by Liz K. Lorde
How any man could do the shit that he did…still keeps me up at night.
Never told anyone, but I would sneak books from the library. Poetry. I’d sit down in the middle of the night when I couldn’t stand to sleep, and when the pain would become so great in my chest that I couldn’t ignore it any longer. Then, and only then, would I write.
Still to this day never had let another living man see the words that I wrote. Every now and again, when I get a good punk to cut up for the Knights; I’ll let them in, and read them a few lines of my stuff. Course, their usual response is something along the lines of ‘no’ or ‘please don’t I’ll do anything’.
Not exactly a receptive audience.
After leaving my clothes on the washer, half hoping that maybe Dad would see ‘em. Half hoping that Mr. Death would only see them before Dad came home, and would have to get his disgusting sausage fingers all over ‘em. That was my version of doing something, and I know it wasn’t much, I know that now. But those childish acts of defiance; those foolish hopes, they were all that I had back then. He liked to starve me when he had me for most of the day; forced me to chop wood out in the sweltering sun while he sipped on his sweet tea. Sometimes when I think back on it I can remember the way they clinked against his long glass – can still feel the sweat rolling down my skin as every muscle in my body became filled with a dull ache.
In those exhausting hours, the occasional cloud that blocked out the sun. They became my God. But they never lasted long enough. I could always feel the way his dark brown eyes drilled holes into my back. He’d wax on about how his ‘best friend’s son ain’t gonna be raised to be some pussy nobody.’ Always got the impression that he resented his ex-wife for giving him a daughter.
Kayla Rochester? Well, she was another kind of monster. Hindsight only made me happy I never spent time around her growing up.
Sadly, Dad never pieced together what was going on, and why would he? Mr. Death was one of the First Six, patched within the coveted Men-Of-Mayhem. He was his best friend, and my worst nightmare. And even for all his cruel sickness, I could give him but one twisted praise. He knew how to hide in plain view.
When we would all sit down and eat together on Sunday. Mom, Dad, me and Death. His cold, appraising, brown eyes would rake over me when nobody was looking.
Sent chills through me. Made me want to throw up.
Over the years, as I got older, he started to visit me less and less – and when he did, it wasn’t in the same capacity as it used to be. The really messed up thing, was that back when I was just a teenager, in those quiet moments that I loathed…I longed to be degraded by him. Felt that, in some messed up way, I deserved everything that he ever did to me and so much more.
That, that was why I never told anyone – or why Dad or Mom or anyone else couldn’t see the evil in the man. ‘Cause he was just giving me what was rightfully mine: suffering.
Focused on the things that would distract me while I grew up. Shooting skin as Quarterback for the Sequim Wolves. That was my primary outlet; sneaking liquor and getting myself into plenty of fights, chasing tail and doing recon for the Steel Knights, those were my other escapes. Life, to me, was one big cock-up. One huge escape, one after another.
The past helped to shape me, and my mother used to always tell me that I was a good young man. I’d banished so many demons here and now, but every time I close my eyes – I still feel the weight of all my sins.
In this secluded cabin, watching the blood run down this guy’s face, and listening to his screams? It helped to bring quiet to my head and to my heart. He’d talk soon enough, not even the bravest of men can hold out forever – be it the kiss of my blade or the bite of my various concoctions to pour in his wounds. The Los Demonios were on our hit list, and it was time to get down to business.
The last thought to skitter across my mind that night, was that there were good reasons that I could never fall in love.
Sometimes in life, it’s good to be wrong.
1
Madeline
The cold washed over me and clung to my skin greedily; half from the need burning through my body, and half from the water. They were watching me with lustful eyes, as I waded from the deep end of the pool to it’s side and pulled myself up – the water dripping from my person across the smoothed pavement. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the hooded man watching me from a picnic bench, which was situated towards the end of Christopher Lensky’s backyard. Most of the people here were shady, but that Hooded Man creeped me out the most.
There were eight people that were nearby outside, watching me, most of them boys and all of them friends of Christopher. He stood there at the front of the group, his blue eyes drinking in the image of my salacious body.
I was wearing most of my usual attire. Black ¾ sleeve peasant top, with intricate lace at the collar, shoulder and down the sleeves. One end was fashioned in such a way, that it was pulled down at the shoulder – giving me an asymmetric look. Wasn’t wearing a bra, and that was plainly to the small crowd’s delight.
Damien, the fucker, didn’t like it when I wore one. Most of the time that never stopped me, but occasionally I’d get tired of his cursing and whiny man bitching. For pants, I was wearing my dark blue capris. All my life I’d like to style myself as hard, or some kind of rock type – when Dad got me hooked on rock’n’roll, I did my best to look like my idols. Tried to play like them too, on my black six string Les Paul; course, I only ever ended up sounding like a fool on that.
Christopher wolf whistled at me, “Now that’s a look that suits you,” he crooned, looking over to his posse as he sipped from his red solo cup. “Soaked,” he added, a smug smile walking along his face and a small laughing rolling from him; the others chortled in various agreement.
I pulled at my top, trying to get it unstuck some from my skin. It was a pointless endeavor, but it was an automatic response all the same. Sauntering over to the man, I shot him a pissed look – it burned every bone in my body to have to obey such a douche like Chris. But if I didn’t have what my body craved, I knew that I’d lose my mind. Kept telling myself the first year that it all started, that it wasn’t an addiction; that I was in control and it couldn’t take hold of me. Crossing my arms over my chest, I demanded, “Stop dicking me around, Chris.”
He looked over to his friend, who was wearing a blue cap styled sideways, “You hear that?” His words made my stomach queasy. He was built like the dumb jock I always saw him to be, with this light brown faux-hawk and square jaw. The man had broad shoulders and was half a head taller than me. “She’s tired of me dicking her.” The way he spoke you could tell his sense of self worth was grossly overestimated.
His friend let out a pig snorting kind of laugh, “That’s what they all say bro.”
My jaw twitched, “Come on, asshole,” I spoke with the whip in my voice, my eyes sliding down to the pocket of his green cargo shorts. The dull hunger in my bones was growing with every passing second, and the shame and guilt were already needling away at the back of my mind. I hated myself for this, hated Damien for getting me into this shit – loathed what I’d become for trying to protect, when I only ended up getting everyone hurt.
Christopher Lensky brought his gaze back to me, and as I shivered with the wind kicking up – and the eyes of that hooded man watching me, Chris said, “Alright, alright. Calm your titties,” he gave me a perverted smirk, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever he could from my chest. Chris dipped into his pocket and pulled out a small baggie, tossing it to me.
I caught it and slipped it into the pocket of my capris, still giving that douche a smoldering gaze. “Thanks,” I somehow managed to croak without snarling, before turning on my heel.
“Whoa-whoa-whoa,” Chris groaned and shot his hand to my wrist, “you don’t have to leave just yet, baby.”
Rivulets of heat ran through me and I turned my head to look at the man before yanking my arm free, “Yeah,” I spat, “I don’t have to,” I jus
t desperately want to be away from you, and everyone else. Moving past a few onlookers, my gray sneakers pressing against the grass, I could hear Chris calling me a junkie bitch as I walked away.
Little stabs of heat burned at my chest, and the only reason that I didn’t tell him to shove it was because I felt him so beneath me. That and I just wanted to be the hell away from them; they never make anyone else go through hoops, everyone else just gets to throw down their money and that’s that. Damien used to be generous with his share of the product, but over time he started becoming more stingy and making me get it from whoever I could.
My heart dropped to my stomach and when I opened the glass, patio doors, and stepped inside, I leaned against the wall. Everything in life was spiraling further and further out of my control, and it ripped me apart inside that no matter what I did, it never seemed like it was enough.
Be strong, I thought. You should just toss it, just dump it all and go into rehab again like Dad wanted. This stinging pain formed behind my eyes and it took every ounce of my will to push out the need to cry. I never wanted this, and all my mistakes were drowning me – the worst part of it? I knew that nobody could save me.
Only I could save myself. Just had a hell of a time convincing myself that I was worth it.
Pushing back a strand of my black hair, my fingers brushed against the silvery string of my earring. Some people were looking my way, and I quickly made my way past the party-goers. Most of them were just drinking off in their little corners of the room, or bobbing their heads in agreement in their chairs. They were your typical mix of college crowd, wearing baggy clothes and hoodies and looking half a mess.
I stepped through the backmost room and made my way to the staircase, the thump of music pounding throughout the house. When I brought my feet up those first steps of the stairs, my eyes slid over to some man that caught my attention. Some deliciously intimidating looking figure, dangerous and pulling in a way that Damien couldn’t ever hope to be. I stopped dead in my tracks about halfway up the stairs, and someone pushed themselves past me, muttering about how I needed to move.
But I couldn’t. The man that I was looking down at stood tall, probably something around six and four and easily two heads taller than me. He was dressed in a dark leather jacket, with an image of a great white sword sinking down his back. I felt this hand of heat grab at my stomach, and it was like the world around me came to a crawl as he turned my way. That warmth worked its way up to my chest, and when our eyes met and I felt like a fool for being caught staring, it shot up to my throat.
The Beautiful Man had these rich, dark, chocolate colored eyes. His eyebrows were low, giving him a subtle hint of anger; that or maybe pensive thought, to his gaze. He didn’t have prominent cheekbones, but he did have a striking chin and a small piercing through his bottom lip near the corner of his grimacing mouth. His eyes dipped slightly, probably wondering why I was soaked while checking me out. This delectable creature of a man, looking more predator than anything I was used to calling human – a king of the jungle, amidst the food of his savannah; his mane was the color of gardening soil, and his gorgeous hair fell down in cascades to his shoulders.
There was dark electricity between us and glorious heat formed in my core; spread through me like wildfire. In that moment, I was totally enraptured in my physical attraction to him.
It was a fleeting moment. As quickly as it came to be, like two petals of night-blooming flowers coming together, it withered. He was a badass, and probably tattooed in all the right places – definitely older than me. And me?
There wasn’t a problem in the world I couldn’t call my own. Noting that he was still giving me a hard, unappreciative look, where I wanted to see his smile for some damn reason, I flipped him the bird and raised my chin at him. Then I went up the stairs.
As I walked through the narrow hall, I could hear off in the room to my left some couple going at it. The thought of sex, even though I still felt the need between my legs, practically made me want to hurl. All the guys at school pegged me as being some sexual badass, a lioness that took what she wanted. What they didn’t know was that I lost my virginity to Ryan Hileder.
Rolling my eyes at the people in one of the guest rooms banging away, I padded my way to the bathroom which was thankfully not occupied. I shut the door, locked it, and started toweling off some of the wetness from my skin and clothes.
Damn. I could feel the gnawing feeling running through my veins, I promised myself that I could hold out until I got to Damien’s. My shoulder length black and red streaked hair was what I started with, and the thought of that night with Ryan just seemed to piss me off. But like some scab, stupidly, my mind continued to pick at it. Seems like we’re always just hardwired to mess things up, to hurt ourselves and nail ourselves to the cross. He was handsome, not in the bad-boy way, but in the ‘he is going to be a professional actor, somehow’ kind of way.
Yeah, well, I hope whoever that bonehead’s screwing now invests in a damn good vibe. Lasted all of half a minute before pushing me off of him when I was riding that dude.
Stripping off my top, I worked the towel over what moisture remained along my pale skin. I was the kind of pale that people liked to think was caused by some sort of vampire genetics; if that’s what it was, then I want a refund – because not getting fangs or being able to turn into a bat at will was a real drag.
And then of course, there was Damien… I’d take a hundred Ryan’s in the sack over him.
Finishing drying off, in the small ways that I could at least, I exited the bathroom – half hoping to see that sexy man. Casual disappointment filled my bones, and I frowned when he wasn’t outside to look for me. So much for love at first look. I sucked in a deep breath through my nose and carried myself back down the hall, quietly thanking nobody in particular when I wasn’t cursed with the sexual noises of those two in the guest room.
Oh well, it’s not like love, or attraction, or any of those silly concepts were made for me anyway. I’d long since convinced myself, especially after Damien, that those things were for good girls. Me? I was the furthest thing from. Walking lazily down the stairway, I looked again for the Beautiful Man.
Nothing.
Continuing, I made my way through Christopher Lensky’s parents house – moving past throngs of people. All of the plastic Barbie dolls sipping their drinks, and all of the Ken dolls saying what lines their dull little minds could remember to try and get inside their pants. In my search for Damien, one of them tried to approach me, some blue cardigan wearing nice-boy. I let him down quickly and easily with a ‘sorry, not interested’ and spirited myself away.
Nice was something I just wasn’t into. Call it preference, or stupidity, or what-the-hell ever. Nice and good and all things gumdrop just didn’t excite me.
I found Damien in the kitchen talking to two other guys, and as per usual when I laid eyes upon the man – I was suckered with this gut punch of nausea. How one could simultaneously hate a creature, be attracted to it, and know that it wasn’t any good for you – yet still feel that you deserved to be around it, was beyond me most of the time. I’d tried breaking up with him twice in the three years that we’d been ‘together’ if you could call it that; bastard kept convincing me that he’d be different. But it wasn’t even that, it was something else – some deep malfunction in my internal sense of self.
Loathe. Despair. Repulsion. Those were the words that I associated with myself, and with the man.
And still I approached him with bleeding heart. Damien looked over to me casually with those, what I’d once found to be charming, green eyes. With a tiny frown of disdain, he peered at me like I was a child that’d gotten out of their designated pen. The man had short black hair that was up turned with some gel, and a light smattering of facial hair. His face was adorned by a small, if not prominent, hooked nose – and his lips were thin.
I reached my hand out to cup his face, pulling him in for a deep kiss. It always impressed me how d
ull it seemed to be, but for some strange reason – my body craved the affection. He went along with this for all of two seconds, my tongue exploring his mouth and my hands moving along his waist; Damien then pulled back and pushed me away, asking with the air of annoyance behind him, “What do you want, babe?”
It ticked me off, the way that he spoke down to me. I put a hand on my hip and leaned against the white island counter of the kitchen, “You said we’d be home by midnight,” I started, looking over to the ticking clock on the wall, “unless you adjusted every hand to try and trick me, it’s half past.”
Damien gave me that cocky smirk, the kind that you’d find yourself immediately attracted to – but in retrospect, you eventually come to understand it’s not attraction. That urge? It’s the need to punch their stupid, holier-than-thou face. “Yeah, and I said we could leave after I got done with business,” he sent his fingers to my chin, but I turned at his touch, “do I look like I’m done here? Use your head, baby.”
I could feel the heat of Damien’s judging gaze, like I was somehow embarrassing him in front of his goons. They too, were looking at me, with these suspicious eyes – an air of discomfort cloaked about their persons; like they were suppressing laughter. Straightening out my back, I clipped, “You’re my ride home. I have class tomorrow, remember?” He’d already fucking done this twice now, and it wasn’t helping my two days a week of college courses.
He cocked his head and looked up towards the ceiling for a beat of time, “Just relax, MJ, busy yourself for another hour and I’ll drive you home. Don’t be such a damn buzz kill, here.” The worst part, was that this was him in a good mood.
Now I felt the powerful need to ruin it.
Spying the half empty red solo cup on the table, I felt the first twists of anger and grabbed the cup. Some stale beer that never got drank. Before I could give him time to process what I was doing, I poured the contents of the red cup over his head; and his ‘associates’ howled with laughter and surprise.
