Текст книги "Stain"

Автор книги: Francette Phal

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

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.

“A bit of advice?”

I make it a point to look at everything but his face.

“Don’t cut too deep.”

He walks away then without a second glance back, his words hanging heavy in the air in front of me as I watch him disappear behind the double wooden doors at the end of the hallway. I’m unsure of how long I stand there but it takes the shrill ring of the bell to pull me out of my trance. Students exit their respective classrooms filling in the hallway like one huge thunderous wave. Out of my peripheral vision, I spot the blade to my left against a row of lockers and quickly pick it up. Shoving it into my pocket, I stand up straight and prepare to discreetly glide past the hallway mob.

“Aylee!”

I only notice Mallory when she breaks through the throng lugging my backpack and canvas bag as she hurries toward me.

“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me. Tell me you’re okay?”

That question should be branded across my forehead. What’s people’s definition of ‘okay’ anyway? And are they asking because they’re genuinely concerned or is it something you ask just to be polite? I always assume it’s the latter. I don’t think people want to hear you answer any other way than optimistically because it saves them the trouble of actually caring.

Taking my bags from her, I force myself to smile. “Thanks, Mal. And yes, I’m okay.”

“I was so worried! I had to postpone my after-class talk with Hammond just so I could run after you. God, did you see him today?” And that is essentially the end of her concern. Once again putting the art of selective hearing to good use, I tune her out and find my mind drifting to the brief interaction with Maddox. His words, just like the last time, have an impact. They stay with me, playing over and over inside my head, while imprinting themselves inside my memory bank to scrutinize later.

***

Astronomy is my last class of the day. It’s also one of my favorite classes. But Mr. Solomon has a tendency to ramble and given my short attention span, I only listen with half an ear while he talks about the latest induction of Pluto as a planet again. What I’m really focused on is the front entrance of the classroom and how I find myself staring almost too neurotically at it. I know it’s stupid of me to think he’ll actually do something completely unexpected and show up to class but I can’t help the small surge of hope that keeps me tethered with futile expectation. I wait and wait the stretch of a small eternity only to end up with my hopes curdling inside me like blood from a fresh wound. Forty-five minutes into our fifty-five minute class and I’m forced to pay attention when Mr. Solomon gives us our latest assignment. Group project. Fun.

Luckily he splits the class into groups of two. Whoever you’re seated with is your partner. The girl who usually sits next to me, Mina, has been out sick since last week. I don’t have a partner. But that’s nothing new considering I do most of the work when I do end up partnered with someone in class. The bell rings and everyone picks up their things to leave. I trail behind. When I walk by Mr. Solomon’s desk, I stop. He’s hunched over a pile of papers, his red grading marker moving like a sword down the sheet in front of him, leaving a trail of bloody X’s behind.

“Mr. Solomon.” He stops grading and looks up with curious, teary hazel eyes.

“Yes, Aylee?”

I want to ask if I can bring the packet that outlines our project to Mina’s house and see if I can work on our assignment with her. What comes out of my mouth is something completely different. “I’d like to have Maddox as my partner…if that’s okay, I mean…” I trail off, my burst of impulse dying with my sentence.

Bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows shoot up to a receding hairline in obvious surprise. And I’m thinking we’re sporting the same expression because even I can’t believe what I just said.

“You do realize Maddox Moore hasn’t shown up to class since the beginning of the year, yes? We’re now nearing October and he’s missed a lot of assignments.”

I nod in agreement ready to tell him I agree and that this is a bad idea and that he should just forget it because I’m a crazy person. And crazy people generally don’t think things through. “I know, but I was thinking I’d be his partner for this assignment and that maybe if he was willing, I’d help him catch up with everything else he’s missed so far.” See, crazy talk from an extremely unstable girl.

Leaning back into his chair, he says, “Can I ask why the sudden interest in wanting to help Maddox?”

I shrug, unsure of how to reply. “I want to ask him to pose for me for my portfolio and I kind of figured if I help him he’d be more inclined to say yes.” That’s the basic gist of it. I want to capture the aesthetics of his dark beauty to a canvas in acrylic. That’s all there is to my obsession.

At Mr. Solomon’s pointed look and wry chuckle, my cheeks unexpectedly flame. “You’re one of my best students, Aylee. You’re extremely bright and you have a lot going for you. While Maddox...that kid is on a path to destruction. I’d hate to see you get mixed up with him.”

“You’d be surprised just how much a smile can cover up,” I say, with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. There’s a pause to his expression, like he’s trying to read more into what I just said. I don’t give him the opportunity. “I’ll be fine, Mr. Solomon.” I add just enough cheer to dissuade his confusion. “If it’s okay with you, then I’ll just bring him the project outline packet…?”

Pushing his chair away from his desk, he nods slowly as he reaches down to the drawer next to his left leg. “I don’t expect much, but if he agrees to work with you, then give him this.” He hands me the twenty-page, stapled packet for our project. “I’ll even consider letting him make up what he’s missed if you can get him to come to class. Bonus points if he actually stays awake for it.”

I let out a small laugh. “I don’t make any promises.”