Stain

by Francette Phal

  No. No, I do not want that. I don’t want any of that. I don’t want her near him. I don’t want her to even look at him! And I especially don’t want her nasty, old man-touching hands on him.

  I’m completely shocked at how vehement I become. The very thought of Mallory with Maddox not only makes me ill, but it conjures a thick, black cloud of such menacing fury that I can taste my own jealousy. I want to tackle her to the ground and repeatedly claw at her face. “He doesn’t want you,” I murmur darkly.

  Her laughter rings out loud and it’s sharp enough to distract from the tension. “Oh my god, Aylee, you like him!” she says, in between breaths, still laughing like I just told her the funniest joke in the entire history of jokes. “Aw. You’re so cute. I wish you could see your face right now. You look like a kitten who got its favorite toy taken away. God, sweetheart, relax. It’s not even that serious. Yes, I’ll give you that he’s gorgeous as hell, and people tell me he can fuck until you can’t see straight. But honestly, Aylee, at the end of the day he’s just a glorified asshole who wouldn’t give you the time of day. He’s into experienced girls, like me. I mean, do you ever even go out? And therapy doesn’t count,” she adds, giving me a patronizing smile. “He’ll come, probably all over your pretty little face, and he’ll go. If anything, it’s best to just enjoy all of his fuckable qualities, ride his cock, and then put him out of your mind when you’re done. Sweetie… Girls like you don’t date boys like Maddox Moore.” She has the audacity to look at me with synthetic concern. It’s sickening how much of a bitch she’s being right now. “I personally don’t bother with his kind,besides, even if he did want me, he’s not really my type.”

  “Yeah, he’s actually age appropriate.” I want to say those words so badly they burn at the tip of my tongue. But in typical Aylee fashion, I say nothing. I fume silently, calling her every bad word that comes to mind. Wishing her the worse venereal disease known to man.

  “Stop pouting, Aylee,” she orders with a sigh, like she’s talking to a toddler. Walking around to the right side of the bed, the queen-sized mattress dips when she takes a seat next to me. Taking my hand, she says with a smile, “You know I wasn’t trying to be mean. I just want you to be careful. We’ve been best friends for five years now, if I don’t look out for you some asshole is going to come along and think it’s okay to mess with you. You need me to look out for you. And that’s all I’m doing with the whole Maddox thing. If he wants you, we can both have him.” She touches my cheek, the one without the fading bruise. “I bet you wouldn’t even know what to do with yourself if he pulled out his dick and told you to suck it. That’s why you need me, Aylee. I’ll show you all my best tricks.” She says all this like it’s supposed to be the most reassuring thing in the world when really it’s just Mallory being her typical manipulative self.

  Sometimes, like now for instance, I wonder why we’re even friends at all. She and I are so different. I think what initially drew me to her was her bravado and just how unreserved she was. There really was no filter with Mallory. She didn’t necessarily process her thoughts before she said them. That still hasn’t changed. I remember thinking how nice it was when I first met her that she was everything I wasn’t. Everything I wanted to be. Sociable, smart, sexy, and above all else, uninhibited. Her small bouts of narcissism and shallowness never bothered me before. But now I’m finding it harder and harder to ignore them. With a sigh, I sweep my hair behind my ear and resignedly take her for what she is. She’s Mallory. She’s always going to be Mallory. Rude, selfish, and self-absorbed, but deep down beneath all that she’s still my best friend. She’s still the girl who befriended me in eighth grade. She’s still the girl who makes me laugh at the stupidest things. Besides, who am I to judge her just because I sin differently? I have my own horrible qualities. My own ugliness is buried just beneath the surface. The only difference is that Mallory is more transparent about hers.

  “He doesn’t want me like that,” I say, after a moment.

  “Well, who cares? I’m going to find you some much better prospects at this party. But first, you’re changing your outfit.”

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Only everything. You dress like a fucking sister wife. You’re eighteen. You’re pretty. So let’s just thank fucking Jesus first of all that you don’t belong to some lecher named Jim Bob who lives on a compound somewhere. Now come on,” she finishes, giving a tug on my arm as she pulls me off the bed and drags me to her closet when I’m on my feet. “I know exactly what you should wear.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I come out of Mallory’s bathroom fully dressed. Although I’m sure what I’m wearing barely constitutes as nothing at all. It’s a typical Mallory outfit. And if Rachel saw me now, she would undoubtedly ban me from ever seeing Mallory again. As I slip and wiggle my left foot inside the black bootee Mallory lends me, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I’m not usually fond of mirrors, but this one…

  “I look…”

  “You look good.”

  She isn’t wrong. It’s odd seeing myself in these clothes. But I can’t say it’s a bad thing. I can’t say I don’t like how I look in them. When she’d pulled me to her closet, Mallory tossed clothes at me she expected me to put on. Including the short skater skirt she had looked at a bit ago. And although she is my best friend and I assume girls undress in front of each other, I’ve never felt comfortable enough to do so in front of anyone, not even her. Nonetheless, she’d taken it for another one of my countless eccentricities and while I hurried to the bathroom, she waited patiently. Once I was behind the closed door, I breathed better, silently grateful that she wouldn’t see my scars. While I dressed, I worried the skirt she wanted me to wear would reveal just that. But the stockings were long enough to cover my healing wounds.

  Now here I am loving my reflection. With an objective eye, I take inventory of my appearance. I’m wearing the same outfit I suggested she wear. And while she thought it wasn’t hot enough, I do. I like the way the black skater skirt falls about mid-thigh just a few inches higher than the pair of burgundy red thigh-high knee socks I’m wearing. It’s indecently…sexy. I blink in silent shock. Me and sexy are a combination of words I never thought I’d use to describe myself. But here and now, it fits. The skirt is paired with a scooped-neck, short-sleeved white lace shirt that shows just a sliver of midriff. It’s a tantalizing flash of my skin. Modest Aylee is nowhere to be seen.

  “Do you want me to do your makeup?”

  I shake my head before turning my back to the mirror. “No.” I have to draw the line somewhere. Tucking a few strands of my unbound hair behind my ear, I drop back down onto Mallory’s bed to wait for her.

  When she emerges a little later from her closet, the dress she has on flirts on that precarious line between sexy and trashy. The crimson red micro-mini-fit bandage dress is the furthest thing from subtle. But then subtle isn’t what she’s going for. Stopping just a few inches above mid-thigh, the dress clings to her lithe frame like it’s a second skin leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. It is so tight that it squeezes and lifts her breasts nearly to her neck, displaying an ample amount of cleavage.

  She rakes her fingers through her layered locks, turning a few times in the mirror to admire herself before returning an expectant gaze at me. “Well?”

  Well indeed. “Very hot.”

  Her eyes brighten. “I do look hot, don’t I?

  “Muy caliente.”

  She tosses a wry grin my way before turning back to the mirror. It appears her reflection is far more giving than my brief Spanish comment as she proceeds to make pouty faces and again raking her fingers through her hair over and over. It takes her another fifteen minutes to reapply her makeup.

  “You need to let me put this vampy red lipstick on you, at least.” She heads my way, holding the aforementioned tube of lipstick. “I promise it’ll look really good.”

  With resigned sigh, I let her. “Not too much.�
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  “Shush, just trust me.” She carefully applies the lipstick to my mouth before pulling back with a beaming smile. “Damn, I’m good. I knew this was your color. Go look.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “I’ll take your word for it. Ready?”

  “Yup, let’s get out of here,” she answers, slipping inside a pair of expensive red-bottomed black heels.

  Chapter 15

  Aylee

  The white Mercedes parked in the circular driveway is an early birthday present from Mallory’s MIA father. It arrived about a week ago just in time to soften the blow of what would ultimately be his absence. This is the latest extravagant gift from Gregory Peters. A corporate attorney who has gone through a much publicized divorce with Mallory’s mother after it’d been discovered that he’d had an affair with a client. Needless to say, Darla Peters has come away with a fortune, but deep-seated psychological issues have force her into seclusion where, according to Mallory, she pops pills and bathes in alcohol all day long. She pretty much ignores Mallory, allowing her to do whatever she wants. It’s kind of sad when you think about it, and I know it hurts Mallory more than she lets on, but according to her, she has the best of both worlds. She has the parental guidance without the unnecessary baggage that goes along with it while conveniently tapping into the Daddy ATM whenever she feels like it.

  “How’d you get your car fixed so fast?” I ask, slipping inside the passenger seat after she unlocks the doors.

  “Your dad pulled a few strings and got his mechanic to take a look at it for me.” Mallory swiped another car the day after she got the Mercedes. She’s an atrocious driver. And in typical Tim fashion, he goes out of his way for other people but refused to fix the chain on my bike when it broke twice last year. Adjusting her rearview mirror, she puts the key in the ignition, starts the engine, and flies down the street. She takes the ramp onto the highway and goes from zero to seventy in six seconds flat. I’m used to her driving this erratically since getting her license two years ago. But that doesn’t mean I’m not gripping the inner door handle for dear life or that I’m not nervously peering behind us, almost certain a hidden police car will drive out of the woodwork any minute to pull us over. The exit to our destination comes quick, a few turns later and we’re driving down Route 127. Separating the factories and auto shops lining the road is Corwin River, infested with trash and reeking of sewage.

  Turning the volume down, I glance at her, “Where exactly is this party?” My brow knits as she turns on a barely lit dirt road. “I thought we were heading to someone’s house.”

  “Nope.”

  I wait to see if she’s going to provide any more information. She doesn’t. My eyes return to the view outside as she pulls behind a massive red-brick building that’s mostly broken windows with a small sea of cars parked in the dirt lot in front of us. There’s a crowd, teenagers like ourselves wearing white rabbit masks as they make their way inside a dark entrance. Though with a quick second glance, I do spot a few older people that look over twenty-one.

  “It’s a Wonderland rave. Alice in Wonderland theme, I guess,” she says, coming to the same conclusion I do. She doesn’t give me a moment to process our surroundings or allow me to talk to her about safety and staying together when she opens the car door and bounds out like an eager puppy.

  “Mallory, wait!” Running in heels is the worst thing I can possibly do but I don’t have much of a choice at this point. I catch up to her just as she’s entering the dark interior of the building. There’s an enormous man standing in the partially lit, graffiti-filled hallway. We pay the entry fee and he hands us the same white rabbit mask everyone else is wearing. We proceed farther inside with a small group directly in front of us. When they open the heavily-scratched and dented, rusty metal door we step inside and instantly we’re transported to another world. It’s a world comprising of hypnotic neon strobe lights piercing through the darkness, pulsating to the hard, pounding bass blasting through the subwoofers. It’s a world of euphoric chaos, where lust and sex converge in an arousing orgy of debauchery. My eyes bounce everywhere, unable to focus on just one thing. I feel completely overdressed, and even Mallory’s dress seems modest compared to what the gyrating mass of sweat-stained teenagers are wearing. Which is essentially almost nothing.

  Everyone is dancing, swaying to the hard, driving EDM song rumbling through the floor. I keep close to Mallory in fear of getting lost in the crowd, but I’m looking at everything, absorbing everything. The air is stale, overcharged and overheated with a myriad of smells that’s intensely overwhelming. A guy steps directly in our path sporting the same creepy rabbit mask almost everyone else is wearing. The fact that he’s not wearing a shirt makes it possible to see the massive set of butterfly wings strapped to his back. The rainbow tutu skirt hides all that needs to be hidden, while thigh-high leather boots accentuate his slim legs. He has a multitude of glow stick necklaces around his neck, while a rainbow of caricatures glowing prettily in the dark decorates his torso.

  “Hey, bitch, ‘bout time you got here!” Invading Mallory’s space, he steps close enough that he can be heard over the music all the while pulling his mask up over his head to reveal a grinning face. Henri Kingston is the indiscriminately brash, boisterous, and often times catty friend Mallory picked up last year in drama class. I’m not a fan of his, namely because when he and Mallory get together it rarely ever ends well. Henri can always be counted on to make Mallory’s habitually bad decisions worse.

  Mallory pulls away from me to leap into his waiting arms with a squeal. “I wanted to pick out the perfect outfit! What do you think?” Stepping away, she does a turn.

  “Fierceness, bitch! Love the heels!”

  He glances my way with a tight, fake smile. “You’re here, too!”

  Pursing my lips, I say, “Yup.”

  “I’ve got candy!” That’s the end of our conversation as he focuses his attention back on Mallory pulling the string of a small, black pouch from around his left wrist. Tugging it open, he holds it up to Mallory’s excited face. “It’s the purest shit you’ll ever taste.”

  “Molly?”

  “Better, SKY. Cleaner roll.”

  A surge of unease trickles in my veins as I watch my best friend pop a little pink pill. The entire interaction between them is so casual that it casts a shade of surrealism to the scene. “I need a chaser.”

  “Snow?”

  Mallory giggles, nodding her head. “Oh yeah.”

  I will myself to speak, although I’m sure my concerns will be ignored. “Mallory…” The same caution that I constantly live by permeates my voice. “Let’s slow down for a bit and dance, okay?”

  She turns to me with a smile, “We’ll dance. I just need to head to the bathroom for like a second. Just wait for me up there.” She points to the steel scaffold just above us. “I’ll come get you as soon as I get back.” Henri pulls her away before I can say anything and she follows giddily behind him without a second glance back.

  “Fuck.”

  I don’t swear much but I think I’m justified in my current situation. In this instant, surrounded by an orgy of intoxicated people, with the earthquake of the pounding bass line vibrating through my chest and the multihued laser lights picking me out from the crowd, I feel completely and utterly alone and lonely. Like a lost little child, I squeeze my way through the throng in hopes of finding the parent that forgot I was there. But Mallory isn’t my parent. She’s a friend who’s found something better to occupy her time. I should be angry and maybe a part of me is, but it doesn’t rival the mire of self-pity I find myself sinking into. My walk up the steel steps is blurred by hot, stinging tears I refuse to let fall. It isn’t as crowded up here, but all the same, I find the corner with the least amount of people and huddle close to one of the building’s support beams, wishing and hoping I can disappear inside its frosty, concrete interior. Feeling an increasing sense of detachment from it all, I peer down at the crowd for an impossible stretch of eter
nity wondering if it’s will alone keeping me from hurtling myself over or the metal bar I’m leaning into. There’s no answer. But there’s suddenly someone’s weight against me. Pressing into me. My heart jumps, and two sharp gasps crackle from my throat as my eyes widen in disbelief. Paralyzed by terror, I can only stand there at the feel of the thickness prodding against my backside.

  “God, baby, your ass feels so good.” My ears ring as rancid, alcohol-drenched breath steams hot along the shell of my ear. “Bet it’d feel even better with my dick in between your cheeks.” He extends both his arms on either side of my body, his hands gripping the iron railing to completely cage me in. I slowly look up and stare straight ahead, my body in a trancelike state. “I’m going to fuck you so hard, you’re going to beg me for more.” He moves his hips, grinds his erection against my butt cheeks. Still, I don’t move. “You going to scream for me, baby?”

  Everything in me screams to get away. To escape. “No.” That’s all that comes out. A terrible, pitiful sound escapes from the fissures of a body that’s already been broken. Left exposed, the demons drag Tim’s presence into the moment, and his shadow, his weight, and his body replace the one behind me.

  “My little flower.”

  His words. Those revolting three little words play on a loop inside my head like a broken music box. My nightmare comes to life. It breathes down my neck. It touches me with oil-slicked hands. It bleeds violently into my reality, rendering me utterly powerless.

  Please…no.

  I don’t know how but someone hears my internal plea and in the seconds it takes for me to inhale a shuddering breath, the body of my assailant is gone.

  When I turn, it’s to see my rescuer holding my assailant by the front of his shirt, his back bowed dangerously and half hanging over the iron railing. There’s the barrel of a gun firmly fixed against the side of the stranger’s head.