Our house sits in a cosy upper-middle class neighbourhood. It’s two-storey and with more rooms than we need. The three of us did everything to make it as homey as possible. We planted an orange tree. A few roses. Uncle and I made sure to take care of the gardening ourselves — but lately he doesn’t have time to.
My movements are numb as I hit the code and step inside.
The interior design has been carefully picked by Aunt Blair. Despite being minimalist, it’s classy and modern. The lounge area has dark blue and beige sofas. The bookshelves are also dark blue with a touch of strength that doesn’t only represent Uncle Jaxon’s alpha character, but also Aunt Blair’s.
Not bothering to open the tall, french windows, I drag my numb feet upstairs.
Aunt and Uncle wouldn’t be around until late at night. The more their company grows, the less I see of them.
Sometimes, they pull all-nighters — whether in their company’s office or their home one.
Sometimes, one of them returns to spend the night, but most of the time, they don’t.
I’m going to be eighteen soon and I’ve always acted responsibly, so I stay alone just fine.
Deep down, I know they don’t like leaving me alone — especially Aunt Blair. When I’m by myself or with Kim, she calls a thousand times — even with the safe neighbourhood and the alarm system.
God. I can’t believe I ditched school.
I just couldn’t sit in the same class as Aiden and pretend I was fine.
For two years, I took pride in walking the halls with my head held high no matter what the minions said or did to me. Today was too raw.
Too deviant.
Just too much.
The steel will I thought I had crumbled in a matter of minutes.
I always heard about people’s breaking points, but I was too delusional to think I didn’t have one.
I discovered the hard way that I do.
A breath leaves me as I step into my room.
My sanctuary.
I always joked with Aunt and Uncle, calling it my kingdom.
The decor is cosy with a mixture of pastel pink and black. I have my own library stacked with psychological and Chinese war books organised alphabetically. CD’s hang from the ceiling like a curtain separating my bed from my desk.
The wall across the bed has two huge posters of my favourite bands; Coldplay and Bastille.
I let my backpack drop on the floor and press play on my Ipad. Hipnotised by Coldplay fills the space.
Tears barge into my eyes as I strip from my soaked clothes and step into the bathroom.
My hand itches. The need to scrub the filth off it fills me with an obsessiveness.
I stop at the sink and wash, scrub and rub my hands together until they become bright red.
When I lift my eyes to the mirror, my lips part.
It’s me. The witchy, white-blonde hair. The baby blue eyes. But at the same time, it isn’t.
There’s a void in there.
A… numbness.
I’m about to move to the shower when something else stops me.
My scar.
Several angry red marks surround it. Did the psycho leave freaking hickeys around my scar?
What in the ever living hell was going on in his defective brain?
I rip my gaze away from the mirror and take the longest, most scalding shower in history.
When I step back into the room, the song has changed to Good Grief by Bastille. I let the music drift around me as I climb into bed, still in a towel, and close my eyes.
I fight the tears and lose.
I startle awake.
My hair sticks to the side of my face with sweat.
Heat smothers my body and my breasts tighten against the towel.
That’s not all.
Oh. God.
My hand rests between my legs and I’m… wet.
I jerk my hand free as if I was caught stealing.
I don’t even remember the dream, so what the hell is this reaction supposed to mean?
My surroundings come back into focus. The soft light from the lamp. The music I left on. The chorus from Grip by Bastille strikes deep inside me. Something about the devil having him by the arm and pulling him into the night.
The neon red numbers on the nightstand read seven pm.
I slide from the bed, willing my body temperature to go back to normal.
With a deep breath, I put on my pyjamas shorts and a T-shirt, gather my hair in a bun, and sit at my desk.
My first day at senior year started with a disaster, but nothing will take Cambridge away from me.
I retrieve my books and tasks organised in Eizinhower’s method and dive into it.
For thirty minutes, my mind is tuned to studying. Then, I start drifting.
The pen grazes my bottom lip as my thoughts spiral into directions they shouldn’t.
Even when I want to forget, my body has a memory of its own. My body still remembers how Aiden held me. How he was hard because I struggled.
My eyes still remember that dark, bottomless emptiness and disregard.
If I didn’t cry, what would he have done?
A shudder goes through me at the thought.
In old Chinese war books, it’s said that the best way to understand someone is to see things from their perspective. To think as they do.
There’s no way in hell I’m doing that with Aiden.
Depraved bullies don’t deserve to be understood.
After being singled out as an outcast, I thought that one day, karma would bite bastards like Aiden in the arse and he’d stop tormenting my existence in RES.
I was only fooling myself.
Aiden might be a psycho, but he’s a smart one. He knows when to push buttons and when to step back.
He took me by surprise today.
Ha, understatement of the freaking century there.
He rattled me.
He shook my world.
He made me doubt myself.
Since he kept his distance for two years, I never thought he’d get close. That close.
I’m still all too confused about what I felt. What I feel. And whatever dream – or nightmare – I just had.
I know for sure that he took something he had no right to take and that I fucking hate him for it.
But more than him, I hate myself for letting him take it.
A knock sounds on the door. I startle, biting the pen and my lip.
Ow.