Stain (8 page)

Next time…you should just touch me.

Would I? Could I? The idea of touching him—

The distinct creak just outside my bedroom door puts an immediate halt to my thoughts. I stay very still even while my heart begins a canter that quickly turns to a gallop. Bile surges up, hot and sour, it coats the back of my throat with acid. Revulsion has me pulling the pencil out of my mouth to bring it to my forearm. The one with the thick, ugly scar. I scrap the leaded tip slowly up and down my arm, going just a little deeper each time, like that will get rid of the sensation of tiny little maggots wriggling just beneath my flesh. My eyes crawl to my doorway, the two black shadows of a set of feet interrupting the flow of light beneath my door tells me it’s no one else but Tim. If it were Rachel or Sarah, they would’ve said something by now. Tim—Tim is always quiet. A flesh and blood ghost haunting my doorway. Silent like the rest of the house at this time of night. The scratch of the pencil gets faster when he grips the doorknob and turns it. It’s locked. He tries it again.

Turn. Click. Click.

Turn. Click. Click.

Turn. Click. Click.

I count a hundred seconds while he stands there.

Go away.

Go away.

Go away.

Waiting. Waiting for me to open the door.

Turn. Click. Click.

Turn. Click. Click.

Turn. Click. Click.

Waiting for me to let him in. Waiting…waiting for his sweet little flower.

The bile clogging my throat finds an exit. I only have seconds to fall to my knees before digested lumps of pasta and processed hamburger meat shoot from my mouth and splatter all over the wooden floor. I spew for what feels like an eternity until there’s nothing left but dry heaves. It’s not enough. It doesn’t ever feel like enough, because I still feel dirty inside. I’m swimming in filthy, viscous sludge. I’m drowning in it.

I need to bleed it out. I need to—

Surging to my feet, mindless of the mess I made, I scramble to my bed. Hunched over at the waist, I lift and push my mattress until it’s half off the double box spring beneath. One-track mind. The mind of an addict. The mind of a cutter. I reach for my hidden blade. My tiny, shiny stainless steel succor. Not my wrist. Too obvious. Too noticeable. Rachel checks there. The inside of my thighs where numerous other cuts line my skin like railroad tracks is where I make the first slice. It’s long. I start at the inside of my groin, dragging the blade all the way down the side of my knee.

It’s a catharsis for me.

The sting as my skin splits open is as familiar as the sweet release that follows it. The dazzling red line is a highway route on a road map I follow, needing to know where it will lead me. Vaguely aware that he’s gone now, I allow the trance of cutting to pull me further under. I cut, and cut, and cut, and cut. Manifesting my internal distress, and convert it into something physical. Something I can control. Scars that will remind me what I feel inside is real. The marks of my monsters. I’m under a spell. Cotton is in my ears. Head in the clouds. Heart beating slow. My hand moves, fingers gripping the blade tightly as it slits me open.

The highway eventually leads to a dead end. No more road to cruise on. Reality takes a wrecking ball to my trance, shattering the protective cocoon and leaving me vulnerable to a world that feels too tight against my skin. There’s a blaze of fire beneath the slashing red lines decorating the inside of my thighs. It looks horrific; bloody carnage against my fair skin. Relief is gone, congealed beneath throbbing flesh, leaving behind a numb shell. I’m on autopilot as I rise to clean myself. Running cold water from the faucet and a washcloth, I swipe down my thighs to take away my shame. Self-loathing is palpable in the pink water filling the sink until it’s sucked down the drain. The prominent flavor of disgust coats the inside of my mouth; bitter and vile. Red and white stripped toothpaste replaces it with a sweet mint aftertaste. I turn off the light of the second floor bathroom connected to my room and make my way to the pool of vomit by my windowsill. My sketchpad is strewn across the floor where it’s covered in splashes of regurgitated red sauce. The image of Maddox is covered in my stain. I rip the page out of the sketchpad and tear it in two, tossing it in the wastebasket. I’m not oblivious to the symbolism.

He isn’t for me. I’m not for anyone. I can’t want more than what I have now because I’m too filthy. I don’t want anyone to touch me for fear of them ending up in this cesspool I’m in. With the mess all cleaned, I pick up my sketchpad and place it back on my windowsill. Climbing into bed, I draw the down comforter over my head. It’s in the sweltering heat of my blanket that I restlessly find sleep.

Chapter 7

Aylee

Monday morning creeps in slow like a fog. After getting ready, I head downstairs. Every step I take is a blistering reminder of what I did last night. No regrets. Only the subtlest hint of satisfaction. I did something I wasn’t supposed to do and I’m going to get away with it. It’s a dark, little thrill. Breakfast is waiting for me. Sarah murmurs a greeting but her eyes remain glued on the book next to her plate of pancakes. Rachel is still in her bathrobe. Singing softly, she turns in my direction with a, “Good morning, sweetheart.” The smile on her face is unrivaled. Tim must’ve paid her extra attention. I know this only because it’s routine. When he’s drunk enough to haunt my doorway and is denied access, he transfers his frustrations onto Rachel. Sometimes he’ll beat her. Other times, he’ll actually do the normal thing and show her the sort of affection a husband would a wife. Locking my bedroom door has become a necessity, and he hasn’t been bold enough to tell me to leave it unlocked at night. Not since I tried to carve the stain of his depravity out of my flesh. 

He’s absent this morning. More than likely at work but I don’t really care, so long as I don’t have to deal with his presence. 

“Do you want a ride to school?”

I shake my head. “I’ll just take my bike.”

She tsks. “I don’t know why you insist on riding around on that thing. You have a license. Your dad and I are willing to get you a car. A used one, but at least it’ll be more reliable than that rickety bike. Just think, you’ll actually have a place to put your bags instead of lugging them on your back and in that basket.”

It’s a lecture I’ve heard one too many times before and listening to her now, I wonder if she ever gets as tired of giving it as I get of hearing it. “I don’t need a car.” I don’t want the car to be yet another way for Tim to manipulate me. I want to give him as little control over my life as I can from now until graduation in June. I’ve been waiting. Biding my time until I finish high school. I have SATs in just a few months. That’s all I need to apply to colleges for early acceptance. Any liberal arts college, as long as it is as far away from here as possible is what I dream of. I just need to wait a little longer. “Can I head over to Mallory’s house after school?” Taking a few mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, I grab my wheat toast and come to my feet. “We have a sociology project to work on.” I look at her, waiting for an answer.

“That should be okay. Just be home in time for dinner.”

“I will.”

I’m out of the kitchen and heading toward the back patio after we say our good-byes. My school and canvas bags are waiting for me by the French doors. The bike isn’t anything special. I got it at the thrift store on Main sophomore year for twenty-five dollars. It needed a new chain and air in the tires before I could ride it. It took watching a few YouTube videos to figure out how to replace the chain and filling the tires had been a no-brainer. It’s served me pretty well so far. Setting my canvas bag inside the teal wicker basket I attached myself, I slide the straps of my backpack onto my shoulders before pulling the bike away from the side wall of the house. I use my Converse-covered toe to kick away the kickstand and slide my leg on the opposite end to hop onto the seat. Brigham High is roughly a twenty-minute ride from my house by car. It takes me ten minutes longer with the bike.

The day drags, not surprising considering it’s Monday. Getting back into the weekday flow doesn’t kick in until after lunch.

The first warning bell for fifth period rings just as I enter biology class. Walking down the aisle bisecting the twelve black-topped tables with faucets and sinks at the center of each, I head to my assigned seat in the third row on the left side of the room. Sliding my bag on to the floor next to my chair, I take the seat closest to the window. Mallory isn’t here yet but I know she won’t mind. She prefers the aisle seat anyway. According to her, it makes it easier for Mr. Hammond to check her out. She has a thing for our biology teacher. But then that could be said of most of the girls at school. I guess you could call Mr. Hammond handsome, if you are into the all-American, blue-eyed, blond-haired sort of look. It’s not my type. I don’t think I have a type. But then my mind swiftly evokes a pair of intense gray eyes and I don’t really know what it means. A frown pulls my brows together as I try to work out the implication, except the loud ring of the second warning bell accompanied by Mr. Hammond’s voice saves me from delving any deeper than I feel comfortable with.

Fifteen minutes into class and I’m wondering where Mallory is when the door opens and she walks in. In typical Mallory fashion, what she has on barely constitutes as clothes. The black and white Converse low-tops and my track-and-field sweatshirt she borrowed doesn’t cover up the fact that the micro jean shorts she’s wearing barely have enough material to cover her ass. Her thick mass of pitch-black hair falls in tousled waves around her oval face. Beauty queen beautiful with sparkling green eyes, flawless golden skin, and curves she developed in grade school; Mallory Peters is every guy’s wet dream.

Eyes trail her movement as she proceeds inside the classroom.

“What’s your excuse this time, Miss Peters?” Mallory devised a plan at the beginning of our senior year two months ago to catch Mr. Hammond’s attention. As part of that plan she’s made the habit of not only failing his tests, but she purposely comes in late so she can interrupt his class. I’m not sure if he’s caught on to her plan yet, but I can tell by the expression on his face he’s getting tired of her antics.

“I’m sorry.” She’s all fluttering lashes with a small smile, the furthest thing from contrite. “I was at the nurse’s office.” She stands close to him, another three or so inches and their proximity would be deemed inappropriate, and as if he knows that, Mr. Hammond takes the note she hands him before stepping back away from her.

“I’d like to see you after class.”

She sighs as though it’s the last thing she wants to do. “Fine.” When she walks away it’s with a deliberate sway to her hips that I’ve always admired but have never been able to emulate. Her smile could rival the sun in brilliance when she finally takes her seat across from me. I can practically hear her squeal of giddiness playing across her face, it’s not until lab time twenty minutes later that she finally gets the chance to talk to me.

“He so wants me.” I can’t say whether that’s true or not but I’m sure she isn’t looking for my opinion. When Mallory gets it in her head that she’s right about something, anyone else’s opinion is pointless. “It’s only a matter of time.” She heads to the opposite side of the room to collect the materials needed to dissect the formaldehyde-soaked frog pinned inside the cushioned silver pan in front of me. 

Taking the scalpel from the variety of surgical instruments she brings back, I glance up, uttering, “If you say so.” I hate where the conversation is going. I hate that she’s pursuing this, knowing fully well that it’ll end badly. She’s my best friend. We’ve known each other since ninth grade. She’s been there with me through it all despite the fact that I’ve never shared the truth with her. She’s aware I’m in therapy, and just chalks it up to me being adopted. She’s asked questions but has never pushed for answers because she knew I wasn’t ready. That fact doesn’t bother me more than moments like these when I’m unable to tell her how much of a trigger this is for me. But I can’t. I won’t. So I say nothing and rightly so; she doesn’t notice. I think she’s correlated my silence for attentiveness a long time ago. She’s gotten used to it by now. With half an ear on what she’s saying, I bring the scalpel to the green flesh of the frog, wishing desperately that it was my skin that the sharp blade was slicing apart. The cuts I did last night suddenly don’t feel like enough. I could’ve gone deeper. I could’ve done more. I want to go on a binge. That sudden thought brings with it an influx of yearning so visceral it’s like a punch to my solar plexus. The slow, ever present creep of anxiety forms like a fine film over my thoughts making it impossible for me to remember any of my coping skills. But then again, I really don’t want to cope right now. Panic is a ball and chain around my ankle, dragging me down into the dark chasm of fear that sits beneath my soul, where my demons lie in wait. My heart is thrashing fast and hard against my breastbone; the pain becoming too much to bear. There is an invisible chloroform-soaked cloth over my nose, slowly stealing my breath until my lungs burn for air. 

“Aylee? Are you okay?” No. I don’t think I am. I hear the concern in her voice. I see it smeared across her beautiful face. I turn my head to find everyone’s eyes staring at me, looking on in amused fascination like I’m the main attraction at the circus. My reality becomes distorted as I find the walls closing in on me.

My feet take off, pounding the ground as if of their own accord, moving faster than my mind can keep up. “Aylee!” I’m running. Where to, I have no idea. The hallway, the lockers, and the locked wooden doors all pass in a blur. I need air. I need—

Cut.

Cut.

Cut…to release the valve.

Cut…to release the pressure.

Cut…to bleed the stain.

I have an objective. I need a destination. The girls’ bathroom is straight ahead and around the corner. I just need to make it there. Relief is just within reach; just a little further. My arms and legs are moving swiftly, propelling me forward. All I can think about is cutting. The self-mutilating addict is roaring inside me, thrashing for the pain, for the blood. Nothing and no one else matters. The scalpel is in my hand. I didn’t leave it behind because subconsciously I knew I would need it. I’m holding onto the blade on purpose, squeezing my hand tight enough that the sharpness of the blade bites into my palm. The incredible need to do more takes my breath away. With all my focus centered on the desire to mutilate my body, it comes as a complete shock when I collide into the impenetrable wall of reality. The impact knocks the air out of me, sending me crashing to the floor. Shaking my head to try and gather my bearings, I notice the large pair of black boots rooted in a stance in front of me. Men’s boots, scuffed and worn.

I follow the opening of the unlaced boots up strong, masculine legs incased in a pair of black, fitted jeans. Tipping my head back, I take further inventory of a powerfully-lean body wrapped in a simple black V-neck shirt. Even before my eyes land on that distinct geometric star covering the throat, I know it’s him. He has that sort of aura. That unmistakably raw, palpable magnetism that makes it impossible to confuse him with anyone else. I’m looking up and he’s staring down at me with molten silver eyes that cut like razor blades. Just when I think he can’t get any more intimidating, he lowers his full body down to my height. Sitting on his haunches, he raises a large, tattoo-covered hand to my face. I hold my breath, confusion and wonder battling for dominance as I wait to see if he’ll actually touch me. The pain from my fall doesn’t register. The frantic desire to hurt myself is now a low throb just beneath my flesh, seemingly subdued by his presence.

“Well, what do you know…” There’s a raspy quality to his voice that’s not at all unpleasant. “It’s my little stalker,” he says, wryly, the corner of his mouth lifting into a half smirk. Heat explodes in my veins at the realization of what he just said. Mortification blazes so hot beneath my skin, I can feel the fire across my entire face.

He knows. 

Frantic and anxious, I lower my eyes at the need to avoid his knowing gaze.

“You’re crying.” It’s not a question. I
feel
more than
see
him lower his hand. My cheek remains untouched.

I shake my head, “I’m not.” It’s a pathetic lie, one made more evident when I raise my hand to swipe at my cheeks, both covered with tears I didn’t even know I was shedding.

There’s a wryness to his smirk. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you can’t lie for shit. Come on.” When he rises to his feet, he extends a hand down to me. It’s a hesitant few seconds before I set my hand within his. His grip is strong, unyielding, as he hauls me to my feet without effort. He holds my gaze with diamond-hard eyes filled with shrewd intelligence but devoid of emotions. My eyes dance across his face, and he’s standing so close, I’m in awe of his unconventional beauty. He’s like a statue, a sculpture molded by a divine artist in homage of a god, made solely to be worshipped.

“Aylee, right?”

I blink, curious as an odd, unfamiliar sensation fires through me at the sound of my name on his full lips. “Yeah.” 

Something unexplainable crackles in the air between us, or maybe it’s just my imagination going on overdrive, as I become too aware of my hand still firmly held within his grasp. He lowers his head, his hair falling across his forehead, and the urge to smooth it back is an impulse I have to wrestle down.

“You’re bleeding.” I blink twice—it’s my mind’s attempt to catch up to what he just said. He turns my hand so that my palm faces the ceiling. I’ve lost the scalpel somewhere in between my fall and him helping me to my feet, but the evidence that I’d been holding something sharp is in the smear of blood coating my palm. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to hold sharp objects by the blade?” My attempt to pull my hand away is futile as he retains his hold. “Or maybe you meant to.” His pointed stare eviscerates all pretenses and for an infinite moment I’m left naked to him, exposed in the way it touches the most vulnerable part of me. I can’t—I can’t let him see the ugliness. Can’t let him see that terrible, terrible stain. Wrenching my hand away, I stumble back a few steps. My eyes flick to his face just in time to see him recover from a slight dose of shock at my sudden movement. Curiosity molds his expression as he fixes astute, penetrating gray eyes on me.