by Beck, J. L.
My gaze drifts from her lips and over to the scar that mars the right side of her face, the skin is raised and a soft pink, that’s faded tremendously over time. With a bit of makeup, it’s barely noticeable, but I know it’s there. I will never forget.
Even with the scar, her beauty is indescribable. She still looks like a goddamn angel sent from heaven. Which I hate more than anything. The thought ignites my anger for her further, and like a match meeting gasoline, I explode. I don’t even think as my hand wraps around her delicate throat.
Her pulse thunders under my grip, but she doesn’t make an effort to fight me off or run away. I make note of how strange that is but push the thought away before it can latch onto my subconscious. Focusing all my attention on her, I visualize how easy it would be to give her the same fate my sister had been given. Burning rage simmers just beneath the surface, and I squeeze tighter, ignoring her whimper and the fear pooling in her eyes. What kind of person does it make me if I want to watch the life fade from her eyes?
Good? Evil? Bad? I haven’t decided yet. See, I wasn’t always like this. I used to love Kennedy, but now I’d rather watch her drown. While my sister had died that night, Kennedy was able to cover up the single scar she’d been given. Studying her closer, I notice the slight tremble of her body and enjoy that I’m causing her so much fear.
Backed into a corner with nowhere to go, I smile cruelly down at her. I’m a good foot taller than her, not that height matters. Trapped in my web, I could do whatever I wanted to her. She’d never be able to fight me off. If I wanted to break her open and see what’s inside, I could. At the thought, my grip on her tightens, my fingers digging into her flesh.
“Jackson…” She gasps but doesn’t make a move to fight me off.
Narrowing my gaze to her face, I inspect her as if I could figure her out with a single look. Maybe I can use having her here to my advantage. I can make her suffer, make sure that my sister gets the revenge she deserves.
Death would most definitely be kinder to her than I ever would be.
“It’s your fault. All your fault, and now you dare come here… to Blackthorn?” The words claw from the back of my throat and out of my mouth as I pull her away from the wall just to push her back again. The back of her head bounces off the wall slightly, and her hazel eyes bulge as if she didn’t expect me to do what I just did.
It takes everything in me to not squeeze her throat any harder than I am. I want to hurt her, break her, make her feel my pain, and yet, an invisible rope holds me back, refusing to let me cross that line.
Why is she here?
“I didn’t know,” she whimpers, her entire body trembling. The last thing I want to hear is her excuses. Nothing she ever says will bring my sister back. Nothing will make all the wrongs right. We are trapped in this fucked up world together, and if it wasn’t for Kennedy making such a stupid choice that night, my sister would be here. But she isn’t, and because of that, I’m no longer the good boy with a heart of gold. I’m no longer kind and gracious. That guy died the day my sister did. Now, I take from women, and fuck and drink until I can escape the pain. The pain that she caused. It would be so easy to end this, but again my body refuses to let me.
“Shut up,” I growl, leaning into her face.
My entire body is shaking now, and I don’t know what I’ll do next. Part of me wants to hurt her now, end it, but the rational part of my brain knows I could make her life worse in other ways. I could make her suffer, elongate her pain. It’d bring me more pleasure that way...
“Stop!” A scream pierces the air and fogs around my head. Shock splinters through both Kennedy and me at the sound. Turning to look at the newcomer, I find a woman, roughly the same age as us, and most likely a student here. She’s staring, watching us.
Fuck. I know I have to let Kennedy go. This chick has seen me, and if I don’t go now, I’ll have to explain myself, and I’m not fucking doing that, so reluctantly, I release my hold on her throat and take a step back. My eyes remain on the unknown woman, who is watching me with a simmering rage in her eyes. I could tell the girl to go away, that everything is fine, but maybe this is fate’s way of saying that’s enough for today.
Clenching my fists, I force myself to take another step back, going in the opposite direction of where I want to go. Kennedy remains against the brick wall, her body shaking like a leaf in the wind. I’ve delivered my message, and hopefully, she’ll take it, digest it and get the fuck out of here before it’s too late, because if she doesn’t… I can’t even think of how badly the repercussions are going to be for her.
With one last lingering look at Kennedy’s fear-stricken face, I turn and shove my hands into my pockets. I walk down the sidewalk like nothing happened and blend into my surroundings. I don’t turn around or even glance over my shoulder as I walk. I doubt Kennedy is stupid enough to follow me, and that girl, what could she possibly say?
With every step I take, my thoughts become a little clearer, and my plot for revenge thickens. I won’t convince her to leave, no, I’ll make her stay. A smile pulls at my lips, but it doesn’t feel right. Deep down, I’m not a bad person, but for my sister, for her memory, I’ll be whatever I need to be. Kennedy had better watch her back because I won’t just rip her to pieces. I’ll destroy her, tear her apart, and watch from the sidelines with a smile as she begs me to stop.
67
Kennedy
The nightmares find me like a beacon of light after my interaction with Jackson. Never in a million years did I think I would see him again. Least of all here. Not that Blackthorn isn’t a good university to attend, it’s just not one that I thought he would’ve chosen for himself. He always talked about going to Berkley, so how he ended up here, I don’t know. Well, I kind of do, but I loathe thinking about it.
I do my best not to think of him or the way he looks at me. Angry, dark, and completely lost. My heart thuds deep in my chest. He hates me, maybe just as much as I hate him. I’ve always known that Jillian’s death was my fault, but it was Jackson’s fault just as much.
He should have been there at the party in the first place. If he would’ve been there, everything would have been different. She would still be alive… I would be… I can’t finish the thought without wanting to vomit.
He looked just like he did the day I left, just more mature. His eyes the most vivid green, his mousy brown hair tousled like he ran his fingers through it. I could feel every hard inch of his body as he pressed me against the brick wall.
Thinking back on the other day and how I reacted, he probably thought I was scared to see him. Which I was, but only because I knew seeing him would bring up a plethora of unwanted feelings. I’m not scared of him. There is no pain he can inflict on me greater than the pain I’m already inflicting on myself.
Stop. Don’t think of him. I feel myself slipping down the dark tunnel and into the abyss. The events of that night will never leave me, but I’ve learned that I can’t hold onto them if I want to be present in the world.
I don’t deserve to be here, but my therapist and parents are pushing me. Claiming it’s time, time to move on, time to let go of the pain… Time. Such a funny word. Time couldn’t heal wounds as deep as mine. It couldn’t make the nightmares go away.
I make it to creative writing 101 early. The class is still empty, which means I get to snatch the best seats by the window. This is only the second week of classes, but I already love this class. Last week we discussed one of my favorite books, and since I love writing, the homework was fun instead of annoying. There is not much in my life that still gives me joy. Reading and writing are part of those very few.
Getting my reading material and notebook out, I go over my paper in my head. The teacher, Mrs. Jarrid, walks in shortly after, taking her seat up front. Students slowly filter into the class, but I barely pay them any attention, immersing myself in my paper. I make some final notes and changes when suddenly my hand stills, and the pencil tip stops moving across the paper mi
d-sentence. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and my chest tightens.
“You heard me, move. I’m gonna sit here now.” Jackson’s dark voice pierces through the air leaving goosebumps behind on my arm.
I glance up and twist around, watching him settle into the seat behind me. The guy who was sitting there a moment ago walks away while shaking his head.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper over my shoulder.
Why the hell is he here?
“Oh, me?” he questions innocently. Leaning in, so only I can hear him, he whispers, “I’m just here to make sure your life is miserable.” A sinister smile splits his face before he straightens back up, dismissing me completely. Turning back around in my seat, I feel the need to barf.
The class I loved last week becomes one I’m barely able to stand. It has nothing to do with the material or the teacher and everything to do with the person sitting behind me. I can feel his eyes on me, and even though he hasn’t said a word or moved, I know he is staring at me, watching me.
My body is stiff and rigid as I sit in the chair, trying my best to make it through class, which is much harder than I ever could’ve imagined.
Twice, I almost got up and left. The only reason I stayed is because I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me back down. No, I don’t deserve to be here, but I am, and there isn’t anything I can do to change it. My parents basically forced me to come here. I was perfectly fine where I was, but they wanted me to get out of the house.
I know Jackson hates me, but I hate myself far more than he ever will.
Trying to focus on the professor, I force my gaze to the front of the room, but I can’t shake the heat against the nape of my neck. His tangy scent of lemongrass and citrus surrounds me, intensifying his presence ten-fold. How can he still smell the same after all this time?
I thought coming here would help me forget about my past, but with his stupid scent and presence, I’m reminded of a time when he held me in his arms, kissed my forehead and told me everything would be okay.
“You remember how much Jillian loved writing, don’t you?” Jackson’s whisper fills my ears and my entire body tenses at her name.
Jillian. If it isn’t the loss of her that kills me, it’ll be the guilt that I’m left with. It’s like a fresh wound that never heals, even years later. It only seems to fester, never getting better. Every single time I think about her, there is nothing but pain, sadness, and guilt.
Refusing to acknowledge Jackson, I continue doodling on my paper while pretending that I’m not completely zoned out. I don’t want to feel right now. Don’t want to breathe or be here.
My fingers itch to inflict pain…
“What? Don’t you remember anything about your best friend? Or is it that you just can’t acknowledge the fact you killed someone? That you ripped a future right out from under her feet?” The pain in his voice cuts through me like a dull butter knife. I should tell him I’m sorry, but I’m not stupid. Sorry, won’t bring her back. Sorry, won’t take the pain away. He hates me just as I hate him. It’s a double-edged sword that neither of us will escape without casualty.
I feel tormented, broken. I don’t want to feel. Don’t want to drown in guilt and shame. Curling my hand into a tight fist, I sink my nails into the meat of my palm. At first it stings, but then pain erupts across my hand, and something in my head clicks; it’s almost like I get a high from hurting myself. It’s a momentary second of silence before everything comes back down on me. Pain triumphs any and all other emotions, it swallows them whole. Pain is the only thing that shuts it all down.
I’m lost in thought when I feel Jackson’s hand creep up the nape of my neck. Every hair on my body stands on end. Heat spreads up my chest and into my cheeks when I feel his hand circle the back of my neck. Squeezing as if my flesh is a stress ball, he leans forward in his seat. Hot breath fans against my ear, and even though I shouldn’t, my body responds to the closeness of his.
“I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer. Watching you drown in your own misery. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be wishing it had been you that died that night and not my sister.” A lump forms in my throat, and instantly, I’m drawn back into that memory.
Her lifeless body hanging there, vacant eyes, a future that she never got to have because of me. I was a killer. It was my choice to drive that night. I killed her. Killed us.
Squeezing my neck hard enough to leave bruises, he releases me with a shove, and I force a ragged breath into my lungs, not even realizing I was holding my breath.
“I’m expecting those papers to be done within the next three weeks,” Mrs. Jarrid exclaims from the podium at the front of the room. Like stepping too close to the sun, I can feel the heat of Jackson at my back, and I have to get away, get out of this room, get to my apartment, and release my emotions.
Standing abruptly, I bump my legs against the table, making a commotion as I shove my stuff into my bag. I know people are watching me, staring, but I don’t care.
“Where are you going, killer?” Jackson taunts, but I ignore him. My shoe catches on the side of the table as I rush out of the room, but I steady myself before I eat dirt. I don’t dare look over my shoulder. I don’t want to see his sadistic grin or dark gaze that was once the one thing I looked forward to every day. I don’t want to remember that he used to be my world.
I want to forget.
Escaping the room, I rush down the hall and burst through the double doors. The sun kisses my skin, and the air blows through my hair. I’m alive, but am I living? The thought comes from nowhere, and I push it away. I can’t get my feet to move fast enough, and each step to my apartment feels like an eternity, my shoes weighed down with bricks.
A group of girls rush past me on the sidewalk, they’re laughing and talking amongst themselves. Like normal college girls. I keep my head down and focus on the cracks in the sidewalk for the rest of the way to my small apartment. It’s only a short walk to campus, and I got this by design. I didn’t want to live in the dorms close to people, but I didn’t want to live so far away that I couldn’t walk. Since driving is out of the question for me.
Even if I hadn’t lost my driver’s license after the accident, I wouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel again. I don’t think I will ever be able to drive again, I can barely stand riding in a car in general. I’ve only gotten in a car with my parents since the accident, and I don’t see that changing in the future.
I sigh when I finally reach my apartment and retrieve my keys from my pocket with a shaking hand. Relief is so close, close enough that I can almost taste it. Unlocking the door, I hurry inside and close it behind me before clicking the lock back into place. I deposit my stuff on the floor and rush into the bathroom.
My hands are shaking with anticipation as I pull my pants down and step out of them. I open the medicine cabinet and grab the tiny box where I keep the razor blades. With trembling fingers, I grab one and put the rest on the counter.
Sinking to the floor with my back against the tub, I look down at my thighs. There are countless scars that decorate my skin. Most are so tiny they are barely noticeable; some are bigger, and others are still red, raised, and healing.
I don’t exactly know why I started doing this, but one day, I felt the need to do it. It started with nothing more than pushing the blade into my skin and later turned to deeper cuts. The rational part of me knows it’s wrong to do this, but it’s my one reprieve, for one second, I feel nothing, not shame or guilt, or fear. I might not know why I began, but I know that somewhere along the way, it morphed into something else… an addiction.
The one thing that helps me get through each day.
Holding the razor blade between my fingers, I bring it to a spot of unblemished skin and slide it across, watching as the skin separates.
Blood starts to pool along the blade, and my hand stops shaking, a euphoric feeling washes over me. The pressure on my chest is released, and suddenly, I
can breathe again. Air enters my lungs rapidly as I suck in a deep breath and push the blade into my skin just a tiny bit deeper. Every time I do this, it becomes a little harder not to cut deeper, to stop myself from sinking the blade as deep as I can.
Do I want to kill myself? I don’t know. What I do know is I’ll do anything for five seconds of silence. Watching as the blood drips slowly down my leg, I feel satisfied. My vision becomes blurry, and my skin burns where the blade sliced through it, but it doesn’t hurt. I think it should hurt, though all I feel is sated. Still, I need more.
Moving the blade a little lower, I cut myself again, sliding the blade across my skin. More burning, more euphoria… more silence.
Nothing can touch me when I’m inside my bubble. Not the memories. Not Jackson. Not the past. My emotions don’t exist here. All I can feel is right now. Closed off from the world, there is nothing else that can reach me.
Inside here, I’m free, the pain I inflict on myself absorbs everything around me, making it possible to hold on for one more day.
One more day.
One more cut.
68
Jackson
We all have our vices. Before my sister died, I was focused on my grades, on my future. I was a good kid. I didn’t drink or fight. I didn’t even smoke weed.
I had sex, but nothing like I do now. Using my body as a weapon, screwing any chick that bats her eyes at me. I used to be focused on being the perfect son and brother. Now, I focus on nothing but momentary pleasure. Anything that gets me through the day.
