The Darkness Within

by Taylor K. Scott

  All I can do is keep my eyes to the floor, keep my hood up and try not to make any sudden movements as the entire student body turn their eyes on me. Eyes which never seemed to even notice me before.

  Upon finally reaching my locker, I feel the tremble in my hands, like I’ve not eaten in days, but try to follow through with the same daily routine. I even whisper count as I take each book from my backpack and place them inside with careful precision. I then take a long moment to study the little comforting message I read every day, ‘Women be bitches’, as a sort of mantra to help me get through the world of high school, but now with the added bonus of having a suspected rapist for a brother.

  After a few moments, just when I start to get used to the silence, I hear people beginning to gasp at the same time of heavy footsteps approaching. Those same feet appear at the bottom of the column of lockers that houses mine. My door, my shield, is still wide open, so I can’t see their face, but I can guess who it is already. There’s only one person who would have induced such a reaction from the band of students around me and it’s making me feel so sick I want to bolt for the nearest bathroom. It’s a shame my own feet are refusing to move.

  Taking my time to finish pretending to look like I still have a purpose for keeping my locker open, I eventually give in and reluctantly close it. His venomous stare is the first thing I notice before I take in the angry snarl across his lips. Eventually, my eyes acclimatize to the whole look of murderous intent marring his entire body language into one intimidating stance. I hold my breath and brace myself for Bowie Phillips to give me his best shot, one which is likely to permanently wound me, for he’s looking that incensed right now. I’ll even let him have it, given that my brother has just been arrested for abusing his sister in a way I cannot even fathom. He deserves his moment of confrontation. I just hope it doesn’t break me completely.

  Nothing comes but the crescendo of his angry breathing and the deafening silence of the people all around me. He leans in closer and when he does so, I hear someone in the distance suck in an audible intake of breath. When he stops, I release mine in spurts, still waiting for whatever it is he plans on doing, which might well involve his hand and my face, to finally happen.

  In slow motion, it would seem, he balls his large hand, one made for throwing that football so expertly, into a white-knuckle fist and brings it up in front of me. I close my eyes tightly, waiting for the impact, but instead of landing on my face, it makes a noisy crash against my locker door. It’s so loud and unexpected, I jump in shock over the intrusive noise. My eyes dart open but only to see him thunder away, brushing his shoulder aggressively against mine and causing my whole body to shift towards the metal beside me.

  Only when I’m safe in the knowledge he’s truly gone, do I notice the huge dent in the metal door of my locker staring right back at me. I let go of the tears of pure fear which seem to appear just as suddenly as he did. Eventually, I let out another long breath and watch as the other students walk away to find their first class. Some avoid my gaze, some openly stare, while others whisper God knows what to their friends. It would seem, in the absence of my brother, I have become public enemy number one.

  Usually, I would go to meet Matt at football practice, just like I did last week, but today I took the hint that I’m not wanted and decided to bypass the field altogether. The rest of the team will no doubt give me hell for being alive, just as much as Bowie will make me feel like a disease the whole world would like to eradicate. Matt will probably sulk about my no-show, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. It’s thoroughly exhausting being the thing that no one wants to be infected by. So, instead, I walk home slowly like the sad sap that I feel like I am.

  I could have gone out with Mercy, who has been the only one in my corner all day. She did practically beg me to, and I was extremely tempted given the day I’ve had, but guilt got the better of me when I thought of Grant being in prison. I inwardly chastised myself for even contemplating such an idea. Mercy said she understood but warned me she wasn’t going to let me turn into a recluse because my brother is a pervert.

  My mind is painfully full by the time I turn into my familiar neighborhood, trying to understand what on earth caused everything to turn to shit in the space of a few days. My thoughts on Grant are unclear. Part of me cannot even comprehend him doing something so vile to a girl he was deeply in love with, but another part questions why she would have made up such a thing. Surely, she didn’t do it out of vengeance because of a ridiculous fight?!

  Dad hadn’t told me much about what happened at the police station, neither did Mom, even when I begged them to. They both remained expressionless and dry-eyed when I met them at the door, practically pruning up over how wet my cheeks were from crying. The most they did was ask me what I knew from the night of the party but, otherwise, they told me to go to bed and informed me I would be returning to school as usual. By the time I got up from a thoroughly restless sleep, a note had been left, telling me to have a good day and they would see me that evening. Business as usual.

  Dreading going home to an empty house, one that I was so used to seeing Grant and Sam making out in, I cautiously look over to the front door. However, I have to almost do a double-take when I see a huddle of a familiar-looking girl leaning over our step. She looks small, frightened, and a shadow of her former self. I remain frozen but not through conscious choice. My mind cannot move beyond staring at her with keen interest, trying to think how best to approach her.

  My study of the way she looks, the way she’s acting, the way she lingers over the doorstep which leads to where both her lover and her monster used to live, convinces me she isn’t making anything up. This is not the spiteful reaction of a bitter high school girl who is angry with her boyfriend over some meaningless fight. Something awful happened to her!

  As she remains shuddering in front of our house, quietly sobbing as though in mourning, my feet eventually spring into action. I decided to silently pace towards her, being careful not to spook this injured creature for fear she’ll bolt as soon as she lays eyes on me. When I am but a few steps away from her, she suddenly turns and gasps at my apparition from behind. She looks ghostly, pasty white with dark, sallow eyes which betray days of crying over what happened to her. More than that though, she looks terrified…of me!

  The girl who has been like an honorary sister is contemplating me as a threat, probably expecting me to verbally attack her for speaking up against my brother. I would never do that to someone so vulnerable. With extreme caution, I take the smallest possible step forward, trying to silently tell her I mean no harm. She shivers and looks like she’s going to vanish the instant I so much as blink. Therefore, as quickly as I possibly can, I place my hands onto her biceps and pull her in for the warmest hug I can offer. Upon our first contact, she breaks, sobbing into me but still unable to move her arms to reciprocate the embrace.

  “I’m s-sorry,” she stutters through her cries into my hair, which is hanging over my shoulders, conveniently offering her something to cling onto. “I didn’t want to take him from you, Millie, but he hurt me.”

  I don’t even have a voice to say any words, even if I had any to spare, so I just squeeze tighter and let the sting of my tears fall silently over my flushed cheeks. I try to make gentle shushing sounds and gently stroke her back, attempting to give whatever comfort I can.

  “I know he still loves you, Millie,” she whispers to me, “afterward he…he cried and called out your name. Over and over, saying how sorry he was to you.”

  These words are meant to bring their own form of comfort to me, but I only feel sick to hear he had my name on his tongue after he did such a vile act. My conflicted thoughts make my head and my heart ache and in this very moment, however short it is, while holding Sam’s fragile body in my arms as she cries, I feel doubt and with it, true hatred for my brother.

  “You don’t need to talk about it, Sam,” I finally manage to verbalize out loud, though my voice sounds alien
once it’s in the air for all to hear. “I’m just so, so sorry for everything that’s happened to you.”

  “Listen, Mils,” she steps back from me, wiping at her tear-soaked eyes, trying to regain some sort of composure I know I wouldn’t have if such a violent thing had happened to me. “I’m not returning to school. Under the circumstances, I’ve been granted early graduation, as has…Grant.” She immediately cracks the moment she says his name and whatever equanimity she had managed to regain, instantly crumbles. “God, I still love him, that’s fucked up right?!” She looks to the side of me like she is ashamed of what she’s just admitted and pauses to breathe deeply for a moment or two. “I want you to know that I consider you to be like a sister to me. I love you, Amelia Thomas, and I wish you all the best, but…but you won’t be seeing me for a good, long, while.”

  I love her too, but I can only gift her with a smile to show the sentiment. It’s then her turn to embrace me with a hug that says this conversation, which is probably our last together, is coming to an end.

  “Remember you don’t owe them anything, you are beautiful!” she whispers, then squeezes me tight again.

  “Samantha!” an older, male voice calls out, sounding stern and deeply frustrated.

  As though my contact physically burns her, she instantly lets go of my arms, before both of us turn to see the owner of such an angry voice. Both Mr Phillips, Sam’s father, and Bowie are standing at the end of my front yard, glaring at the two of us like we’ve been caught doing something highly suspect.

  “I told you not to come here, sweetheart,” her father sounds constrained and bitter, though I can’t say I blame him. I’d like to think my father would be at my side, trying his best to protect me from all the badness that exists in the world. Sadly, I’m not even convinced he’d be around had something like this happened to me.

  My thoughts are instantly shattered into forgettable fragments of useless information when he points his finger directly at me, making me feel just as scared as when Bowie had thrown his fist into my locker.

  “Tell your disgusting brother I’ll be seeing him in court real soon!” His threatening voice travels right to my core and I tremble under his stern glare, the type of which has you desperately trying to make yourself invisible.

  Having said that, when I look over to his son, I can honestly say Mr Phillips seemingly oozes peace, serenity, and free love compared to the way Bowie is eyeballing me right now. His stare makes me want to erupt into flames and die slowly in front of him, just so he’ll be satisfied and promise to never look at me like that again.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam mouths to me, but not quite being able to look me in the eye, before walking back towards her father. He instantly draws her into his enormous arms, physically shadowing her from the evil which the name ‘Thomas’ represents to them. She’s shoved inside the SUV quicker than a celebrity daring to show their face after a huge scandal has erupted.

  I can’t take my eyes away from the scene, even though I should, considering Bowie is still leaning, still staring, only now he’s pulled his mouth up at one side, taunting me with his trademark smirk. My brain is shouting at me to get back into the safety of my house, but my body is not taking any note of the memo. Instead, I just stand there, staring right back at him.

  “Bowie!” Mr Phillips calls out, finally giving me the momentum to pull my eyes away from his dangerous-looking son. “Let’s move!”

  Bowie stands up straight to his full height, no doubt emphasizing the difference in our size, showing me that he outranks me both physically and socially. He has the upper hand in every way and worse still, now has legitimate beef against my family, which right now, consists only of me.

  As I contemplate this pocket of unsettling information, he bites down on his bottom lip. A move most girls at school cream their panties over, but for me, it’s surely only to goad me into a false sense of security. He looks to the side, shakes his head, then theatrically pulls something from his back pocket and waves it casually in front of his face. To my horror, I realize it’s my diary. He licks his lips wickedly as I drop my mouth open with an audible gasp, because this is his promise to me, that he has no intention of letting this lie.

  “I’m sorry, Amelia,” Mr Phillips says to me, softening from his earlier threat, thus forcing me to snap out of my personal hell. “I didn’t mean to be angry with you, but she’s…,” he sighs, looking to the ground, unable to verbalize his disarray of thoughts over his only daughter having been sexually assaulted by someone who he had trusted to look after her. By the time he looks back up at me, I can’t help but note the apparition of tears now clinging to his lower lashes, though I try not to let him know that. It’s the least I can offer him.

  “I understand,” I reply quietly and tuck my hands awkwardly inside of my pockets, still trying to make myself smaller, but now for different reasons entirely. I’m sure he would like to never set eyes on a Thomas ever again. Apart from Sam, I would be happy to oblige him of that request and extend it to his entire family, especially his son.

  He seems to shrink with me before pulling his mouth into a grimace of a smile, even though his eyes look dead inside. He then nods to me and gets into the car to leave, with his children nicely stowed away from the evil house before him. The wind catches my hair as I watch them drive away and I suddenly feel a huge headache spreading over my entire skull, ignited by the multitude of emotions that have just been crammed into the space of about ten minutes.

  Chapter 6

  Amelia, 15

  The following morning, I am given a reprieve from school. At ten am sharp, I am expected at Grant’s lawyer’s office to give a full rundown of what I witnessed over the weekend, including the night of Matt’s party. It’s not exactly a more pleasurable experience, but at least I won’t be treated like the town leper. After Bowie’s silent threat last night, I’m only too happy to avoid the halls of my high school today. In fact, I could quite easily give up on the place altogether. However, seeing as Dad is keen to keep everything appearing as normal, I’m not even going to broach the subject of transferring elsewhere, it would only be a waste of breath. Besides, when am I ever going to get the chance to talk to him, seeing as he’s never here?

  Mr Simpson, aka the lawyer who will be defending my brother, is an older man in his forties with a peppering of grey hair. He is both attractive and intimidating in his stance and personality. Mercy would be calling him a ‘silver fox’ if she were here, no doubt not paying any attention to his no-nonsense attitude and still trying to flirt with him. Me, on the other hand, I feel like I’m five years old waiting to see the principal for causing some misdemeanor in class, especially when he raises a brow over the fact neither of my parents has accompanied me today. I laugh nervously and sort of flap my hand around, telling him not to worry, that it’s nothing unusual. I’m met with a look of both disdain and pity before I’m finally instructed to sit down.

  “So, your brother and Miss Phillips were on speaking terms when they left for the party?” he asks, all business, no empathy, no smiles, and with his pen poised in a robotic fashion.

  “As far as I know,” I answer quietly, totally overwhelmed by both his sleek appearance and cold professionalism. “Sam had changed into some of my clothes, then left me up in my room.”

  “You didn’t attend at all?”

  I shake my head. He pauses and looks somewhat perturbed over my non-verbal answer, then emits an irritated sigh as he notes it down.

  “What was she wearing when she left?” he continues with the interrogation.

  I frown, failing to see what this has to do with anything remotely important, seeing as all of this information must have been noted down when the crime was reported. But what does a fifteen-year-old girl like me know? So, I list them off one by one on my fingers, taking the time to detail each and every item so I don’t have to repeat the sorry process at a later date. I watch him intently as he pens each one down on his leather-bound pad of paper: the dress,
the shoes, the belt.

  “Ah yes, I’m afraid they have kept your dress as evidence. She returned home with the shoes and belt, seeing as they came back clean,” he informs me without taking his eyes away from the paper.

  I recall seeing both the shoes and the belt Sam had left on the doorstep yesterday. This was after I had relented and partaken in a small crying fit, being that her father and Bowie had just reduced me to mush. After a dinner for one, I searched through the little package of items, only to realize the dress was missing.

  “Why did they keep my dress?”

  “I’m afraid it was torn, most likely by her attacker, and there was semen on it,” he answers on a cough and shuffles uncomfortably.

  “Grant’s?” I ask with a feeling of nausea, for many reasons, the main one being that my dress is at the center of a rape case.

  He looks up at me and from the expression on his face, I know the answer to my question is yes, though he doesn’t actually voice it.

  “Do you recall seeing a necklace she was wearing?” he asks, moving swiftly on from his awkwardness over my last question regarding semen.