by LW Barefoot
“You changed me and here I thought I changed you as well. But you’ve lied to me, my sweet slut, you made me feel and then you took yourself away.”
The slap to my face is nothing as my head jerks to the side with the force of his hit. I secretly thank Anthony for allowing me to act like I had no control.
The last time the Sculptor and I were together he believed he held all the power.
“I thought that’s how you liked things now.”
He slaps me again and this time, I see it coming and fall to the ground to guard myself.
“Is it possible that the one thing I shielded you from all those years ago was the one thing you needed the most?”
Another blazing palm connects with my face with my arms in the way.
“Tell me, when Evan hits you do you get wet?” he demands.
He grabs my arms and hauls me up off the floor. His hand between my legs. I struggle to get away from him but I have nowhere to go.
“What exactly makes you aroused? What makes you beg for it?”
His eyes light on where his hand is. He pushes his finger in my dry entrance and with his other hand he slaps me again. I bite my tongue as he rapes me with his fingers.
I can do this. I can do this. I repeat the mantra over and over.
He grips my neck in his hands and pushes me against the wall. His lips move over mine as he continues his sick invasion. I stay stock still but I should know better. I should play along, but I couldn’t then and I sure as hell can’t now.
“Get in the tub,” he says when he finally pulls away from me.
Disgust paints his features as I crawl into the tub trembling and pretending like I’m incapable of fear. I start the process of bathing as if it’s the most important task in the world. Washing away the feel of his hands off my body, but it doesn’t work.
A deep groan escapes him and I can’t help but look up to where he stands. He braces himself against the sink with his head down. His shirt gone.
The curves and hollows down his back are highlighted by harsh shadows. Deep slashes and rugged scars crisscross the expanse of his back. It looks like they were acquired over time and his skin grew painfully stretching them out. There’s not a single inch of skin untouched from the top of his neck down his spine. The scars disappear down the waistband of his pants.
I realize I’m staring when he catches me. His face is flawless and beautiful. Ice cold eyes demand my undivided attention. They hold me captive as anger flashes across their wintery freeze.
“Hurry up. We need to get moving,” he says.
Pulling his shirt back on, he slams the bathroom door and leaves me alone.
Confusion clouds over every single thing I thought I knew about the Sculptor, but then I remind myself that I know nothing at all.
Harper
Sarah brings me a fresh change of clothes before I get out of the bath. Her split lip oozes and she hasn’t wiped the blood off that’s drying under her nose. The cut on her lip opens wider when she smiles.
“What are you getting out of this?” I ask.
“Who are you really afraid of, Harper? Is it Joe? Is it the man you know as the Sculptor? Or is it the man you think you love? Do you think Evan is worse than all the above?”
“Absolutely not,” I say without thought.
“Do you know Evan has probably killed more people than Joe and the Sculptor combined?”
“That can’t be true,” I protest.
“Has he ever crossed the line with you? Have you ever seen anger boil up in him to the point you’ve never been so scared in your entire life?”
She should know by now that the only person worth fearing is on the other side of the door.
“Evan has never held me against my will. He’s never shot anyone in front of my face, especially someone I care for. He’s never kicked my dog repeatedly to the point I’m scared that he’s not alive. And he’s never used me to the point that I lost my mind in the process.”
Voicing all those truths takes my breath away. I refuse to let her see me cry as the knot in my throat tightens painfully in place.
“Oh, but he’s capable of all those things. You just haven’t had a front row seat to what he’s done to get something he wants,” she smirks with venom.
I hope like hell she’s right. Memories of the night that spiraled out of control with his fists battered and bloody come up. The anger that washed over him with his eyes on my neck scared me beyond reason. But I took everything he threw my way. I pray that Evan uses that determination and drive to come for me.
“If you can’t even imagine that’s a possibility then you really are such a stupid bitch, you know that?” she spits.
“And you’re shacking up with a lunatic. So who’s the stupid bitch here?” I answer her, hating that she dragged me down to her level so fast.
“Out of all the evil men I know intimately, who do you think tops the list?” she sneers. A single drop of blood drips on her chin and hangs there, she doesn’t seem to notice. “No? I didn’t think so. Evan’s the worst and you think you’re in love with him,” she laughs like a maniac.
I cringe and she laughs louder.
“You really are such a stupid fucking bitch?” she laughs.
“Someone seems jealous of this stupid bitch,” I retaliate.
I’m naked in the bathtub when her switch flips from nuts to full-out crazy. She screams and flies across the tiled floor that separates us. I splash water in her face and get the first punch in. Mentally thanking my therapist for the practice and Brad for the training. It takes Sarah completely by surprise. At least, this stupid bitch knows how to hit.
Her nails scale down my arm and her hits become sloppy. Brad would laugh his ass off with her approach. The thought of my best friend as my shadow fuels the power in my fist as it connects with her throat. My heart breaks as I think of Seth collapsing on the front steps with blood rushing out of his chest and the memory powers my fight.
The Sculptor bursts through the bathroom door and wrenches Sarah away with his fist in her hair. He takes in my appearance as I stand shuddering in disgust.
Sarah doesn’t get a second glance as his heated stare is trained on the red trails her nails left down my right arm.
The last thing I notice as he pulls her across the tile like a dog is the glittering Hawthorne crest Evan gave me. It sparkles and shines as tears from Sarah’s eyes drip down across her chin.
Her eyes hold death and they are directed at me.
Harper
I throw off the towel and dress as quickly as I can manage. The quiet that permeates outside the small bathroom is too much. I thought I would hear Sarah’s wails of pain but there’s nothing but ominous silence.
My unmasked villain comes back in the doorway as soon as I slip the sundress over my head. He holds his hand out for me and I take it. What other choice do I have?
His frozen wintery eyes have no place in the southern summer humidity. He studies me from afar, but he’s closer than he has ever been. The absence of his mask pulls down those frightening barriers I erected.
His grip is instant on my neck, pulling me around to focus on Sarah. She’s slumped across the floor and foam coats her thin lips. She’s dead without him having to spell it out. Her chest remains still. Her last expression somehow peaceful.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“I gave her the pill she forced down your throat,” he purrs. “I’m trying to take care of you and you don’t even give a shit.”
I’m shoved down across the back of a couch. It’s the same as before, only five years ago I wasn’t staring at a dead body with foam dripping out of her mouth.
“Don’t say a fucking word,” the Sculptor’s voice slithers its sickness up my back.
My wrists crush together in his grasp as he presses them against my back. He scoops the fabric of my dress up and works it in the same direction.
“You still have the tightest little ass,” he mumbles as he licks the
indentions on my spine and trails lower.
I drift off when I can no longer take it. I drift and sway away from the body that traps me and the person who believes that it’s his.
I am my own and no one else’s. I envision my fists bleeding and pounding against pads held by Jamie and Brad and Seth with the face of the Sculptor’s. And then it morphs and changes and my fists are no longer hitting pads but the actual face of the one who violates me.
My imagination conjures scary truths of what I’m capable of if given the chance. I feel the night air I felt when I mutilated a plastic mannequin and realize how far I’m willing to go in order to fight and win. I’m thankful for Grayson pushing me and making me face that feeble fear.
The Sculptor fulfills his desires and I swear I will be the last person he ever touches in this manner. This degradation, this shame is not and will not be the sum of my whole. I’m so much more. Even in this violation, I rise above.
I curse in my false strength when a needle punctures my skin.
As he comes undone, I’m nothing more than his puppet on a string, once again.
Evan
My phone buzzes away in my pocket as the funeral plays out. There are no kind or personal words spoken about my mother. Not one person wants to stand and say anything about the woman we’re here to lay to rest and pay our respects to.
The topic of interest is the absence of the widower, Joe Hawthorne. I’ve received more questions about his whereabouts than condolences about my mother’s passing.
Mae is the only person I’ve seen with tears in their eyes and tissue against cheeks.
The insistent vibration in my pocket doesn’t let up. The wood pew picks up on the intrusive sound and it starts to echo. I slip it out of my pocket to silence it but Grayson’s number flashes too many times to count. Too many times to ignore.
I slide my finger across the screen when I walk out of the packed congregation and the heavy doors close behind me.
“Did you forget about my mother’s funeral?” I hiss.
“Seth just got taken away in an ambulance and Martin is taking Rufus to a vet,” Grayson says.
“What the fuck? Why?”
“Seth was shot in the chest and Harper didn’t come back from her run,” Grayson spits out.
My gut drops to the ground.
“I pulled up her location. She’s in New Orleans,” Grayson admits.
His words bring me to my knees and has the power to engulf me with a fear I’ve never been up against.
“How’s Seth doing?”
“He’s stable and the bleeding has slowed,” he says. “He wouldn’t let me go to the hospital with him. Seth said he saw the Sculptor when he was fading in and out. That’s who he said shot him. It’s him. I saw his face for myself on the security cameras. He took her, Evan.”
My worst nightmare comes true. In the staggering suffocating heat, everything that keeps me rational and sane evaporates with blinding rage.
Brad comes out of the church doors and takes the phone from me as we climb in the car we arrived in. He hands it back after Grayson tells him what has happened because I’m speechless. I hang up and pull up Harper’s location.
The flashing dot pulls me from helplessness to hopefulness. The tug is heady and urgent.
Brad tears through traffic, getting us to the location of Harper’s beeping dot, her beacon I selfishly placed around her neck.
Blaring horns and middle fingers whoosh past the windows of the car as I call Tom.
“I saw you leave the service. Ryan and I are right behind you,” Tom says.
I look to the side mirror to see we’re not the only ones rushing across town. I’m out of the car before Brad throws it in park.
I rush through the small French Quarter pied-à-terre, mindful not to touch anything. Time, meaning, circumstance blur and tangle when we arrive at the beacon of Harper’s necklace hanging from Sarah’s battered throat.
It’s a cannon blow straight through me. The only means of locating Harper glitters on top of a chest that no longer pulls in air.
I hurry back out to the street and look frantically for any sign of Harper or a man pulling a woman or a car speeding off. Anything that could shine hope on Harper’s location as fear unfurls.
The distractions of the bustling Quarter are still present, but there’s a buzz ringing in my ears when I hear something close to a growl off to my right.
A woman with blind eyes and unruly hair slides chalk across the pavement in a series of numbers and letters she’s unable to see. A car honks at her and she moves away from the street. Terrible sounds escape her as she scratches the chalk against the slate sidewalk and then moves to marking up the side of the building.
I turn my attention back to the road, back to the people milling about. Brad comes out of the apartment. The blind woman in ragged clothes catches his eye.
“Miss,” he says as he moves closer to her.
Ryan and Tom rush inside the apartment searching for anything that could give us a clue and dealing with Sarah’s body.
The woman with the chalk in her hand turns her solid white eyes on Brad. I study the standoff when the woman howls like a crazed person.
“She let the wolf in,” she hisses. “I tried to warn her, I tried to tell her. Casey let him in.”
Harper’s real name spoken in the woman’s gravelly voice sends my pulse firing even harder than it has been since I spoke with Grayson.
“Where is she?” Brad asks.
The woman turns back to marking the chalk against the side of the building. The same series of numbers and letters slash across the old textured stucco.
“Where is that?” I yell unable to control myself.
“Casey and the car. The car and Casey,” she says. “Casey’s in this car. She’s fading away. He’s got his claws sunk deep, too deep. So deep.”
I snap a picture of the license plate number the woman has been feverishly decorating the building with. I call Grayson after I send him the photo I snapped of the chalk markings.
“Where is she?” he pants.
“Call your connection at NOPD and get them to pull up that license number.”
Brad hugs the blind woman whose eyes lock on mine and I swear she sees straight through me.
The Sculptor
My hand grazed Casey’s scar, the one I left, the one I’m responsible for, and I couldn’t stand to touch her any longer. And yet, the need to touch her and never let her go is stronger than ever.
I’ve fantasized about this moment but I’m already screwing it up. I take a deep breath and continue my pursuit to capture her completely. She lays sprawled out in the bed with dawn’s rays touching the delicate skin on her face and highlighting the varying shadows.
I trace and put down with ink against paper a touch more intimate than my finger ever could be. Sweeping strokes of plump sinful lips made innocent by the natural shade of pink. I recreate every line and indention. Every hollow and crevice.
My heart betrays me as it stumbles around in my chest when her hazel eyes flutter open. The brief second of peace that instantly disappears from her gaze does something indescribable to me. It turns my stomach and the fear now reflecting in those far off eyes has it churning.
“Good morning,” I whisper to my beloved.
She doesn’t say a word as she rolls on her side, giving me her back. Endless waves spread across the white pillow that cradles her head and my palm itches to hold it.
I set my sketch pad down and move to the side of the bed, rolling the pen and syringe around and around in my grasp. Her spine goes rigid when my shadow blankets her. My mouth waters as she tries her hardest to contain her fear.
I pull the sheet away and push it to where only the slightest hint of her nudity tempts from beneath the fabric. I place a hand on her side as she shivers. With needle ready I ask her, “Are you going to cooperate this time?”
“Yes,” is the only answer I receive.
Moving back to my seat,
I begin a new drawing, a sketch, a piece of my heart. Hours pass with the sun repositioning itself throughout the day and Casey finally stirs.
“I need to use the restroom,” she whispers.
“It’s behind me.”
She takes the bed sheet with her. Fresh trails of tears stream down her face and my hand works overtime to capture my favorite display of emotions.
When she’s finished, she moves back to the doorway. Her eyes attempt to take in her surroundings. She stares longingly at the other door across the room until I tap the syringe against my leg. It captures her rapt attention.
“Move by the windows and bow down. Palms flat on the floor with your head bent. Keep the sheet wrapped around your waist and press your cheek against the ground,” I instruct her.
She does as she’s told, keeping a death grip on the white sheet. Waiting until she gets situated, I re-adjust the sheet to billow around her submission. The lines and curves of her back appear harsh compared to the soft cotton floating around her. I capture it. Every single shade from the setting sun to the subtle difference of her pale skin in contrast to the stark bedding.
“Roll over,” I instruct her and flip to a new blank page.
She obeys when the tap of the syringe bumps against my leg. Keeping the sheet against her chest, she turns over on her back. I spread her waves out behind her as she holds in a painful breath of air. She releases it with an audible sigh when I resume my seat.
By the time the sun dips behind the horizon and casts shadows around us, I’m almost to the best part.
I move to her and reveal her perfect left breast. This is where my control slips and wars with what I want and what I truly need.
Hazel eyes capture my struggle and a fresh wave of her tears make up my mind to capture it in ink and then across my tongue when I lick them away and cause more to fall.
This is my first and last taste of freedom.
