The Fall of Troy

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  I shot a glare at him.

  “What?” He grinned at me. “He’s beautiful. And I really can’t tell if the fact that he is a soulless asshole makes that better or worse.” His hand grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop. “Hey, you okay? You haven’t said a word… and I mean, I already know that I’m funny, so the fact that you’re not laughing right now means that something’s wrong with you and not my jokes.”

  A smile cracked over my face at that. “Sorry,” I said with a sigh. “I just can’t believe he said that… did that.”

  His eyes narrowed on me as his hand reached for my other arm, turning and spinning me to face him. “Okay, new plan. We’ve officially survived our first day of what is going to be an interesting semester; I think that calls for a celebration. I live two blocks over on Baker Street and my wine fridge is fully stocked with only the finest for Mommy and Daddy when they visit.” The eye roll said that their visits weren’t something that happened too often, if at all. “And we can order pizza from this new place downtown.”

  I hesitated. I didn’t really know him all that well. Then again, it meant I didn’t have to go home and answer a thousand questions from my mother about my first day of school like I was in elementary school again.

  He huffed. “I live alone—another perk of Daddy’s oil money. And while your bod is smokin’, I hate to break it to you, doll, but you’re not my type.” At that we both laughed, the tension that had built in the room finally starting to disappear. Like the smell of smoke after you’ve stood by a fire for too long. “And I promise, I won’t kill you. Unless you start clicking a pen. Then I make no promises.”

  My head threw back as laughter finally burst completely from my chest, pushed out by the pressure of frustration.

  The walk to his rowhome was less tense after that.

  “You live here?” I gaped, as he took the stairs to a huge, old brownstone.

  He shot a grin at me over his shoulder as he unlocked the door. “Oil money.”

  With raised eyebrows, I followed Kev inside—which was even more impressive than the exterior. He gave me a tour, making sure to point out the ‘focal piece’ in each room—whether it was a Persian rug, Chihuly chandelier, or the china set that used to belong to Duke of Something-or-other.

  Reaching the state-of-the-art mahogany kitchen, he pulled out one of the counter stools, pointing obnoxiously at it for me to sit. I reached for my phone and texted my mom that I wasn’t going to be home until later; I’d already let her know I was going over to a friend’s but, of course, she responded asking how long I was going to be out. Until you stop texting me, I wanted to answer.

  “Alright, spill,” he said, pulling two wine glasses down off the rack where they hung before he opened up the wine freezer.

  “What do you mean?” I chewed on the inside of my cheek, wincing as the wine popped open.

  The annoyed stare he gave me would have stopped traffic. “What’s your deal? Transfer in after half a semester, no interest in any friends aside from myself, and incredibly aggravated by what that gorgeous jerk said. Your story, Troy. Spill,” he demanded as he topped off the second glass and pushed it toward me.

  I took a long sip, drawing out the silence and debating if I really wanted to have another therapy session about my fucked-up mind.

  “The short version? My dad slept with my best friend and it screwed with my head. So, I came up here to live with my mom and her boyfriend.”

  His mouth fell open with a large gasp.

  “Well, then. That wasn’t what I was expecting. Very juicy. How did you find out? Did they have a sit-down with you? Oh my God, how awkward would that—”

  “Not as awkward as walking in on them screwing,” I retorted with a tight smile, taking another giant gulp of wine before that image came back to me.

  “Wow,” he mouthed.

  “Yeah.”

  “What a bitch.”

  I had to admit I liked his no filter attitude. I didn’t want to admit that I felt bad thinking… hearing him call Lilith that. “Yeah…”

  “Okay, so that’s the past but what’s your story?” he pressed, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “I know there’s more to it. No one walks in on that and comes out unscathed. So, where are they?”

  “Where are what?”

  “Your scars.”

  My mouth dropped. How did he… he couldn’t know… There was a beat of silence where I made a different decision than I expected.

  Unremarkable Troy would have pushed him off with a nothing to see here attitude. But I was remarkable. I was worth the effort even if I was a little messed up after what happened.

  “On my legs.”

  His eyebrows rose. He hadn’t been talking about physical scars—only emotional ones. “What happened?” There was no more teasing in his normally light voice, only the sincerity to hear my story and be my friend.

  “I walked in on… that… and then ran to my room, locked the door, and vomited up the lunch I hadn’t eaten.” Kev’s face fizzled into a vague glob of shapes and colors as I lost myself in the memory I’d only spoken to Dr. Shelly about. “I had a small bottle of Jack stashed in my room. We’d snuck it up there one night and decided after a few sips the buzz wasn’t worth the effort, but I’d never brought it back. It was strong and bitter, and I still didn’t particularly like the taste but the burning felt good. The burning was the only thing that was able to cut through the searing agony ripping through my chest.”

  I blinked and Kev came back into focus. This was the longest I’d ever seen him in silence, and I realized that was the most comforting and respectful thing he could have done.

  “I’d been sitting on the floor between my bed and my desk, and I heard them knocking on my door. Persistently. Like the pen clicking…” I trailed off, the parallel settling over me like a dense fog. “I heard them talking to me, trying to get me to let him in. Pleading. But I just remember feeling paralyzed by shock and pain.”

  Literal, physical pain. Arms, legs, but mostly in my chest. You know how if you keep twisting a piece of plastic, eventually it will snap? That’s what my body felt like—like I was being twisted from the inside out. I imagined it must be what torture felt like: indescribable pain with no end in sight.

  But here’s the thing about pain. Pain was a science, not magic. It’s a result of a physical catalyst that creates a chemical response in the body. Something has to happen to cause the pain. Fix that something, remove the pain. The problem, in my irrational mind, was at that moment, there was nothing on my body to cause the pain. No broken bones. No wound. No torture chamber. And yet I felt it. I breathed it like acid into my lungs. Every inhale was like another rip through my muscles, another crack in my bones.

  My throat thickened as I continued to the part of that day that twisted my failures into some sort of mental instability. “And it got to the point where even the alcohol couldn’t mask the pain I felt—a pain that made no sense. How could something that had no visible, tangible source, hurt so much? So, I gave it a reason to make sense.” My hands rubbed on the tops of my thighs. “They think I was trying to kill myself but I wasn’t cutting with the vein, I cut across it.”

  Hence, why I was not trying to kill myself.

  I was trying to give my pain a source. A home. A reason for being. I wanted to give it life in order to put an end to it because it hurt too bad. And the burning and blood from the blade made me feel better because it was an explanation that made sense.

  “Oh, Troy…”

  I cleared my throat and dropped my gaze. “At some point, the loud banging on the door finally propelled me enough to attempt to stand, but I forgot that I was propped against my desk, so when I stood, my head slammed into the top of my desk hard enough to put me out.”

  I wasn’t out for long, but it was long enough.

  “When I came to, I was already in the ambulance. Later, I found out that the bottle of Advil on my desk that I’d left open by mistake earlier after taking on
e for a headache was dumped on the floor next to me like I’d passed out before I could get the handful of pills down my throat.”

  “Oh, shit…” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too… it was not a good day.” I sighed. “So, I came up here to live with my mom and spend Tuesday mornings with my psychiatrist… everything I thought my first year of college would be like,” I retorted wryly.

  In silence, he refilled both of our glasses.

  “Glad you asked?” I let out a strained laugh before taking another sip.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” I flinched when his hand reached for mine. “Troy, you’re my friend—even if I had to stalk you for you to realize it.” We both laughed.

  “Why did you stalk me?” I shook my head.

  “I told you, doll, I saw a fight brewing inside you, and I felt like you could use someone on your side,” I smirked.

  “Oh, gee, thanks.” I pulled my legs up underneath me on the chair. “Although, I’m pretty sure I’m not looking to fight anyone anymore. Especially since Miss Clicker is officially out of business…”

  My chuckle dwindled when I heard no response from him.

  Looking up, I saw his eyes glint deviously. “Then what was the deal this morning with Professor le Prick?” he demanded with a mocking French accent.

  “What about him?” Answering that question was going to turn out to be more painful than the last. “He’s a soulless French ass, I agree.”

  “Yeah. I’m talking about how he treated you. How you looked at him.”

  My brow furrowed. “He treated me like the rest of our class, including yourself—like a callous prick. And I looked at him in shock because I’m still wondering how someone like that gets allowed to teach.”

  “Troy, doll,” he said, walking around the counter and patting me on the back. “I have to tell you… my ability to detect lies is even stronger than my gaydar. And, well, that’s saying a lot.” His smile was only reassuring on the surface, underneath it was accusing. “There was so much more going on between the two of you. Like fifty pounds of feelings crammed into a two-pound box. Something happened to cause that.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Oh, pizza! You think about how you want to answer that—truthfully—and I’ll be right back.”

  How did I want to answer that?

  What went on between us was like what happens inside a hydrogen bomb—practically invisible, infinitely small elements swirling around, endless amounts of space to be able to avoid each other, but they don’t; they both find and fight for the same space. If we weren’t careful, our collision would destroy us and everything within sight.

  “Well?” Kev’s voice jerked me back to the moment. He stood, holding a plate in front of me with two slices of pizza.

  I cared about counting carbs about as much as I cared for most everything else in my life right now… I didn’t.

  “He came into the poetry club I work at on Saturday.” I tore into the pizza. It was too hot, but I loved it like that—the way the sauce and cheese burned my mouth just a little bit. I guess I liked a little pain with my guilty pleasures.

  “Alone?” he asked. “And, you work at a poetry club? Seriously? I’m going to come visit you.”

  Great. My low-key, all-to-myself space was no longer my own.

  “No. He was with another guy and then a blonde woman showed up. First, he demanded whether or not I was old enough to be working at the bar—like they don’t let twelve-year-olds drink wine in France.” I shook my head, exhaling a laugh at my slight exaggeration.

  “I don’t know about twelve, but interesting to know that he’s just as much of an ass outside of the classroom.”

  “Then,” I paused and downed the rest of the wine, “he and the woman… disappeared into our break room.”

  His eye bulged as he swallowed down a bite so he could ask, “What happened? Did you barge in on them? What were they doing?”

  “Well, they locked the door, so no. There’s a… window type thing from the ladies’ room into the break room that we use for restocking. I opened that and caught them.”

  “Fucking?” he exclaimed with a giant grin.

  This kid really needed to get out more.

  …Said the girl who stood and watched her art professor have sex.

  “Well, yeah.” I ducked my head, reaching for the second slice that a winter wardrobe made acceptable.

  “Holy shit.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Well, no wonder he gave you that look.”

  “What look?”

  “The one like you’re his dirty little secret he doesn’t want to admit to,” he smirked and went to the freezer, pulling out a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Dark Chocolate ice cream.

  My nose crinkled up. “What are you talking about? Why would he look at me like that?”

  “Well, I’m assuming you cut them off, that you—his student—caught him having sex in public? Not the best situation for a professor. Then again,” he said wryly. “Not sure this guy is really one to care.”

  “I… I didn’t cut them off,” I blurted out, not clarifying which question I was answering.

  “Oh my—You didn’t—” He gasped and pointed a finger at me. “You watched!”

  “No!” I exclaimed a tad too quickly. Reaching over the counter, I pulled the ice cream out of his hands and dug in out of revenge.

  Between laughs, he asked, “Did he know you were there?”

  I shook my head, wincing as the brain freeze made my head burn.

  “Interesting,” he hummed, ushering me off my perch and into the living room that contained a giant leather sectional.

  “What?”

  “The way he looked at you then,” he replied, turning on the almost movie-theatre size screen. “I thought he was just pissed at you for cock-blocking him and then finding out you are in his class, no less. But if he didn’t know you were there, I wonder why he looked at you like he hated you for what you did to him.”

  I licked every last drop of ice cream from the spoon as I stared at him blankly, watching him select The Greatest Showman from the movie listings; I didn’t expect Kevin to ask for my input and I didn’t really care one way or another. When he looked back to me, expecting a response as the movie began to play, I offered him a small shrug. I had no idea why Professor Baudin gave me that look.

  “Maybe he’s just an ass,” I mused quietly as the first song began to play. Also possible. Probable, really.

  Or maybe he hated me the way I hated him—the way a leech latches on, slowly and surely sucking from you things that you don’t want to give up, because giving them up would be giving up your life.

  “Léo,” Jack groaned, running a hand roughly through his hair as he paced the office I now hated for the fact that it gave him room to pace. “You can’t… you can’t talk to students… like that. Not here.”

  It had taken approximately thirty-seven minutes from the time I dismissed my class until he barged in. He was seven minutes late, in my opinion.

  “Mon Dieu. They can take something else if they don’t like it.”

  “No, Léo, they can’t,” he ground out. “Because it’s not their problem, it’s yours.”

  My jaw ticked. I resented the way they treated students like babies. Life was neither kind nor easy. Life was hard and even the things you worked tirelessly for could be ripped from you before you could drop to your knees and beg. But Jack—he had Katie and a life here; he had hope and love and support—and that made all the difference.

  “I don’t know how you teach over there—actually, I do. I do because it’s why you’re here. You can’t throw sharp instruments at students just like you can’t threaten to ‘break’ a student in half. It’s been just over a year that Amélie has been gone. Gone, Léo. You need to file the paperwork, put up the announcements… hell, wave a flag from the top of the Eiffel Tower, but you need to stop searching for the woman who’s already taken too much of your life.
I won’t do us the disservice of revisiting our last conversation about how you’re becoming exactly what she wants, but this is my department and I got you a job here to help you. Don’t throw that back in my face,” he commanded angrily, pointing a finger in my face, his own turning red.

  It had been a little too far with the pen; I could admit that. But it wasn’t my goddamn fault. It was hers.

  Ma petite voyeuse.

  All my plans to avoid her were pointless now because she was my student—not just my student, she was Jack’s colleague’s daughter. Now, I would have to look at her three… four… times a week. I’d have to stare into those almond eyes—the ones that gave away every emotion of hers: shock, anger, lust—the last especially potent. I’d have to watch those lips talk and laugh with the only other person she seemed to talk to—lips that I’d rather watch stretch around my cock and leak my cum right down off her pointy little chin.

  My fist clenched at my side as Jack rambled on, continuing his soapbox tirade.

  Old enough to serve drinks. Old enough to be my student. Those were facts my mind then translated into: Old enough to fuck.

  I’d never fuck her. They might not think I have limits. I might behave like I don’t have limits. But I did. And she was the fucking limit.

  My eyes flicked to Giselle whom Jack had asked join us, probably as some sort of witness. She hadn’t been overly needy since Saturday, but the offer for more was always on the table. Right now, she looked between Jack and me, nodding to what he said and probably believing that she would be the one responsible for keeping me in line.

  She wasn’t responsible for shit unless I told her. She wasn’t even responsible for how hard my cock was that night—and what felt like every goddamn second since. I almost fucked Giselle again—which would’ve given her the complete wrong idea—when I came up to my office almost an hour ago. I was so hard I saw white spots clouding my vision. White spots and the anger in her eyes when I called her unremarkable.

  I wanted that anger. I wanted to feel it squeeze the life from my arousal as I claimed her. Unacceptable. More than unacceptable. I hated that feeling because it was uncontrollable. It was a need borne from something that I never felt before, not even for Amélie. And if Giselle had been in my office when I got back, I would have fucked her instead just to prove to myself that la petite didn’t matter.