by NV Roez
The man who brought me down here—whom I'm assuming is Beast—grunts in agreement and starts to unbutton his pants. I don't care what their names are, they're all the devil to me.
Hades takes my hand and forcibly pulls me toward the bed. From the corner of my eye, I can see the other man loosen his tie and I'm scared to death. Bile rises in my throat and I can't stop it. I throw up all over the bed, Hades, and myself.
"You little bitch!" he yells, and oddly, I notice the ring on his left hand right before he punches me in the face and knocks me out.
My eyes snap open and my hand instinctively goes to grab for my butterfly knife from under my pillow as I look around my room. MY room.
My hair is plastered to my head and there's sweat soaking my tank top, running down my back.
Just breathe, Evelyn.
My mind knows I'm in my bedroom at Stratham University, but my heart is hammering in my chest. My skin crawls with the residual memories of unwanted caresses and there's a rancid taste on my tongue.
I slowly close my eyes, aware that there is no actual threat in this room, and start my breathing exercises, focusing on the mental image of my room from behind my eyelids.
I open the rest of my senses; feel the bedsheets, smell the air, hear the silence of the morning. Breathe in. Breathe out. Deep breath in, hold, let it out. Focus. Repeat.
"Jesus, Evie, get it together. It was just a dream," I chastise myself. "You are not that girl anymore."
After a few more clearing breaths, I peel off my sheets and check my alarm clock. Dammit, I overslept. I jump out of bed and head to the shower. I have to see Dr. Lewis for my prescribed therapy session today. I also need to head to the library to figure out how bad my situation has just become. I'll have to get my workout in afterward.
I make my way to the shower and run into Celeste in our kitchen. And she looks pissed. Great.
"She's alive, ladies and gentlemen." She waves her hand like she's Vanna White and keeps going, "What the hell, Evelyn. First, you leave me at the game without so much as a warning—with Taylor, I might add—and then I come home to find you knocked the fuck out. AND this place smelled like pot again! Care to explain?"
Not really.
"I hadn't eaten anything yesterday, and with all the excitement, I'm guessing the alcohol just got to me. I didn't want to ruin your afternoon fun watching Justin, so I left," I say with a shrug. "I texted you, so you knew where I was, and it was just a short walk back to the dorm. Smoked a joint to settle my stomach and passed out. No harm, no foul."
It's not a complete lie.
Celeste gives me a knowing look, no doubt recalling all the times we drank alcohol over the summer and me never once getting sick.
Truth is, I can hold my liquor pretty damn well. I've been practicing off and on since I was thirteen.
"No harm, no foul! That's what you have to say to me? I was worried about you, asshole. Friends just don't leave each other," she says, emphasizing the word friends.
She stares at me, her eyebrows scrunched like she's trying to puzzle something together in her head. Her annoyance has subsided, but she looks almost worried now. About what, though? I have no idea. Clearly, I'm fine, though I probably should've skipped the extra joint last night.
I really should stop smoking all together.
I bet Ivy could explain why Celeste is so upset, but “friend” is such a foreign concept to me.
Celeste backs off her rant to hand me an extra-large mug filled with hot caffeinated lusciousness, and I breathe a little easier. I don't know how she does it, but it's like she's known me for years instead of months, or maybe I've become that easy to read.
Regardless, I thank her for the coffee and try for small talk. She lets go of whatever anger she had and enthusiastically tells me all about the game, or rather, all about Justin in the game.
I can feel the genuine smile creeping across my face at how carefree and excited she gets, even if she has no clue about the actual game. All she can tell me in that regard is that we won.
She makes me wish Ivy were here just so they could meet. It's eerily comforting how much alike they are. Like their spirits talk to each other or something.
She invites me to go downtown for some shopping with her and Taylor, of all people, but I decline.
I don't know how I feel about shopping. I haven't had the chance to do much of it other than buy my truck and school supplies—which I did mostly online—since everything before was either bought for me by my mother or her personal shopper. Everything after was either from the state or the girls at the transitional home. But shopping with Celeste feels like a test that I know I'll fail, and I’m not ready to fail yet. I actually want Celeste to like me.
"I have to see Dr. Lewis and head to the library for a bit. But we can meet for dinner, though, if you want. I can meet you guys at The Brewery."
She nods and walks around the counter to where I'm standing, her dark chocolate eyes searching me again. "You know you can talk to me, right?" she says in an earnest, low voice.
Uhm... okay, nope.
I am NOT doing this today.
I set what's left of my coffee down on the counter, turn around, and go to take a shower without saying a single word. Thank the mother of all things holy, she lets me go.
I cannot do this with her today.
This is why I don't make friends. They get weird and try to help me like I'm someone who needs help. I know she means well, but I'll be damned if I burden her with the demons I carry. She doesn't need those nightmares. Hell, I don't need those nightmares. I wish I could forget and not carry them either.
God, I just want to be normal.
By the time I get out of the shower, Celeste is already gone but there's a note on the counter wishing a 'good luck to Dr. Lewis' on getting me to talk and that I'll be buying dinner since I want to be rude. That's Celeste for you in a nutshell. Find the sarcasm and know when not to push.
I pull on my favorite black hoodie over my black tank and another pair of black skinny jeans, shove my feet into my black Isaya combat boots, and grab my keys with my kitty knuckles keychain.
Today already sucks.
5
"Thanks, Sadie," I say as I stand, trying to head to the door as fast as I can without looking like I'm desperate to leave. I've survived the last fifty minutes playing twenty questions with Dr. Lewis, but there's only so much prying I can take in one day. Especially when it's my life under the microscope.
She looks up from her notepad and checks her watch. "Well, hold on, Evelyn. We still have ten minutes."
Dammit. So close.
"If you're not going to delve into your feelings about your parent's death, foster care, or your sister, can we take a stab at talking about Ventura Youth Correctional Facility or your stay at Helping Hands Transitional Home?" she asks.
I sit back down in the plush accent chair she has in her office with an exaggerated sigh.
"What do you want to know?" I cross my arms, making no effort to hide my annoyance.
She smiles, ignoring my passive protest. "Let's start with how you got there."
I stare at her for a moment, trying to determine what and how much I should actually tell her.
She seems like a nice woman. She's not that much bigger than me, a bit curvier, softer, but that's about it. She could be described as the epitome of the American girl-next-door—even at her age—with reddish-brown hair that I've only ever seen in a neat bun at the nape of her neck, warm brown eyes, heart-shaped face, and slender hands that have probably never seen hard labor. What could she possibly know about surviving juvenile detention?
Ventura Youth Correctional Facility was a different kind of fight for survival. The kids in there were vicious and broken, and you knew which ones to stay away from. But the guards were worse. They were weak-ass predators that would circle us like sharks in a fucking pet store fish tank. Even the few female nurses on staff would find their way into a kid’s bed every now and then, an
d everything came with a price.
I look towards the window and start talking, "What's there to say? I set a fire, got caught, got convicted, and spent two years of my life locked away in order to 'pay' for my crime, got out, stayed at the halfway house, and now I'm here."
I close my eyes for a minute to calm my nerves as the memories of my trial vividly play in my mind. It didn’t matter that I didn’t do it on purpose. My friends testified against me, anyway.
Elijah sat on the stand and let all those people know how I used to complain about the place, how I used to steal surfboards and sneak into movie theaters… neglecting to include himself in “all the terrible things” I had done. He sat there and painted me as some sort of doomed delinquent that must have set fire to my group home on purpose.
"Why do you think you did it?" she asks.
I shrug my shoulders, still staring out the window, refusing to look at her. I didn't do it on purpose, but I'm glad it happened. I'd do it again if I could, but she doesn't need to know that.
She continues, "What would your sister think about you setting your group home on fire?"
I snap my head, my violet-blue eyes piercing her brown ones.
"How the fuck would I know? She's dead—" I stop myself from continuing.
Breathe, Evelyn. Don’t fall apart here.
"Sorry," I murmur and look back toward the window to stare at the outside world. There's a blanket of cumulus clouds covering the sky. The sun pokes through the gaps. Maybe I can run outside today.
"Evelyn, I think it would be better to meet more than quarterly, don't you? I'm not sure four times a year is going to be enough time for you and me to get to know one another."
"You mean, four times a year isn't enough to try to fix me," I deadpan. It's not like I'm here to get to know her. "Don't worry, Dr. Lewis. I'm not going to burn the school down."
"That's not what I said. I just want to help."
I don't need help. Why can't people just leave me alone? I turn to face her and square my shoulders.
"Look, I get it, but I'm not going to make promises I can't keep. Four times a year is what is being mandated and what I have agreed to. It allows me to acclimate to each term, create a plan of attack for the rigorous academic work that I'm sure I'll have, and figure things out on my own without having to lean on you."
She studies me closely and sighs. "It's not a matter of teaching you independence. I know for a fact that you are more than capable of taking care of yourself physically. It's my job to ensure that you are equipped to handle the emotional baggage you carry in a healthy, safe environment. You can't keep pretending that your past doesn't exist," she says with solemn eyes.
I try to not roll my eyes because I know she means well, so I end up glancing up at the ceiling. She has no idea about my life or my 'emotional baggage'. It almost makes me want to see how she'd react to hearing how I don’t sleep out of fear that someone is going to force themselves on me, or that I learned to fight so that I could keep the crap food I was given on Fridays in juvie, and that I ran with underground criminals in New York City just so that I could survive long enough to get here. It makes me wonder what she’d think about the nightmares I carry. Almost.
"I thought we weren't defined by our past? So why even bother with it? I'm not broken, Dr. Lewis. Despite my past, I got myself here. That alone should be enough proof of that. And let's not kid each other. As far as Dr. Weaver is concerned, your job is to ensure the safety of the student body, not fix me," I tell her, getting up from my seat.
"Evelyn, I didn't mean it like that. I am sorry if I offended you. You have my number, you can always reach out for an extra session or just to talk."
"Times up, doc. See ya around," I say over my shoulder and walk out, heading to the library without waiting for her to respond.
6
The cool breeze against my clammy skin feels good as I finish my sixty-minute run to Union Point Lighthouse, but my errant thoughts won't stop swirling. My head's been a clusterfuck since I left the damn library.
Who am I kidding?
My head’s been a clusterfuck since I saw Elijah. Seems, despite my efforts, I couldn't outrun memory after memory of years long forgotten. Of the awkward boys that became my best friends and stole my heart. Times where life felt livable, even in hell. Of lies, being tormented at school, court cases, and heartache.
Even Spotify couldn't help me, playing “The Old Us” by Hopsin during my run. The universe really does hate me.
After my visit with Dr. Lewis, I took off to Stratham University's library—which is literally a miniature version of the George Peabody Library. If I wasn't there to hack into Stratham University's computer servers to research its students—well, one student—I might have been able to truly enjoy the feeling of being enveloped in the musty smell of old books.
Yep, I'm that girl that would die to be Belle and be gifted my own private library—minus the prince.
But I wasn't there to admire, I had a job to do. And I'm an asshole for not doing it sooner, but I didn't think I'd have to.
I mean, my life in Rose Bay has been long gone, not to mention on the other side of the fucking country. Additionally, I did promise myself that I wouldn't keep doing illegal shit anymore.
Normal people don't do illegal shit.
Nevertheless, I should never have gotten complacent, because now I'm screwed. I found out that not only does Elijah fucking Jackson go to Stratham University as a double major in pre-law and social sciences, but so does the asshole Caleb Astor and the dipshit Micah Coleson.
As soon as I found out that Caleb was here, I knew Micah would be too. Micah idolized Caleb when we were kids, and even though they aren't related, those two were more brothers than friends.
I pass the outside gate of the lighthouse and stop to admire its weather-beaten structure. It's attached to a wide, two-story building that looks much like an old plantation-style house.
It's clearly been forgotten, so the scarce grass is overgrown in places and the paint is peeling off, but other than that, it's perfect.
My quiet place to recenter.
The property extends to a small, rocky, private beach that peers out to the Atlantic Ocean.
It's rockier than the beaches I grew up with, but the ocean's call to me is still the same.
Man, I miss surfing.
I sit on a large boulder, listen to the ocean churning, and stare at the vast expanse in front of me. I dig out a half a joint from my small running backpack and spark it up while my mind swirls with memories…
"I'm so sorry for your loss," some random woman said to me, and I snorted.
"Sorry for my loss? Lady, I don't even know you. I couldn’t care less what you think."
"Evie! You don't have to be so rude. She's just trying to be nice," my sister whisper-yelled, as if I gave a damn.
We'd been staying at a group home after our house had burned down and taken our parents with it. That had been only two days before the funeral. Why they had made us go to our parents’ funeral when we weren't even allowed to see their bodies was beyond me. I sure as shit hadn't volunteered.
I didn't want that to be how I remembered my parents. I didn't want fancy wooden boxes, or flowers, or fake ass condolences, or some stranger talking about how great my parents were.
I knew how great my parents were.
I just didn't want them to be dead.
"Whatever, Ivy. I'm going outside. You can come with me, you know. You don't have to stand here being pitiful and pathetic for all these strangers." I hadn't meant to snap at her, but I was angry.
I walked outside in my stupid black dress, stomped my combat boots, and sat at the stoop next door. I hadn't noticed the boys sitting there until I had already sat down, so I just stared at the sky and prayed that they'd leave me alone.
Didn't happen.
"Uhm, hi, I'm Caleb," said the boy with hazel eyes, tilting his head towards the other one. "This is Micah. You're Ivy, right? My mom said t
hat your parents are dead and that I should be nice to you."
I glared at the beautiful boy with the hazel eyes and then at his friend, Micah, who looked scared and sad.
"I know who you are, we go to the same school. And no, I'm Evie, not Ivy. Ivy is my twin. Yes, my parents are the reason we all seem to be here today, and no, you don't have to be nice to me. In fact, you don't have to say anything else. I just want to sit in the quiet."
I got maybe two minutes of quiet before another boy walked up to us. He had dark spiky hair and the coolest gray eyes I'd ever seen. I did a side stare and watched him give Caleb some weird fist-bump handshake thing.
"Hey, guys, who's this?" He nodded his head in my direction, but I refused to acknowledge him. Without my sister, people were just overwhelming, and I never knew what to do. Most of the time, I would just do nothing.
Caleb was the one who did the introductions, and apparently, the new boy—Elijah—was Caleb's best friend. Figured. They were always together at school. I really didn't care, so I gave them a weak smile and continued to stare at the nothing in front of me, praying that the universe would take pity and put me out of my misery.
"I know what you're going through," Micah muttered to me. His voice was so low, I had almost missed it.
"Fascinating. You gonna tell me it gets better with time, that they're in a better place, that eventually everything will be okay?" I deadpanned. "Just leave me alone."
He turned his head and fully examined me for the first time, and I nearly drowned at the depth of his eyes.
"Actually, no. I wasn't gonna say any of that. I was going to say that my mom died a few days ago too and that this shit sucks, but whatever." His ocean blue eyes seemed to stare right through me. I was such an ass.
I shake the memory, refocusing on the ocean in front of me and bringing myself back to the here and now. Time to focus on the problem at hand.
These assholes are here, in New Hampshire, not partying it up at UCLA like I'd assumed. Hell, Elijah is even captain of Titan's soccer team. At that singular thought, my mind immediately evokes an image of Elijah's silver gray eyes smiling at the crowd yesterday.
