In Control (The City Series)

by Crystal Serowka

  The genuine look on Trish’s face made my heart beat wildly against my chest. I was convinced the second I stepped foot inside this place, that my heart had stopped working, but Trish’s explanation, the tears that pricked her eyes, convinced me that maybe, just maybe I could finally have a permanent home.

  When Trish brought me to her apartment that night, I was expecting it to be beat up. I looked in the empty bedrooms, searching for other children. It was just her and I, and a clean apartment decorated with fresh flowers and nice furniture.

  Over time, I opened up to her. Not completely, but more than I ever had with anyone else. She cried when I told her that every time I looked at my naked body, I still saw bruises covering it. She understood my need to lock my bedroom door at night. She even accepted my lies of why sometimes I didn’t even come home. Trish didn’t punish me because somehow she knew I was doing what I had to do to cope.

  Until I met Wren, I didn’t think another person could genuinely love me. I felt like with Trish it was just a fluke, but then he came along, and for reasons I won’t ever be able to understand, fell in love with me.

  I ran up the stairs behind him, quickly, before I could change my mind. Past the hallway, through the dining room, and up to the third floor. Wren’s bedroom door was open and when I arrived in the doorway, he looked up from his bed, a blank stare on his face. My breathing was heavy and the words that were on the tip of my tongue were ones I’d never thought I’d speak out loud.

  “When I was thirteen I was raped.”

  When I left Porter’s yesterday, I walked around the city until I could feel my feet begging for rest. I arrived at the Hendersons ten minutes after curfew, and I knew the moment I stepped inside, I was in trouble. The house was silent, meaning the kids were upstairs in their rooms so they couldn’t witness the trouble that would ensue. Mrs. Henderson rushed into the hallway, holding a fork tightly between her fingers.

  “Where have you been?” she screamed, approaching me at full speed.

  I backed into the door, fearing the utensil in her hand. The closer she got, the more my insides twisted in fear. She grabbed onto my wrist and turned me around so that my back was against her chest. As she whispered how much she hated me, she held the fork against my throat. Her other arm trapped my body, so I wasn’t able to move an inch.

  “Why are you late?”

  Her tone became harsher each passing second. I was afraid to speak, fearing that if I said one wrong thing, the fork would pierce my skin.

  “I-I,” I stuttered, unable to stay calm. “Tutoring ran late.”

  Mrs. Henderson pushed my body away from her, and I fell onto the floor, my hands catching most of the fall. I lay on my stomach, knowing that if I moved the slightest bit, it would make her angrier. She placed her foot on my lower back, forcing her weight down onto me.

  “You’re such a little bitch! Why must you lie all the damn time?”

  Her weight shifted, and in that moment I took my only chance at escaping. I forced my body off the ground, but before I could get very far, Mrs. Henderson had me pinned against the front door.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are?” she snarled.

  I turned my face away and closed my eyes, trying with all my might to block out the next few seconds. Her palm struck my cheek not once, but twice. She clamped onto my hair, tugging it in all directions.

  “You’re an evil piece of shit!”

  Her words didn’t hurt me, but her hands always did.

  She yanked my wrist forward and I fell onto my back. The floor was the most dangerous place to be; I was most vulnerable lying down. I didn’t realize she had kicked me in the side of my stomach until it felt like my lungs had collapsed in my chest. I took three huge gulps of air only to realize that I wasn’t actually able to take in any. I was heaving on the ground, grasping at the tile and trying with everything I had to stand up and run.

  Mrs. Henderson knelt down, and I was so afraid she was going to strangle me that with the only energy I had remaining, I put my hands up to guard my face.

  “You’re not brave, little girl. You’re weak. Remember that.”

  But I was brave. At least, I wanted to be more than anything. I wanted to stop plaguing myself with the things I couldn’t control. No matter how many times I was beaten or how many times I felt threatened, I needed to continue to breathe. Having Porter around helped me come to the conclusion that no matter what, I wanted to live.

  When I woke the next morning, I did what I always did. I stared at the calendar. 150 days with Porter, but who knew if it even mattered anymore.

  When Mrs. Henderson finally stopped hurting me last night, she instructed me, as always, not to say a word to anyone. Or else. It was in those or else warnings that I wondered what could possibly be worse than this.

  The Hendersons had planned on taking the children to the bowling alley that day. It didn’t happen often, and after last night, Mrs. Henderson made it clear that I wasn’t invited. She explained her reasoning to Andrew, telling him that I had to stay at the house and wait for the plumber to come and fix the kitchen sink. She wasn’t lying about the sink. It had stopped working last week and since then, she’d been washing the dishes in the upstairs bathroom. Unfortunately though, a plumber wasn’t coming to fix it.

  It would be my first time ever in the house alone, and I was looking forward to walking around the house without having to watch my back at all times. As soon as I heard the front door close, I grabbed my shower towel and headed upstairs. Stepping under the shower head without fear of someone banging on the door made it easy for me to relax and allow the water droplets to melt away my stress. For once, I wasn’t counting the seconds I had left before I’d have to get out. For once, the water was hot, and I allowed the steam to work its way into my sore lungs. A dark blue bruise covered my side, aching to the touch. I gently rubbed the area, wishing I could push a button and all of my pain would disappear.

  Ashley must have forgotten to take out her body wash, and when I saw it sitting on the top shelf, I convinced myself to use some. I squirted a pea-sized amount into my palm and worked it into a lather. The scent of pumpkin mixed with cinnamon filled the space, and the decadent smell tempted me into squeezing more into my hand. My tense muscles relaxed as I spread the soap over my skin. I looked at my fingers, seeing that they were starting to wrinkle, and laughed. I’d never had the opportunity to see that happen.

  When I stepped out of the shower, I dried myself off, taking my time with each part of my body, getting every last water droplet. I secured the towel around me and went on to brush my hair, paying special attention to the tiny knots that formed when it got wet. I squirted some styling cream into my palm, which must have also been Ashley’s since she was the only other person with curly hair in the house. The cream smelled like lavender, and I couldn’t help but keep sniffing my hair after applying it. I decided to leave my hair down today, which I rarely did. I dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a pink t-shirt that said Hello, Brooklyn. I’d found it last year at the Goodwill Mrs. Henderson worked at and was so happy when she agreed to buy it for me. It was on clearance, so only cost her 79 cents.

  I looked at myself in the mirror, pleased with my reflection. My hair hung down in thick tendrils around my face. The bruises underneath my clothing were dark, but I was happy they could be hidden. Even though I didn’t know what to expect when I met with Porter today, I still felt hopeful.

  I arrived ten minutes early to see that he had the same idea. As soon as I walked in through the back door, Porter ran up to meet me, stopping just inches from my face.

  “Hi,” he said nervously. He smiled but then straightened his expression.

  “Hello,” I replied. I was also nervous, not sure if I should reach out and hug him. I wanted to hold his hand, nuzzle into his side and forget all about what happened the day before.

  “Listen,” he started. “I’m sorry about getting mad yesterday, I just—”

  “I’m sorry too,�
� I cut in. “I didn’t mean to stop you. I didn’t mean to make such a mess...literally.”

  Porter laughed and I joined in. Our eyes met and I knew that we were back on track. All was forgotten, and I was thankful that he had forgiven me. He reached out for my hand and brought it to his lips, kissing each knuckle.

  “I love you, Kingsley.”

  His declaration gave me the ammunition I needed to jump into his arms. I wasn’t usually this forward, but hearing those words come from Porter’s mouth was sweeter than any dessert I’d ever tasted. I pressed my body against his, not fearing the outcome. I didn’t expect Porter to push me away, and when he did, I looked at him, confusion wracking my brain.

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  He took my hand and led me into the room we usually sat in, only it wasn’t so empty. There was a blanket spread out on the ground, a candle lit off to the side, and our flasks sitting next to the candle. I looked over at him, waiting for him to explain what was going on. Porter just smiled and sat down on the comforter, pulling me down with him.

  I bent forward, needing to kiss him. I wanted to lay here on the blanket with him all day and never stop kissing him. Today I would shut out all of the awful images and only focus on this moment. My hands moved to Porter’s back and I pulled him closer toward me.

  “Wait,” he said, pulling away. “I brought our flasks. Let’s have a drink first.”

  I wanted to tell him I didn’t need a drink. All I wanted to do was show him how much I loved him, to prove to him that I could be like every other girl on the planet. He handed me my flask, then brought his to his mouth. I watched as Porter took one large sip and swallowed it down, a smile forming on his lips. I followed, knowing that I didn’t want any whiskey, but also knowing that he would insist I drink with him. That’s the way it had been since we started in the beginning of the school year. We drank until our vision blurred, then we’d sit side by side, hold hands, and talk about the future. Most of the time, I’d just listen to Porter talk, taking in every piece of information I could.

  I took two small sips and put down the flask, wishing he’d do the same. I enjoyed drinking, but lately it had become tiresome. Porter enjoyed it more than me, and because of that fact, I endured what I had to in order to be around him.

  “I think I want to be an engineer,” Porter blurted out.

  “A few days ago you said you wanted to be an athletic scout. Did you change your mind already?”

  Porter’s cheeks were more rosy than usual and the way he was gulping his drink, I knew he’d had much more than me.

  “I changed my mind. I’m allowed to do that, right?” he said bitterly.

  Another long sip and I knew his flask was now empty.

  “Of course,” I answered.

  “Aren’t you going to finish yours?” He pointed to the container sitting next to me.

  “I’m not very thirsty.”

  Porter rolled his eyes.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I asked, my voice shaking.

  “I guess,” he mumbled.

  “Why do we always have to drink? I mean, why can’t we just talk like we used to?”

  “We have access to all the alcohol we want. Why wouldn’t we drink?”

  Our alcohol source was the same homeless man that Porter hit up the day we picked our after school hobby. The man sat at the same spot every day and now considered Porter his best friend. Porter must have spent a fortune between paying for the alcohol and also giving the man a bonus, but told me he didn’t mind because it was something fun we did together. I didn’t think his parents suspected a thing, because he told them that he needed the money for different things going on at school. Football fees, new school supplies, buying new books from the store on different subject matters—Porter gave excuse after excuse and, because his parents trusted him, they believed it.

  It wasn’t so easy for me. When I didn’t tutor younger kids at the library, which was now a legitimate excuse, I drank with Porter. I’d stay with him in the abandoned building until 6:45, then sneak into the Hendersons’ and immediately run down stairs. I never drank too much that I couldn’t walk or talk, but I always left Porter feeling really good, like courage only appeared after the alcohol cleansed my insides.

  My thoughts ran to last night and how sore my body still was from the event. I’d found that alcohol did a really good job at numbing my pain, and because I was in so much today, I decided to drink my entire container. As I downed it, I coughed, but forced myself to swallow the contents.

  “Atta girl.” Porter bent forward and kissed me, giving more affection than he had since I arrived.

  My stomach was warm and it took only seconds for me to feel more at ease. I grabbed onto his collar and pressed my lips to his, feeling the same sensation I’d felt when we were in his room yesterday. He guided me onto my back, and this time when he pressed his body against mine, I didn’t become sick.

  It’s been months since the night it happened. Mr. Henderson hadn’t tried coming into the basement again, and every time we ended up in the same room, he avoided my eyes at all costs. I wasn’t sure if he felt bad (I doubted he did), but I was thankful the nightmare wasn’t a recurring one. Being with Porter, kissing him and feeling his touch, eased those dark memories enough for me to move on from that horrible night.

  Not completely, but enough.

  “Is this okay?” Porter asked, moving his hands up my shirt.

  I nodded. Whenever the ugly images tried working their way into my thoughts, I kissed Porter harder, discovering that his lips had the power to expel every one of them. His hands moved across my stomach, gliding over each bruise and stopping at the top of my jeans. He studied my face, and I nodded again, allowing him to continue his exploration. Instead of remembering how Mr. Henderson touched me, I’d be rewarded with knowing how it felt when Porter did it.

  Porter reached into his bag that sat off to the side and grabbed what I knew to be a condom. I stared at the ceiling as he put it on, telling myself whatever was necessary to not change my mind.

  He loved me and I wanted to do this.

  Using the blanket to mask our bodies, I was able to hide myself enough that Porter couldn’t see the black and blue marks on my skin. He didn’t even try peeking under the blanket, always keeping his eyes focused on mine. Until the day came that he saw me completely undressed, I could pretend that I wasn’t covered in bruises.

  Our bodies met and the comfort of his warm skin kept me from wanting to push him off.

  I didn’t mind those few minutes. I thought if I were to have sex again, my body would shut down. I thought I’d cry throughout the entire thing, because that’s what I did with Mr. Henderson. But none of that happened. Porter was gentle. He didn’t hold me down or whisper dirty things in my ear.

  In those few minutes, I felt like my body was actually being worshiped and not brutalized.

  “You were what?”

  Shock laced his voice. Wren’s eyes were glued on mine, his chest heaving up and down, and when I looked at his hands, they were clutched into tight fists.

  I walked into his bedroom, dodging past the suitcase on the ground, and sat next to him. Before speaking again, I took two calming breaths, closing my eyes with each one.

  Wren scooted his body closer to me, taking my hands in his. “When did it happen? Who did it? Did it happen when you were living in the foster home with all those other kids?”

  His interrogation made the palms of my hands sweat and I pulled them out of his grasp. I shouldn’t have told him if I didn’t want to reveal everything, but I couldn’t say Mr. Henderson’s name out loud. I didn’t think I could go over every last detail without wanting to throw myself off a cliff. I swallowed back my tears, forcing my eyes to stay open. If I closed them, the images would feel too real again. I concentrated on the guitar sitting in the corner of Wren’s room. I counted the strings at least a dozen times before feeling Wren’s hand on my knee.

  “Kingsley, please
,” he urged, his voice hoarse with emotion, “let me help you.”

  I looked down at his hand and started counting the blue veins beneath his skin. He knew I was avoiding his questions, but he also knew that if he wanted me to open up, he had to allow me to do it on my own time. We sat in silence for a few more minutes before I was able to speak again.

  I turned to face him. “I need you to know that sometimes when I drink too much, these horrible images from my past flood my brain,” I started. “They flood them to the point where I feel like I’m drowning.”

  Wren took my hands in his again, this time keeping a firm grasp on them. He searched my eyes for clarification.

  “It happened one time—”

  “One time is enough,” Wren interrupted.

  “It happened one time, in the middle of the night. My foster parent, Mr. H—” I stopped myself before speaking his name. I felt bile rise in my throat, aware that I wouldn’t be able to say it. “He told me it was my punishment for being so pretty.” I wasn’t able to keep the tears at bay any longer. I never recounted this memory, because all it did was bring on pain and anger. It made me feel like I was out of control.

  Wren pulled me into his body, whispering his apologies. I placed my ear to his chest, the melodic pulse of his heart remedied my broken one.

  “The entire time it was happening, I didn’t try moving,” I continued, speaking so softly I could hardly hear myself over the pounding of memories in my ears. “I couldn’t move; I didn’t speak. I hummed.” I shook my head, feeling the pain from that night resurface. “He was too strong to push away, Wren. The entire time all I was thinking was why me? Why did he only do it to me?”

  I was crying in a way Wren had never seen. Throughout our relationship, he’d witnessed me secretly cry over a sappy commercial or movie, but I always denied it ever happened. As I sat there on his bed though, I wept without shame. I sobbed. I let go.