Twenty Four
Scarlett
“ P lease don’t,” I beg again, but he slaps me across the face, the pain stinging. “You know you want this, you dirty fucking whore. And I’ll make sure you’re begging for more before we’re done.”
His cock is so hard as he presses it into my bare ass that I can feel his pulse through it. Bile rises in my throat as I try to kick him, to fight back, but he overpowers me, pinning me down on the desk. He reaches for his belt and pulls it off, wrapping it around my neck and using it to hold me down. I can’t believe this is happening to me, that he’s taking what he wants from me as if I’m nothing more than a piece of meat.
I scream, “Stop!” but he just laughs. “You can beg all you want, but we both know you love it. My son wasn’t enough for you and you needed a real man, right?”
Ever the damsel and always the fuckup. My father’s words ring out as tears pool in my eyes.
He slams inside me hard, pounding into me relentlessly. I feel like I’m being split in two, and the pain is excruciating. I can feel myself tearing and the blood dripping down my thighs. I can’t breathe, my vision is starting to go black around the edges.
“No!” I scream out, my voice cracking with terror. My body jerks violently, trying to escape the clutches of my nightmare, but strong arms pull me back into the bed. Fear chokes me, making it hard to breathe, until I catch the soft glow of the small bedside lamp.
“Shh, I’ve got you. It was just a nightmare,” Whit whispers, his voice gentle but firm. His words are meant to soothe, but the nightmare was all too real—it was a memory. The tears begin to flow uncontrollably, hot and fast, burning tracks down my cheeks. I bury my face in Whit’s chest, my sobs shaking both of us. His hand strokes my hair, each touch a lifeline grounding me in the present. I can feel his heart beating just as fast as mine, a silent testament to his fear for me.
As much as I want to push him away, to lash out at the world that haunts me even in sleep, I find myself clinging to him. My fingers dig into his shirt, desperate for the comfort his presence offers.
The raw ache in my chest begins to ease, just a fraction, as I let myself be held, be vulnerable, in his arms.
Whit holds me tightly, his grip strong yet comforting. He leans his head down, pressing his cheek against my hair. “Hey,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “Do you want to hear a story? Something to get your mind off things?”
My sobs begin to quiet down, and I nod against his chest. Whit adjusts himself slightly, making sure I’m still wrapped in his embrace.
“I remember this one time when I was about twelve,” he begins softly. “Lennox, Blaine, and I decided to climb this massive oak tree in Lennox’s backyard. It was the tallest tree we’d ever seen, and we were determined to conquer it.”
His voice is a gentle hum, weaving a new world around us. “Half way up, Blaine got stuck. He was scared and started to panic. Lennox and I tried to calm him down, but he was really shaken. I remember feeling scared too, but I knew I had to be strong for him. I climbed down to where Blaine was, and together, we slowly made our way back down. We didn’t make it to the top that day, but we promised each other we’d try again.”
His gentle words weave pictures in my mind, of sunlight filtering through the leaves, of laughter and camaraderie. It feels almost idyllic, a stark contrast to the turmoil that rages within me.
“You know,” he continues, his fingers threading through my hair, “climbing that tree was about more than just reaching the top. It was about conquering fears, about facing the unknown together. That’s what it means to truly grow, right?”
I feel a tiny flicker of hope at his words, a notion that maybe, just maybe, I could do the same in my life.
“Sometimes,” he adds, voice low, “it takes falling to realize how strong you really are. And every time I held Blaine’s hand, I felt like we were untouchable, no matter how far we slipped or how high we climbed.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. “That sounds really beautiful, Whit. I wish I had friends like that.”
His fingers pause, and I can feel the weight of his gaze on me. “You have me now. And I want you to know, anyone who tries to come between us is just a footnote in our story. You’re the headline. Always remember that, little flame.”
That simple statement sends warmth through my heart, a gentle reassurance washing over the jagged remnants of my battered spirit.
I lift my head, searching his eyes; they hold a sincerity that makes my heart race. “You really mean that?”
“Absolutely. You’re not alone, not anymore. Not ever.”
His voice is a balm to my wounds, soothing the chaos that threatens to overwhelm me. I nod slowly, feeling the embrace of hope wrap around me like a warm blanket, shielding me from the storm of my past.
With a soft smile, he brushes a tear from my cheek, his touch lingering long enough to ignite a warmth within my soul. My heart thrums in my chest, alive with a flicker of something that feels almost foreign—a longing for connection, for love, for healing.
“I know it’s hard,” he says, “but I want to help you heal, to find your way back to the world. Together, we can climb that tree. Together, we can face whatever comes.”
I nod, feeling a surge of gratitude. The fear from the nightmare still lingers, but it’s dulled by the comfort of Whit’s presence. I sniffle, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice trembling but sincere.
He smiles then, a small, reassuring smile that ignites a spark of light in his eyes, illuminating even the darkest corners of my soul. “Anytime. Now, how about we watch a movie? What would you like to watch?”
Without waiting for my response, he grabs the remote and with a quick press of a button, the partitions in the room slide away, revealing a hidden TV. The sleek screen lights up, casting a soft glow across the room.
Whit’s gaze returns to me, mischief twinkling in his eyes, hinting at the easy camaraderie we’d developed over the past weeks. “What’s your favorite movie?” he asks, his interest genuinely piqued.
A smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I allow myself to reminisce. “It’s got to be Dead Poets Society,” I admit, feeling the nostalgia wrap around me like an embrace. “I love how it celebrates the beauty of literature and the courage to think differently.”
Whit tilts his head slightly. “I’ve never seen it,” he admits, looking intrigued. “What’s it about?”
“It’s about a professor at an all-boys preparatory school who inspires his students through his teaching of poetry,” I explain, passion coloring my voice. “He encourages them to seize the day, to live life to the fullest. It’s really inspiring.”
“Sounds perfect,” he says, nodding along, a softness settling in his expression as if he can sense the film’s significance to me. He glances at his watch, a hint of concern crossing his features. “By the way, if you’re in pain, you can have more meds now.”
“I’m good right now,” I reassure him, the warmth of his concern enveloping me, more soothing than any medication he could offer.
As he begins to scroll through the options, my heart swells with a sense of normalcy. This moment, this ritual of choosing a movie, feels so grounded amidst the chaos of my thoughts. Whit settles back beside me, his arm draping protectively over my shoulders, sending a comforting thrum through my chest as our bodies align.
As the opening credits roll, I lean closer, instinctively seeking the warmth of his body. The film’s inspiring journey begins to take me away from the shadows, allowing me to momentarily escape the weight of my own burdens.
Whit gently brushes a stray strand of hair from my face, his touch feather-light, his eyes never leaving my own. I can feel his heart beating steadily against my cheek, his presence an anchor in the storm that’s been raging inside me.
“I’m right here, little flame,” he whispers, his voice carrying a promise that resonates deep within me. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And as the world on the screen unfolds, I let his warmth and the comfort of his embrace envelop me, a momentary sanctuary from the demons that continue to haunt my dreams.
As I sit on my favorite chair in Whit’s library, my feet folding underneath me, I begin to write. The leather is soft against my skin, worn down by time and love, a fitting tribute to the countless hours I have spent lost between the pages of his collection. The words flow from my mind to the paper, my heart racing with excitement. This is my chance to tell my story, to show the world what I’ve been through.
I grip the pen a little tighter as I think about my past. I remember the day I first met Whit, how my heart fluttered uncomfortably in my chest. He was so charming and funny. He had this way of making even the quietest moments electric.
“Do you always help random people you run into?”
He chuckles, “Only the ones who look like they might make my day more interesting. I’m Whit, by the way.”
I roll my eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Does that line actually work on others?”
I laugh out, remembering his terrible line. But it worked, didn’t it?
I write about that moment, capturing the essence of our first encounter, the pure possibility it offered. His presence crackled in the air with an electric anticipation, like the calm before a storm. Whit, with his tousled hair and that crooked smile that could disarm the most guarded heart. I pour out my heart on the page: how he had become my escape from an unyielding childhood filled with chaos, and how his laugh mirrored the sound of rain tapping against the window—comforting, soothing.
But I also write about the shadows of my past, the violence tucked behind my memories, lurking like a persistent fog. “How did I end up here?” I ponder as the pen scratches across the paper.
The memories of my father pierce my mind like shards of glass. He was a drunk, often locking me in dark closets, leaving me to face my fears alone. There was nothing good about him, there was only the terror and isolation he inflicted.
Here, in this sanctuary surrounded by books and hope, I finally begin to piece myself back together. Each word I write becomes a stitch in the fabric of my resilience, the ink from my pen flowing like the tears I dared not shed. I pause, the pen hovering over the paper as I take a deep breath. Surrounded by the stories that have shaped me, I finally start to see the possibility of a future that’s not defined by my past.
I write about the nights I spent hiding in my room, hours lost to the pages of novels, where characters became my friends. Their worlds were a sanctuary when mine felt like it was falling apart. The words flow freely now, a torrent of emotion spilling out—a cathartic release of everything I’ve held inside for so long.
I write and write until my thoughts spill over, raw and unfiltered. Each word feels like a release, a step toward reclaiming my story from the shadows of my past.
Eventually I set the pen down, my hand aching, but my spirit feeling lighter. I take a moment to read over what I’ve written, the raw honesty of my words staring back at me. It’s a start—a beginning of something new, something hopeful.
I lean back in the chair, letting out a long breath. For the first time in a long while, I feel a sense of peace. The nightmares may still linger, but here, in Whit’s library surrounded by the stories that have always been my refuge, I know I have the strength to keep going.
“Hey, Scar,” Whit whispers from the doorway, his voice gentle and careful. Despite the softness I still jump, my heart racing at the sudden interruption.
He steps into the room, his eyes sharp and intense, filled with concern and something else—something more obsessive. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine. “Are you okay?”
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. “Yeah, I’m okay,” I reply, my voice a little shaky. “Just lost in my thoughts.”
His eyes flick to the journal in my lap, noting the furious scribbles. “Writing about the past?” he asks, his tone edged with a mixture of sympathy and an almost possessive curiosity.
I nod, feeling a wave of emotion wash over me. “Yeah, it’s... it’s helping.”
Whit moves closer, sitting down beside me with a presence that’s both comforting and intense. “Good,” he says, his voice low.
He leans back, still close, his gaze steady and focused on me. “So, what part of the story are you at now?” he asks, genuine curiosity laced with a need to know everything about me.
I take another deep breath and glance down at the open journal. “Just... the tough parts,” I admit, feeling the weight of the words I’ve written.
Whit nods, understanding yet unyielding. “Well, you’re brave for facing them head-on. And remember, every word you write is a step toward healing.”
Whit’s gaze flickers with a hint of something deeper, an emotion that makes my heart flutter in my chest. I find myself leaning in closer to him. He mirrors my movement, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You have no idea how much I want to kiss you right now,” he murmurs, his breath tickling my skin, electrifying every nerve in my body.
“I think I do,” I whisper back, my heart hammering in my chest, the promise of connection tantalizingly close.
Whit leans in, his lips mere inches from mine. “Are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice barely above a murmur, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment.
I nod, feeling a rush of excitement. “I’m sure,” I breathe, and that moment feels like the culmination of everything we’ve shared, everything that has led us here.
In a heartbeat, Whit closes the gap between us, his lips crashing into mine. I gasp, the sensation overwhelming me, the world around us fading into a blur. His tongue slips into my mouth, exploring every inch, igniting a fire that spreads through my core.
I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss as if trying to memorize the feeling of him against me. He deepens the kiss, his hands roaming down my body, igniting a longing that has been lying dormant.
A moan escapes my lips, lost in the intensity of the moment, feeling a tingling sensation that courses through me like electricity.
Whit breaks the kiss, his eyes dark with desire swirling like a stormy sea. “I love you,” he whispers before kissing me again, pouring an ocean of emotion into every touch, every movement.
I melt into him, feeling his love enveloping me like a soft cocoon. We stay like this for a few moments, the world outside forgotten. Finally, Whit pulls away, breathing heavily.
“We need to stop, because I don’t know if I’ll be able to if we keep going,” he admits, his voice strained, the conflict in his eyes so clear. I know he wants to be intimate again, but he’s giving me time to heal, respecting the process and my boundaries.
I kiss his cheek, feeling gratitude swell within me. “Thank you, Whit. For being patient with me.”
A smile breaks across his face, one that makes my heart flutter. He leans in and kisses my forehead tenderly, as if sealing a promise between us.
“I’d wait a million years for you, Scarlett,” he murmurs, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around me like a warm blanket.
“You are my obsession, Scarlett. And I won’t stop until you see that you’re meant to be with me.”
In that moment, I know he means every word, and I can’t help but believe that maybe, just maybe, I’m finally on the path to healing—not alone, but with someone who cares enough to walk beside me.