What Happens Over Spring Break: A Short Story Anthology

by Anthology

  He slid his chair back, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. I hurried to the bathroom, taking my time to clear my thoughts of all the darkness that always seemed to permeate my mind after the episodes.

  Finally, I felt composed enough to return to the kitchen. Shaw lifted his eyes to meet mine.

  “You’re not crazy. And from what I understand, you have very deep, depressive episodes. I can help you, Lark.”

  I swallowed hard, tears burning my eyes. It took me long, careful moments to finally form my sentence. When I lifted my gaze to his, the intensity of his stare forced an unrecognizable flutter into my chest.

  “I don’t want you to be my doctor, Shaw.”

  My words were heavy in the air between us.

  He stood slowly, those dark eyes of his never leaving mine.

  I backed against the kitchen table, swallowing hard.

  “Do you want me to go?” he asked.

  I shrugged, and he closed the space between us, his arm slipping around my waist to rest at my lower back. The tulle of the peach tutu was crushed as he pulled me up and against him.

  “Do you want me to go,” he repeated, clearly and urgently, forcing me to consent to him staying.

  I gasped as he pressed his body to mine, reaching for his broad upper arm to steady myself. “No.”

  He tilted my chin up so my eyes met his. “How do you want me to treat you?”

  I slid my hand down his bicep, along his sleeve, arching one brow as I focused on his chest. “I want you to sleep with me.”

  He exhaled slowly. I tightened my fingertips over his arm, feeling him lock me against the kitchen table with his hips. “Have you ever been with anyone, Lark?”

  I shook my head, though I was sure he already knew the answer before he asked the question.

  In one swift movement, he lifted me suddenly, setting me to the table and sliding his open palm over my stomach. The leotard clung to my skin as he pushed me back to lie on the table, and I gasped for air as the layers of peach tulle of the tutu blocked him from my view. I felt his fingertips tracing my bare thighs, a soft moan escaping.

  “I shouldn’t do this,” he murmured.

  I pinched my eyes closed, catching my breath. “Please.”

  His hand slid inside the thin material of the body suit, and I exhaled sharply as his finger separated the leotard from the apex of my thighs. I heard the two snaps come undone, but I couldn’t see him with the layers of tulle blocking my view.

  His mouth was on me.

  Oh, God, the first sensations were like the electric shock I’d become used to, in a place I’d never been touched. He kissed me there, gently at first, eliciting moans that came from somewhere deep in my throat. I writhed, bending my knees, trying desperately to look at him, but he locked me in his grasp, his tongue searching and taunting until I heard myself beg for relief.

  I tried to close my legs and fight him as the stirring inside of me turned into something beyond my control. Pressing my thighs together against his skilled mouth, I exploded, the world falling away as I cried his name. When I drifted in and out of consciousness, he slid his arms beneath me, carrying me to the attic steps. I flattened my hand over his broad, muscled chest.

  “Where are we going?” I managed, still struggling to breathe normally.

  He continued up the stairs, closing the door and sliding the lock.

  “Your world. Your attic.” He lowered me to the bed, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m going to make you mine, ballerina.”

  I struggled for about three seconds with what was left of my conscience.

  I’d taken an oath. The words I’d spoken long ago played like a song in my head as I traced my fingers over the girl on the bed before me.

  I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife or the chemist's drug.

  She was my drug.

  I couldn’t think.

  She watched me undress. The mixture of fascination and fear in her gaze fueled a desire within me I didn’t know existed.

  I was deep inside a fantasy that I’d created. A virgin ballerina, a locked attic asylum, and the tinkling notes of Chopin still playing somewhere in the shadows.

  I was inside a music box.

  I could still taste her wetness on my tongue as I lowered my mouth to hers. I knew that she was tasting herself for the first time, and the realization sent my heartbeat into erratic jolts. I was painfully hard, and the anxiety in her gaze as she stared at my naked erection only fueled my craving.

  This awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty.

  My mouth took over as I spread her thighs open again. I slid my finger deep inside of her, listening to her sounds, measuring her tolerance. My tongue delved into her mouth, and she responded, shyly at first, which only drove me more insane.

  My finger worked purposefully into her tight, wet body. As she began to tense around me, I slid another finger inside.

  She cried out, a certain mixture of pain and pleasure.

  How is this happening.

  “Lift your hips, ballerina,” I whispered, wrapping my arm under her back to help her. She was so fucking tight, and I didn’t want to hurt her.

  I shouldn’t have wanted to hurt her.

  Primal need took over. Words that had never entered my mind before now haunted my thoughts as I felt her deep inside.

  Possession. Control.

  Mine.

  I held my cock, pressing against her opening.

  Above all, I must not play God.

  I thrust deep as I could.

  She screamed, a cry that tightened my muscles and fucked with my mind.

  “Mine,” I groaned, dropping my mouth to hers. Her body clenched around me. I could barely fit my entire length into her, and I knew I was hurting her.

  I broke away from her mouth, driving into her again. She screamed, pushing at my chest, writhing beneath me.

  “Shaw,” she moaned, and I locked her in my arms, finally gaining some control and giving her time to adjust.

  Her tutu was crushed between us, and I fisted the material, deep inside my fantasy world.

  “Dance, ballerina. Move. Move until it feels good.”

  She blinked away tears. Ever so slightly, I felt her comprehend my words. She lifted her hips, gasping, realizing that she had some control over what was happening inside of her.

  Her slight rocking sent me over the edge. I pulled back and drove into her again, but this time, she welcomed me, clenching her thighs around me, gripping my shoulders with all of her strength.

  I slowed, pressing fully into her, moving my hips to meet her urgent need. I had spent so much time trying to fix people, and as I drove her crazy, something deep and dark inside me snapped.

  I wanted her crazy.

  I wanted her reclusive. Isolated. Inaccessible.

  I wanted her hidden away, only mine. To shape, to mold, to position just as I wanted for my own pleasure.

  I was sick.

  I was coming. I felt her tighten and heard her soft cries crescendo into screams of pleasure. I could feel the rush of warmth as she came with me, locking her into my arms as she came apart.

  Primum non nocere.

  First, do no harm.

  . . .

  She slept soundly in my arms. We woke the next morning to birds chirping outside the attic window as the warm, spring sun heated the room through the panes of glass. Her long, golden hair had come undone from the pins, and the locks spread across my dark chest in feathery streams.

  “Lark.” I whispered her name, and she stirred, moving closer.

  “Hm.”

  “Lark,” I repeated, smoothing her hair away from her face. Her eyelashes fluttered before she finally opened her eyes, fixing her beautiful gaze in mine.

  “Shaw?”

  “
We need to get up. You need to eat and I need to get to the office. But mostly,” I brushed my fingertips over her cheek. “We need to talk.”

  She splayed her palm over my bare chest, sighing deeply. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “We have to talk about this.”

  “Why. I wanted you, it’s over. I’ll never tell Kelly.”

  I stiffened at the sound of my girlfriend’s name, shaking my head. “I don’t care about Kelly. I care about you.”

  “Don’t care about me. I’m broken. There’s no fixing me, Shaw. Let me be broken.”

  The silence that followed her words was deafening.

  I knew there was some truth to her words.

  Given everything I’d learned, she required intense psychotherapy, and would benefit best from being admitted and medicated. She’d probably do all right for a while, but eventually, the haunting of her mother’s death would catch up with her.

  It was a long road to walk alone.

  “What if I join you?”

  My words caught her attention. She narrowed her eyes, searching mine.

  “What do you mean?”

  I threaded my fingers through her soft hair. “I can recreate this world for you. Outside of your father’s home. You don’t have to feel like a burden, but you can still stay away from the world as much as you want to.”

  “What do you mean?” she repeated. “Move out of here? Are you talking about a mental institution?”

  I shook my head firmly, holding her closer to my chest. “No. I mean moving in with me. I’ll find a house that has an attic similar to this one. I’ll renovate if I have to.”

  Her shocked expression said enough. “I won’t become your- your resident whore patient, Shaw, that’s just-”

  “Unethical. I know. Immoral. Sick. And you’re not a whore.” I laced my fingers with hers, holding her tight. “I want you, Lark. I want you in a way that I shouldn’t. I’m probably the one who needs to be institutionalized. But I want you anyway.” I traced my finger tip over her perfect, bare breast, and she sighed, her eyes fluttering closed again. “I’ll let you live how you are comfortable living- dancing, music, peace. No medications, no shock therapy. And I’ll make sure you feel good, when you want to,” I promised, turning to press my lips to the creamy nape of her neck.

  She moaned again, turning against the pillow to let her long, flaxen hair cover her face. “What about my father?”

  “You’re an adult. I’m a doctor. He’ll feel comforted knowing you’re safe.”

  “And Kelly?” she demanded.

  “Kelly is gone. It’ll only be you, Lark. My beautiful ballerina in the attic.”

  I brushed her hair away from her eyes, and her gaze was startling.

  Conspiratorial. Devious.

  “You want this crazy world of mine?” she demanded. “You want to provide for me and give me some kind of normal life? Why?”

  I sighed, shaking my head. “I don’t exactly know. All I do know is that I’m in love with the idea of you. Locked away. Mine.” I gripped her chin, forcing her to meet my stern gaze. “Does that frighten you?”

  Her eyes widened, and she shook her head, moving even closer. “It makes me feel better knowing... knowing that you’re just as fucked up as I am, Shaw. Maybe I can help you too.”

  I groaned, pushing her back to slide my body against hers. “You’re too sore for this. But you want me anyway.”

  She nodded eagerly...

  Hungrily.

  “Yes. Yes.”

  The house Shaw found for us was even larger than my father’s. I wondered if he was throwing himself into debt to provide a replica of my current life, but he insisted that I not concern myself with financial matters.

  “All that I want is for you to feel at home. The attic will be ours, Lark. Not your father’s. Ours. Yours.”

  The prospect of relieving my father of the burden of my psychotic existence was overwhelming. I reminded myself that Shaw, though a practicing psychiatrist, had a darkness of his own deep inside of him, with fantasies and fetishes that I thought only lived in the dark places of my own mind.

  He’d shown me over the course of the week just what he was capable of, and I never stopped him, not once. I didn’t want to.

  I would quickly quell my worries by remembering that I was the sick one.

  It took less than a week for Shaw to move us into the house. I knew he was working as fast as he could because the cruise would be over by the end of the second week and our family would be returning. He wanted everything in motion before they returned.

  He put his practice on hold for the week, and by the end of the weekend, all the movers he’d hired had packed, moved, and unloaded the boxes into the new house.

  We were to live about an hour from my father, and though I knew that my erratic decisions and irrational actions were driven by my impending breakdown, I followed him. He was, after all, a psychiatrist.

  I walked hand-in-hand with him into my new attic, widening my eyes in wonder at the wall of mirrors and long barre he’d had mounted. The wooden floors were newly installed, the room painted and decorated to match my father’s attic. Everything had been put exactly in the same place.

  “I’ll unpack the rest of the house. Just relax. Dance. I’ve stocked the refrigerator. I just need to get to the office for a while. I’m meeting the realtor at noon.” He leaned in to kiss me, his mouth becoming so familiar after only a week. “God, you taste delicious. I can’t wait to get home to you.”

  I smiled, squeezing his hands before he turned and hurried down the stairs.

  I ran my fingertips along the barre, smiling at my newfound life.

  How is this happening...

  I felt as though I was in a dream, in a daze, folded inside the dark music box of my mind that only Shaw could open.

  I wandered through the rest of the mansion, in awe of the mountains of boxes that were piled in what appeared to be Shaw’s new study. I found an apple in the refrigerator and made my way to the boxes, determined to help him unpack.

  To be a functioning woman. His girlfriend.

  I smiled.

  The first box held accolades upon accolades from his education. It was clear that he graduated top of his class, and I grinned at the photo of him in his cap and gown as Melanie, Selene, and another girl posed on either side of him proudly.

  The unnamed girl caught my eye. She had long, blonde hair and big, innocent eyes, and she was tucked under Shaw’s arm protectively.

  Narrowing my eyes, I set my apple down on an unopened box and opened another box. This one was overflowing with photos, so many of them with Melanie, Selene, Shaw, and the mystery girl. Finally, I dug to the bottom and retrieved a manila folder marked Lizbeth.

  As I opened the folder, I gasped.

  There was legal paperwork naming Shaw Henry the sole beneficiary of Lizbeth Henry’s life insurance. Power of Attorney. Executor of Will.

  Primary care physician.

  The beautiful girl’s smiling photograph was attached to a newspaper clipping.

  An obituary.

  I scanned the words, stunned.

  Lizbeth Henry is survived by her mother, Melanie, and her brother, Shaw, and her sister, Selene. She is preceded in death by her father, Amos Henry.

  I swallowed hard at the apple that felt lodged in my throat.

  Lizbeth was a promising ballet student at Julliard. She will be greatly missed.

  I turned the loose pages of the folder, picking up a tattered medical file. My heart thudded irrationally as I opened the dark green folder.

  Henry, Lizbeth Anne

  Formal diagnosis: Severe Clinical Depression

  Multiple suicide attempts.

  “What are you doing?”

  I screamed, turning quickly as Shaw moved across the room. He wrenched the folder from my hand, shoving it back it to the box and pushing the box aside.

  “Who was
she?” I asked, my voice shaking.

  He stared at the box, taking a solid breath.

  “My sister. My mother’s only biological child.”

  I stood carefully, not moving, waiting.

  “She killed herself?”

  Shaw nodded, moving his gaze to the window.

  I licked my lips, my mouth going dry. “She... was a dancer. And she looked like me.”

  He continued to stare out the window, his gaze unfaltering.

  “I couldn’t save her. I can save you.”

  I backed away, nearly tripping over the first opened box behind me. “I think we’ve made a mistake.”

  He turned to me, those dark eyes meeting mine. “Have we? You told me I was fucked up too. And you’re right. I am.”

  I reached for the wall to steady myself. “Why did... why did she kill herself?”

  He took a step, so slowly, in my direction, and I shivered.

  “Because I crossed lines that I shouldn’t have. I did things to her that I shouldn’t have, Lark.”

  Tears burned my eyes as I looked anxiously at the front door.

  “I... I should go.”

  “You live in the attic,” he said, his voice so smooth and eerily calm. “I play music, you dance.”

  I felt the cold terror sweep over me as he took another step closer.

  “Shaw, you need help... I need help. This is- I can’t-”

  “Let’s go in the attic now, Lark.”

  I gasped a sob, shaking my head. “My- my mother- killed herself. In front of me. When I was six years old. That’s why I’m sick. I know why I’m sick, Shaw. You don’t why you are. Let me help you, please...”

  “The attic, Lark. It’s time for you to dance for me.”

  I wanted to run. I knew he was stronger than me, but I was fast, and my dancer’s legs could probably get me to the door quick enough to escape his grasp.

  And I imagined what life was like outside.

  Loud. Terrifying. People, so many people, and trauma that I wasn’t ready to face.

  I couldn’t face.

  The attic was calm. Peaceful.

  He reached for my hand, and for some reason, I placed my fingers in his palm.

  He met my eyes.