they weren’t concerned with the effect of their vitriol on their victims.

So I survived by lurking in the shadows, trying to make myself invisible to them. And by enjoying the pain that a small, clean incision could deliver when I sliced my skin. Beneath the clothes I wore, where no one would know how I found my solace against their weapon of choice… the English language.

It was when I turned eighteen that I noticed
him
. I took note of how he made me feel when he was close, how just one look from him could silence the rowdy demon that frolicked in my head.

He was able to cut through the darkness, chasing away the sinister devil that hungered to consume me with one small glance. His smile rendered the beast inside completely harmless.

The beast had never been silent before. He’d constantly demanded I feed him, give him what he wanted most – my sanity.

It demanded total control of my mind, to let it take me once and for all.

When I noticed
he
was able to control the dark, I longed to be near him, to starve the darkness, and make the beast retreat.

His touch on my arm would blanket my entire body in quiet; a flutter of his eyelids as his gaze fell upon me would tame the darkness within.

The beast lurked, though, waiting for
his
absence. Then the darkness would force its way back. The beast’s rage would be extreme, and the only rest I could find required me trying to cut him out.

Thick, red, metallic-smelling liquid would begin to ooze, as a peaceful high would subsume the darkness for a moment. Its whispers demanding that I surrender to it, would cease for a short while.

But
he
made it better;
he
always did. Even though
he
was completely unaware of the peace and silence
he
would bring me by being near.
He
was oblivious,
he
always had been.

But I was a master at deception. No one knew what was happening inside my head; no one knew when I cut. The euphoria never lasted long before the demon returned and demanded I give more of myself over to him.

I sit on the lip of the bath and take the small scalpel out of my tool kit. The solid steel handle sits so nicely in the palm of my hand, just heavy enough so I don’t drop it when I make that first incision, the blade sharp enough to glide smoothly through my skin and deliver those precious few moments of complete and utter stillness.

I pull my panties away from the crease in my leg, the section at the top of my thigh where it meets my torso, and place the tip of the knife against my skin.

The sharp blade pricks the taut alabaster skin, and closing my eyes, I finally hear it.

Nothing.

Not a God damned word. Not a growl from the demon, not a whisper or even a sigh.

I’m finally at peace, at ease with the darkness, which means I’m happy.

As the knife keeps slicing along my skin, and the pain morphs to pleasure, there’s a faint rap at the door. My hand jerks in panic.

I quickly apply a Band-Aid to the cut, but I know that this one has gone deeper than normal, and despite the bandage the blood is still flowing freely.

Sliding my jeans up my legs, I rapidly return my scalpel to my toolkit and zip the case.

Standing in front of the mirror, I check my appearance, ensuring that nothing is visible.

I turn the handle and open the door.

He’s
standing in front of me. Leaning up against the door jamb with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Samantha,”
he
greets me in his warm, normal tone.

My damned heart skips a beat and all I want to do is fall into his arms and kiss him.

“Are you doing homework?”
he
asks me without moving away from the door jamb.

“Yeah,” I reply. My voice is small and reserved.

“Triple major in music, math, and science. Your workload is crazy, you know.”

“Not when your IQ is as high as mine,” I quip, but feel my face turning red.

“Samantha?”

“Yeah?” I say as I look at my stepfather and secretly fantasize a frenzied, all-consuming union between us.

“Have you stopped taking your pills?” He drops his gaze, and I feel the blood soaking my jeans and running down my leg. ”Are you cutting again?”

Jake was fresh out of the academy.

It was maybe ten months into his stint as a probationary officer when he responded to the first domestic disturbance report at this particular residence.

When he walked up the steps to the quaint little cottage, he and his partner Luke were greeted by a man in his mid-forties, tall, and quite regal-looking. He wore an expensive, dark suit with an exquisite silk tie. His eyes were full of malice, beady and dismissive, full of contempt for everyone.

“There’s been a report of a disturbance here,” Luke said as they walked up the steps and reached the door where the suited man leaned against the jamb, quite casually.

“Here?” he asked, and though he feigned surprise, his tone suggested he was mocking the young police officer.

“Yes, here. Can we come in?”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“Do we need one?” Jake asked.

“Well, it seems to me that if you’re asking, you’re not properly trained. Perhaps you should go back to the academy,” the smug suited guy said, looking down at his nails and studying them.

This angered both cops. They had a damned job to do, why couldn’t Mr. Prick just freaking answer them?

“Sir, we’d like to speak to your partner, right now,” Luke said. He wasn’t going to take this shit from Mr. Prick.

“She slipped and hurt herself, but she should be okay now. Babe,” he called over his shoulder, still not allowing the cops into his home.

A young woman came to the door. Her light brown hair was down in disarray, her eye had clearly been hit, and she was sporting a fat lip. She wore a shirt with long sleeves, long sweat pants, and a man’s cardigan which was too big on her that she held tightly wrapped around her petite body.

The rookie cop could immediately tell that she’d been beaten. Her demeanor alone screamed she was a frequent recipient of her partner’s fist.
Damned motherfucker raises an angry hand to a woman. Who the hell does this asshole think he is?
Jake thought.

“Ma’am, would you come this way please,” the rookie cop said as he guided the beautiful, beaten woman away from the guy in the suit.

Jake looked over his shoulder at the suited man, who simply remained still, with that same stupid, smug look the cop was itching to wipe off his face.

Luke stayed back to get information from Mr. Prick and the rookie interviewed the battered woman.

“What happened?” Jake asked sympathetically.

“I was running and slipped on our rug, went face first into the wall,” came the rehearsed, cold response.

“Do you slip often?”

“I’m clumsy, I always have been.” Her answer was automatic; her voice sounded dead.

“Let us help you,” he said in a lower voice so her partner couldn’t hear him.

“I’m clumsy, I always have been,” she repeated, clearly void of any sentiment.

He looked into her eyes, and saw how lifeless they were. No spark, no color, just numbness.

“Let us help you, please,” he said in a gentler voice.

“Not even God can help me,” she muttered with the most emotion he’d heard from her yet.

She quickly turned and left, almost running back inside the house of horrors. She walked into her abuser’s arms and looked up at him. “Please, get rid of them. I just want a bath,” she said in a soft, mouse-like voice.

“You heard the lady. She wants time with me and a bath. Nothing here to investigate; now please leave my property.” He took her inside and slammed the door in the two cops’ faces.

The two silently walked down the sidewalk toward their police cruiser. When they were inside and half-way down the street, the rookie turned to the driver and shook his head. “He’s beating the shit out of her. She refused to talk to me.”

“He talked to me, unfortunately. He was disgustingly condescending, really arrogant. I had barely asked him his name before she came running back up.”