I hate when he gets like this, the hysteria apparent in his tone. There’s no saying what he’ll do or say next. People stare. I cringe. There’s no stopping it, and I’m the only one with anything to lose. I don’t have time for this right now. I have cheer practice and if I don’t distract Finlay and escape this disaster in the next two minutes I’m going to be late. My coach, Kyla the slave-driver, will not have that. Being anything but early is not acceptable in her eyes. If I am late, I will pay for it.
I place my hand on Finlay’s thigh and sigh, trying to hide my impatience.
“Don’t touch me,” he barks. “You’ve ruined my life. You tell me you love me. You’re lying.”
I steal my hand back, anger and confusion now mingling with his accusations. “Stop it. Don’t say that. You know that’s not true.”
He looks up at me with a painful glance and dry, pouted lips. “Then why can’t you say it.”
“I love you,” I state firmly.
He shakes his head and turns his pout to the floor, closing his eyes in the process. “You can’t even say it and mean it, anymore. What did she say to you?” He huffs, like he just figured it all out. “I can’t believe you’re leaving me.”
“I’m not leaving you,” I say, slumping into myself. “I just want to go to practice.”
He grits his teeth, and it looks like his head might explode soon if he doesn’t take a breath. “You're choosing them over me. You want me to be alone. Is that it?”
I whimper, too embarrassed to let the passing students see me cry, but too frustrated by all this crazy talk to relate to him. “Finlay, you're not making any sense.”
He’s shaking his head again, like there’s a voice inside it telling him horrible things I can’t hear. “I can't believe you're doing this to me. After everything I've done for you.”
Again, there it is. Like every time we argue. He plays the provider card, bringing up the fact that I moved into his house, and his mother pays the utility bills. He never admits who buys all the groceries or who does all the cleaning or cooks all the meals. That’s because the answer doesn’t help his situation. He wants to act like he has control over our entire relationship, and I can’t take it much longer. He has to know this is not helping us.
Our discussion takes longer than planned, and I end it with, “I’ll see you tonight, okay?” I don’t know how I finally make it to practice, but it’s without an answer from Finlay. At least he left the foyer, though, so I’m free to change and race my ass to the gym.
When I skip into the west entrance, I’m late, and I know Coach Kyla will make a point of punishing me in front of my entire team for it. I watch her lay out two small pylons while I finish my warmup. I join up with the rest of the Crimson squad and smile, even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing.
“You’re late.” Coach Kyla points to the red line taped on the floor. “Line up, Blackwell.”
I jog over and stand next to the small orange pylon, with the entire team watching. A few girls follow me over mistakenly.
“No, not you,” Coach Kyla says pointedly. “Clarisse will be the only one running suicides for us tonight.”
Great. Suicides. My favorite. “How many?” I ask, knowing I’m not going to like the answer.
“Keep going until I tell you to stop.”
I nod, outwardly smiling while internally cringing, and start as soon as she clicks on her stopwatch. I sprint across the room and touch the small pylon, pushing my toe into the floor and turning back in the opposite direction.
“Faster!” she shouts.
I dig in deep and push harder. After six more passes back and forth, I slow to a jog, my breaths now ragged and clipped.
“Not fast enough,” Coach Kyla snaps, staring at the stopwatch while the rest of my team watches the show.
Minutes later, my legs feel like rubber, and when I reach out to touch the pylon, I nearly miss it and crash onto the floor, but I don’t stop. I stumble, but I keep going. I keep pushing harder. My thighs burn, and my lungs are on fire, but I won’t give up.
When Coach Kyla finally thinks she’s made her point, I dive onto the floor and lie there in an attempt to catch my breath while she stands over me warning everyone else not to make the same mistake as I did.
“You see? No one is indispensable on this team, not even the captain.”
What a slap in the face—a reminder that it may have taken two years to earn my title, but it can be taken away just like that. I know I can’t be pulling shit like this and expect things to go down any other way. Everything I do is scrutinized as it is. With the title of Captain, there comes certain responsibility. I am accountable to my team. We all have to be on our best behavior, with or without our cheerleading uniforms on. These girls look up to me, and I can’t let them down.
“Blackwell,” Coach Kyla reminds me in a stale tone, “If you aren’t in a good place right now, fake it.”
I want to roll my eyes and walk away, but Coach Kyla’s voice echoes through the gym, announcing my problems to the entire squad.
“Everyone on the wall!” she shouts “Wall sits starting in five… four…”
I get up to one knee and stumble toward the nearest wall, slamming my back against it.
“Three… two… one... and sit.”
I bend my knees and sit against the wall, like everyone else, my thighs trembling the second I sink into the squat. This cheerleading business is no joke. Just to associate yourself with our squad puts you higher on the social ladder. The standards are raised for those on the team and so are expectations.
I cry out and it helps ease the pain. It takes everything in me to keep going. Years of determination, sweat, blood, and tears come together and get me through. Plain old hard work and dedication isn’t enough anymore. To show weakness—to give up when things are looking bleak—is to alienate yourself from the squad. It’s social suicide.
My thighs jump unnaturally, but I suck it up and sink deeper into my psyche, the only place where I can find peace in this cracked world.
Image is everything, and that is one thing Finlay can’t ever control. I won’t let him.
6: Reckless Behavior
Our three hour practice really kicks my ass, the emotional turmoil from earlier coming rushing back to me. I walk to Finlay’s car alone, and I can’t even paste on a fake smile anymore. It’s a night like any other night, except it’s not any other night. I’m locked and loaded, just waiting for someone to push me over the edge. It won’t take much.
I dip into the driver’s seat, my frown deepening while I contemplate my options. I hug the steering wheel, knowing I’m barely skating on the edge of a mental breakdown. I should call someone. But who would I call?
Savari hasn’t shown much interest in me lately. Unless it involves me leaving Finlay, she wants no part in it. Then there’s Finlay. I’m driving his car, so it’s not like he can come and get me. Besides, he’s the last person I want to call right now. I huff in misery, because there really is no one else. I have no one. I moved to New York to forget—forget about everything that happened and move on from my horrible past.
I had hoped to slip into the fast-paced lifestyle and earn an Ivy League education with a smile on my face, but the truth is I have no real reason to smile. When my parents died, they left me nothing. Not unless you consider collection agencies your friend. I spent my last few dollars on a fancy outfit, cashed out every last dollar on their credit cards to fund my world-class education, and skipped town.
It seemed like a good idea at the time, and it even worked for a while, but what do I have to show for it? A class schedule that completely ruins me and the depressing realization that I am alone again. No amount of therapy will ever be enough. My parents are dead. I cannot fix that. Finlay is the closest thing I have to family now. That’s a scary realization.
I cry into the steering wheel and consider whether anyone would even care if I took my own life. How would I even do it? I consider stepping on the
gas and slamming into a tree. It seems a bit of a crap shoot. Then I think about the gun Finlay hides under his nightstand. It could work. But what about Finlay? And what about me? Knowing my luck, I’d probably end up in a hospital, paralyzed, where my parents’ creditors learn about my real identity and finally catch up with me.
With tearful eyes, I start the car and throw it into reverse. I swipe the wetness fiercely from my cheeks and stomp on the gas pedal, not much caring whether I hit the car behind me. My life is in shambles. I’m beyond miserable, coming undone. What am I going to do?
Horrible ideas plague me on the entire ride home, my eyes forgetting all the rules of the road. I finally come to where I’m a block away from home—his home. I swipe away more tears, but my eyes fill right back up with them.
I want to say that no one controls me but me. I would be lying. I know now that death is the only way I’ll ever be in control again. Finlay wouldn’t have it any other way. I pull into the small driveway and stare into space, enveloped by the darkness of the night and my deepest thoughts. Even if I want to, I can’t leave. He’ll never let me go. As long as Finlay lives, I will be forever his.
I sit in the driveway for a long time, sobbing, contemplating whether it’s worth the fight anymore, wondering how I’m going to deal with him tonight. My head cannot handle another episode. I’m not sure how much of any of this I can take before I snap completely, beyond repair.
I sling my heavy sport bag over my shoulder and toss my keys into it. When I finally pull open the car door, I see Finlay has joined me. He’s standing mere steps away and emerges from the shadows around the house. How long has he been standing there? Does he know how volatile my thoughts are right now?
He steps toward me, and I hold my breath, my muscles jumping with exhaustion.
“I’m so sorry,” he cries, pulling me against his chest.
We cry together, and I squeeze onto him tightly, relieved that he’s repenting. Everything is going to be okay now. I just know it. He kisses me, and everything snaps back into place.
His hands start to roam around my body. “Let’s go inside.” He takes the strap of my sports bag over his shoulder and slips his other hand in mine, pulling me inside the house and taking me to our room without detouring.
He pushes me back onto the bed and stares down at me. I worry about the crazed look in his eyes. The love and regret I’d seen in his eyes outside has diminished and has been replaced with pure, animalistic need. He always works to please me, and most nights he does, but tonight would not be one of them.
Finlay recklessly tugs my shirt over my head, snagging it on my earring. I try not to whimper, knowing it will piss him off, while I secretly check my ear expecting to find blood. Before I can tell whether my earring is still intact, I place my hand at my side because Finlay clearly doesn’t like how I’m responding to his violence. He monitors my every move, and I will be punished if I don’t get my act together.
When I relent, his mouth comes down on mine. His kiss is jagged and demanding, his mouth feeding from me like a starved bird. It’s nothing like the apology he’d given me in the driveway, but I accept it with an open heart, hoping that the apologetic, caring Finlay will come back to me. That’s the only problem: I never know which lover I’m going to get.
I don’t like this one.
Tonight, he’s exceptionally rough with me, and I never like the feeling of being completely dominated by him—especially when my surrender is forced for his pleasure. First, he rips my underwear as he takes them down, sniffing them deeply before tucking them into his front pocket. Before he even unzips his pants, I can see how hard this is making him. When he yanks down his pants, his erection is confirmation of my suspicions. He leans over me, grabs onto my shoulder and takes what is his with a swift lunge.
His forearm digs into my chest with the weight of his body ripping the air from my lungs. It’s at times like this I’m afraid he’s actually trying to suffocate me. Lately, it seems that the only time he is fully satisfied is when he has complete control over my everything—even the air that I breathe. I lie there limply, hiding beneath my last shred of sanity while he thrusts into me without any protection or lubrication, destroying every fibre of my independence with each agonizing motion.
It takes everything in me to whimper softly and not let it sound like I’m in pain. I want to cry as oxygen just barely screams past my throat. His arm slides toward my neck and digs into my skin, until it feels like he’s severing my head from my body. I gasp for air, and it only makes him press harder and faster. The weight of his body has me pinned to the bed. I squirm beneath him as my body struggles to function without a breath.
I want to say stop, but I can’t get the words to reach my lips. My arms thrash at my sides, but nothing I do lessens the blow. I kick and flail until I steal a sharp breath.
“Lie still,” Finlay barks. “I’m almost there.”
A cry finally reaches my mouth, and it howls through the room. I think I can make it. He’s almost done. If I just hang on for one minute more. But my body aches with a rawness I bury deep within my psyche, in a place I care never to remember. Tears stream down my face and land at the valley in my neck where his thumb is now pressing. There will be bruises. The marks are becoming more and more difficult to hide.
“Just like that,” he says, as if I don’t already feel degraded enough as it is.
I try not to shudder, knowing it’ll only take longer if I show any hint of the disgust I feel in my racing heart. I can get through this. It’ll be over any second now. I just have to push through the pain. I’ll be okay, just as soon as he’s through.
Pain screams through my lungs the longer they’re starved for air. My head gets light, the backs of my eyes pulling tightly like they’re connected to my body by strings. I sink deeper into my subconscious, settling into that familiar just barely coping state, like I have on the two other occasions when I let him go this far.
I struggle to find my relaxed state. Blank white walls. Nice calm beach. Sweet new love. I grasp on to any memory that will steal me from this traumatizing experience. I remember how amazing it had been that first time—our first time. He was so gentle and cautious. He did everything to make sure I was okay and enjoying myself, and I was. Now, I am not—close to suffocating and far from reality.
I like feeling cherished like many women do. I love how Finlay knows how to read me, figures out what I want and gives it to me right when I need it. Right now, I need air. My eyelashes wearily flutter open. I plead with him to finish. Beady black eyes burn into mine, but my look is surely vacant as he finds a violent release.
His lips come down on my mine as I choke for a breath. He steals the last of my oxygen, backs away and smiles, taking my steady composure with him.
I can’t breathe!
I roll to a sitting position and gasp repeatedly, with my hands clutching my throat.
Finlay is very pleased with himself. The grin he’s wearing when the stars in my vision subside enough for me to see him disgusts me.
The man I love is completely taken by the way he hurts me. It’s like a drug that feeds his mental illness at times when he’s unsure of himself. It’s not healthy for him, and it’s life-threatening for me.
“That was good, baby,” he tells me, as if I should agree with him while choking for a basic necessity.
I want to drop to the floor onto my knees and beg for him to stop this. I need this to stop. But he can see right through me. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. Normally, that would piss him off, but something has him acting strange tonight.
The scowl crosses over my eyes before I can even stop it. He used my body like a dummy, and I let him. Why do I let him? With a ragged breath I swipe away the tears. I flip the blankets off my body and swing my legs off the side of the bed, listening inquisitively to Finlay’s pleased laugh as I stand up and squint at the flood of warmth running down my legs.
“Ugh!” I whimper, alarmed by the volume of liquid
absorbing into the carpet at my feet.
I panic, having no idea what the fuck he’s laughing at, wishing I could slap that selfish look right off his face and ask him to help me fix this.
“What is it?” I say, trying to think clearly. The bedsheets appear to be as soaked as my thighs. Something is very wrong here. My eyes connect with Finlay’s. He’s still grinning smugly, while I’m getting more worked up by the second.
My first thought is blood. I leap away from the bed and stare down at myself and then at the bed. Finlay’s outright laughing now. The more I stress about what’s happening, the harder he laughs.
“What—” I gasp.
“When you gotta go, you gotta go.”
The smell finally hits me as I put it all together. “You fucking disgusting prick!” I feel so degraded and dirty. I have never felt this filthy in all my twenty-one years. “I fucking hate you.”
In a fit of tears, I cover my body with the urine soaked sheet and run to the bathroom, curling up into a ball on the floor and drowning myself in tears of betrayal and disrespect.
7: Permanent Footprints
The bathroom is the only place I feel safe, but the floor tiles give me a chill, so I force myself to stop wallowing in my filth. I reach for the door handle and secure the lock before crawling to the tub. I run the water through my fingers until it’s scalding hot and then pull on the shower and scrub myself free of Finlay’s disrespect. No matter how hard I scrub, and no matter how hard I cry, I feel like I will never be able to rid myself of the insult.
When I hear a small knock at the door, I pray it’s not him. “Yes?” I ask, hoping his mother’s finally come to her senses and has come to check on me. With no answer, though, I know it’s him, and he takes my yes as an offer for him to come in.
Hot water continues to prickle my skin as Finlay picks the lock in silence and enters the room. I fight back angry tears, searching for a weapon but coming up with only a bottle of shampoo. I peer around the edge of the shower curtain, without pulling it aside. That’s when I see him. Finlay’s upset, warring with himself and mouthing things toward the floor. He notices me watching him and whips the shower curtain open. I’m suddenly scared again, but my anger returns, too.
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