It's Our Secret

by W. Winters

  “I wasn’t talking about you doing the hurting. Seems like she’s the one who’s got you on a leash.”

  I smirk at him and grab the beer with both hands.

  “Maybe I like the leash,” I joke and he finally breaks into a smile, but it’s gone when he opens his mouth next.

  “You like her doing that, though?” he asks. “Leading you on like that?”

  “It’s not what it looks like,” I tell him and he’s quick to respond with, “That’s what they all say.”

  “I’m telling you, Allie feels something for me. There’s something real there.”

  “But she’s scared?” he asks like I’m being ridiculous. Without waiting for me to try to explain more, he continues.

  “You can’t make someone commit to you.” His voice turns bitter as he adds, “You can’t make them want you.” I’m struck by his words and the force of them until I realize he’s talking about something else. Someone else.

  “If she’d just tell me what the hell got to her, I’d make it right.”

  “Did you ask?”

  The world seems to still at his question. The obvious answer is yes. I didn’t, though, not really. I backed off. I didn’t push her like I thought about doing. I could have pushed. I should have. I was so close, and I didn’t do it.

  “I didn’t want to scare her off,” I say and the words are a murmur.

  “Instead you lost her,” he says back and I stare at him like he’s the asshole here. He shrugs and takes another sip of his beer before telling me, “Sometimes they come back, and sometimes you just have to go get them.”

  29

  Allison

  There’s something about these pajamas.

  They remind me of Sam. She always wore pajamas, even to school. Blue and flannel with a tank top underneath, the pants folded over at the waist. A small smile graces my lips as I grab the bottle of Cabernet from the fridge.

  That’s how I want to remember her.

  It’s been five years, and only recently have I started to remember her like that. Back when she was the Sam I knew and loved. Back when we were best friends for life.

  She wore pajamas like this when she was happy.

  Not me, though. My heart sinks as I glance at my phone, sitting on the countertop of the small kitchen.

  I think that was the final straw. Dean will never want me again.

  That should make me happy, considering what my only goal is. The one thing I’ve wanted for so long. This arrangement is the best scenario. Available. Vulnerable. And the reputation of a slut. Easy. It would be all too easy.

  As I pour the mostly empty bottle into the glass, I wonder if I’m crazy. The plan was crazy from the beginning, certainly not something a sane person would do. I knew that.

  Then again, not many people would remain sane after seeing what I saw and knowing what I know.

  Tragedies happen, but usually there’s justice. A villain you can blame and prosecute.

  When the villain gets off scot-free and destroys your life forever, that does something to a person. When he walks away unscathed and blends into a crowd that looks back at you like you’re the one who’s in the wrong.

  It’s even worse when you played a part in the wreckage and the small pieces that were shattered turn to ashes in your hands. You’ll make all sorts of promises then. Promises to make wrongs right. At any cost.

  “Whatever it takes,” I whisper and lift the wine to my lips, drinking it in large gulps.

  I barely taste it although the sweetness turns bitter quickly as it sits on my tongue.

  It’s a good thing I pushed Dean away, I think. He deserves so much better.

  The bottle clinks and the sound resonates in the kitchen as I set it down. There wasn’t even enough left to fill the glass.

  One hand holds the wine, while the other picks up my phone.

  I will him to text me, but nothing happens.

  Slipping onto the stool, I lay my cheek down on the cold granite and stare at my phone. I scroll through our messages; I even laugh once or twice, even though it’s a sad sound. These texts are proof that at one point I was happy.

  I’m sorry. I text him, unable to keep myself from doing it. I’m sorrier than he’ll ever know.

  I glance around this place and hate that I’m even here. The sickness that’s been in the bottom of my gut for so long begins to creep up.

  I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to do this.

  It all hurts too much. But I’m so close to the edge. If only I can just hold on.

  I’m so close to keeping a promise I never thought I could.

  I drown my self-pity in the wine, throwing it back and trying to block out the images that keep coming back to me, but I have to stop when I hear a loud knock at the door. My eyes fly to the screen of my phone, the message marked as read.

  Dean.

  My feet trip over one another and I nearly fall in my desperation to get to the door. I’ll tell him. I’ll confess and he’ll save me. God help me please, because I don’t know what to do anymore.

  With a racing heart and nearly breathless, I whip open the front door, not bothering to check to see who it is.

  It’s not Dean and my heart slows, as does time.

  I guess this was what he needed. It’s what he was waiting for.

  A weakness leading to a way in.

  I knew I was close to the edge, but I wasn’t ready to jump. I guess I would never have jumped, though; it was all about being pushed.

  I swallow the lump growing in my throat. “Kevin.” I say his name out loud. This is the second time I’ve talked to him. Other than that night six years ago at Mike’s house. I thought it would have taken more to lure him in. I didn’t even try yet. I was still setting up the dominoes.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him, trying to hide the swell of anger … and fear. My knuckles turn white as I grip the doorknob harder. “How did you know my address?” I ask him as it registers that I never told him. I’d planned on it, of course. My heart beats harder as I think about how this is exactly what I wanted. But not right now. Not like this.

  I can barely breathe as he tells me, “I saw you walk home the other night from the frat house. It’s not too far away.”

  It’s not. I rented this place just for that reason. I didn’t realize he’d noticed. I thought I’d have to tell him.

  “I was just dropping by to check on you,” he says and then looks to his right and left. “You alone?” he asks.

  I don’t want to tell him I am but I nod once regardless. That’s what a good victim would do. The perfect victim for him.

  This is what I came here for. The entire reason I came to this town, this university.

  The sole reason for my existence for the last six months. As soon as Grandmom died and there was nothing left to live for anymore.

  To make him pay for what he did to her.

  Even if I set him up, if the justice served is for what he does to me right now, it’ll be worth it. She deserves to have him pay for what he is.

  “Do you want to come in?” I ask him and I let my body sway slightly, thinking of Sam and how she needed this. I have a glass of wine in me, only one but I play up the drunkenness. Maybe that will make this happen quicker.

  He doesn’t answer me but he looks over his shoulder before coming in and shutting the door.

  “You drinking?” he asks me, looking pointedly at the glass still in my hand. The dark liquid swirls as I shrug and try to think of what to say.

  To think of what’s happening right now and not the night that he crept into the bedroom where Sam was. I try not to think of what he did to her and what he’s about to do to me. I was right there. So close to saving her. So close to preventing all this.

  But I can make it all better now. I can make it right.

  I can be his next victim and make him pay. Because that’s what I came here to do.

  “Dean doesn’t want me anymore, so I thought I’d celebrate b
eing single again,” I say to the ground, keeping my eyes half-shut. I think maybe he’ll use that to convince me to talk to him. Or to somehow try to weasel his way into me sleeping with him for revenge or something.

  Whatever it takes.

  “Already a bottle in?” he says with a smirk, looking at the empty bottle on the dining room table as he reaches for the buckle on his belt.

  “What are you doing?” I ask out of instinct. My hair stands on end and my blood slows, my heart stops.

  “I know how to make you feel better,” he says as he pulls the leather through the loops of his pants. Say something. Two different voices scream in my head. One to let him, to agree with him. One to tell him no.

  My blood runs cold. Say something. The need to run almost overwhelms me but I stand still. It’s only when he drops the belt on the ground and lets the buckle clang that I can’t hold it back any longer.

  I don’t want to tell him no because I want him to hurt me. This is exactly what I planned but I can’t do it. I can’t keep my promise to her.

  “You should—”

  “Come here,” he interrupts me before I can say go.

  I try to push him off of me, hating how he grips my arm. His thick fingers dig into my skin, bruising me and holding me still.

  I didn’t expect this. She was on the bed. She could barely move. She told me. But this isn’t like that.

  A scream tears from my throat and I try to run but he trips me, grabbing my thigh and covering my mouth.

  “We both know you wanted this,” he grunts as he digs into the waistband of my pajama pants.

  He has no idea.

  This is all I’ve wanted for so long.

  For justice, the only way I know how to get it.

  Even so, when he pushes me back against the sofa, I continue to fight him. At first, I think it’s instinct. But when he smiles and grips my hips, pushing me and pulling me down, the sick feeling of regret makes my skin go cold.

  “Leave me alone,” I yell, scorching my throat but he doesn’t listen. My nails rake the back of his hand as he shoves me down with a bruising force.

  I wish I could stop him.

  “Stop!” I scream out, kicking him, but he covers my face. My heart beats wildly.

  I changed my mind. I don’t want this. I try to scream again but he yanks my arm behind my back and pins me in place, forcing me facedown on the sofa.

  “I’ve always wanted to play with a girl like you.”

  I’ll never forget the smell of the blood. The air was thick with it although I didn’t know what it was until later.

  The floor creaked as I stepped into Sam’s bedroom. I called out her name, pushing the door open wider, but deep down I already knew something had happened. The house was quiet, save the click of the air conditioner turning on. Even that made me jump.

  Sam! I called out louder when I didn’t see her on her bed where she usually was. Her phone was there, though. Right in the center of the neatly made bed.

  I can still see her now, sitting cross-legged and bobbing her head, making her ponytail swish back and forth as she listened to the music blaring from her earbuds. But that was the old Sam. The girl who knew who she was and loved herself.

  That was before she was raped. Before she was told it was her fault. That she should have known better. Before everyone looked at her like she was the only one to blame.

  Before she believed that she’d genuinely deserved it. That there was something innately wrong with her. That she really had it coming to her. That’s what everyone told her, so why would she think any different? Even if she didn’t want it, it was because of what she’d done that he hurt her. And she was the one who was the problem.

  I tried to call out her name again but my voice was hoarse as I saw the light filtering through the crack of the open bathroom door. And the note on the floor.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry I ended it.

  I’m sorry I went to the party.

  I’m sorry I kissed those boys and led them on.

  I’m sorry I drank. I’m sorry I ever talked to Kevin.

  It hurt when he held me down.

  I promise I tried to scream. I’m sorry you didn’t hear me.

  I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, Mom.

  I’m sorry all of this happened.

  I don’t want to be this person.

  I swear to you I’m sorry.

  The world made her blind. She wasn’t supposed to be sorry. Victims aren’t the ones who are supposed to be sorry. I walked away unscathed, but Sam wasn’t so lucky. She didn’t hear my voice telling her that she wasn’t a bad person because everyone else spoke in unison. She asked for it. What did she think would happen?

  What did they think would happen when she was gone and only I was left, knowing her truth?

  The paper crinkled in my hand. I’ll never forget how neat her penmanship was. How even with her last words, she made sure they were pretty and that she’d written each letter as best as she could.

  My thumb traced over the one spot on the sheet of paper that was crinkled and slightly discolored. Where she’d let her tears fall onto the paper.

  I don’t know how I forced myself to move. Every step to the bathroom made my fear more real, made my skin that much colder.

  My hand shook as I pushed open the bathroom door wider, my heart refusing to continue beating when I saw her.

  Sam never cried before that night.

  And she never smiled after it either.

  “Sam,” I said, and my voice scratched my throat as I fell to my knees in the bathroom. The tile was cold and hard. She was in the tub with the drain open and the water barely running. It mixed with the blood and pooled around her body.

  Her pajama pants were stuck to her legs, soaking wet and stained with the blood.

  I covered my mouth as I cried, hating the sight before me. After she slit her throat, she must have lurched forward; blood was splattered on the wall and on her arms. Like maybe she tried to stop it. But the knife lay by her thigh and she was still.

  “Sam.” I could barely say her name as I inched forward.

  I had to touch her, even with her eyes open and staring back at nothing, a stillness that only comes with death. Even then I still had to climb into the tub and hold her, begging her to wake up.

  But she never would.

  Even as a fifteen-year-old girl, I knew that.

  She hated herself for what she’d done. She came to believe she deserved it because that’s what everyone told her. She was confused and she forgot how to be happy. She must’ve thought she never would be again and maybe she was right.

  Worst of all, I left her.

  I listened to my mother and left her when she needed me most. It could have been me and I didn’t even stand beside her.

  I could never take that back. But I made her a promise that night.

  30

  Dean

  There’s an expression about seeing red.

  They say when you’re consumed with rage, you see red. Your sense of awareness is skewed. Your thoughts aren’t logical. Your decisions aren’t sane.

  You’re seeing red.

  I’ve been angry before. I’ve let it get the best of me rather than accepting the pain that was always there.

  I never knew the true meaning of seeing red until I heard Allie scream.

  I could hear her behind the door.

  I thought I heard her all the way from the sidewalk. It was a scream that made the hairs on my arm stand on end. A scream the neighbor heard as well and I caught her looking toward Allie’s door with concern.

  My heartbeat picked up and it was already pounding in my chest.

  Every step I took before I heard her, I thought about the text I sent her. I was fixated on it.

  I almost didn’t send it. I almost acted like a coward and let her leave me.

  If Daniel hadn’t convinced me to get my sorry ass out of the bar, I might not be here now.

 
You need to stop pushing me away, I texted her. I don’t know what the hell your problem is, but you’ve got to stop this shit. I’m coming over.

  She didn’t reply. I didn’t expect her to, but I was still coming to get her.

  I was thinking about what I was going to say and how I was going to say it. It felt like it was my last chance. The Hail Mary of getting her back but also keeping her. And then I heard her.

  My boots slapped on her porch as I picked up my pace.

  My fists slammed on the door as I called out her name.

  But I could barely hear them over the sound of the chaotic pounding in my chest, the sound of my blood rushing in my ears.

  The sound of her screaming out again. With fear.

  My shoulder crashed into the door without thinking twice. The pain rippled up my neck and down my back.

  “Allie!” I screamed her name as the wood cracked and I shoved myself into the room. She was right there but still so far away.

  The sight will be burned into my memory forever.

  The scratch on Kevin’s arm, deep and bright in color, the redness in Allie’s skin and clear fear written on her face, cheeks tearstained and her voice raw and hoarse as she screamed again. How he was hovering over her, shoving her down even as he looked up at me.

  Red.

  It’s all red.

  I don’t know how my body moved, but it did. I don’t think I breathed until I picked up the lamp.

  I remember him getting up and I could see him thinking about how to play it off. I could see the look in his eyes. Like he wasn’t actually hurting her. Like I’d just caught him playing around.

  The lamp was so light in my grasp. As though it weighed nothing as I whacked him over the head with it. My body was tight and screaming. It took no energy at all. No thought. His head was the part of him closest to me as he stood. The easiest to strike.

  The sound is something I don’t think I’ll ever forget either. The crack of the lamp, the crunch of his bones.

  The blow was solid. Even though his wrist blocked the first swing, the next bash of the lamp struck him right where I aimed. The cord swung around, whipping him in the face and then back to my arm. I aimed again as he yelled at me to stop.