CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
Fuck, I’m so stupid. I cover my face with my hands and bury myself behind my hair and knees.
I never should have said anything. What I carelessly did with that professor was all my fault.
I was stupid enough to fall for her tricks.
I was stupid enough to believe her words.
She used me while her husband was filing for a divorce, she used me as an escape.
I knew it was wrong but I didn’t realize she never loved me like she said she did.
Tears leak from my eyes and small whimpers leave my lips as I try to calm my breathing.
It’s not the end of the fucking world, if anything my past is behind me.
I must admit it and move on, like Emerson always says ‘the things you always dreamed of are still there, your past doesn’t stop you from reaching them’.
I stand up on weak knees and begin to dig through all the different things around the room.
I miss Emerson, my dad, my mom, and I want to get out of this room that awakens all the dark, delirious things in my mind.
I scour for anything that will resemble greed.
The way I acted when I was buried between her thighs, the attention I craved from her.
She was everything I ever wanted to be; bold, beautiful, brave and smart but in reality she was none of those things.
It was an act to get under my clothes. She stole my firsts and was the first to throw them away—I gave my virginity to my teacher.
If I have to find an object, what will it show about love? Love is more than an object, it's more than the human brain can process. It has to be something broken and that reflects a version of love we hold in ourselves but can’t plainly see how bad it is unless we look deeper, longer.
I stop dead in the middle of the room, trying to think of what can do that.
Something only I can see my desires in, that leads to distorted versions of self love.
I couldn’t love myself first and that was why my first love was a failure.
I was so greedy for love that I never actually took the time to understand what love is.
“A broken mirror.” I whisper out loud. It reflects us in ways we can't decipher, creating a vision of ourselves we ignore and will eventually shatter.
I remember seeing a silver circular mirror and walk over to one of the many desks. I push a binder out of the way and there it is, cracked and old. I hold it up to my face and look at my distorted figure. This has to be it.
I grab the crumbled note from the ground and place it, along with the mirror, on the table. Four down leaving two more to go.
I walk over to the small window and lean over Ronan to look out, it's quite early in the morning.
The sun peaks through the hundreds of trees littered outside but you can see each sway of branches indicating how windy and cold it is.
Pumpkins, red solo cups, and other trash litter the yard, everything stuck in place from two or three days ago.
I step back and look down at him. His arms are relaxed at his side and his head is slightly tilted against the head of the chair. I’m assuming he’s gone to sleep. He hasn't moved since our argument an hour ago. I leave him be and walk over to the bed.
I sit down and stare at the neon red clock above, 53:13.
The numbers seem haunting under the pile of stress in my mind.
A little more than two days left. I’m glad but equally sad to go.
This place will leave me with nightmares and scars that will never heal but that also means leaving behind Ronan and the mystery he holds.
He grates my last nerve but deep down inside you can tell he cares.
He seems lost, hurt beyond the words he told me earlier—his own mother raped him, for God knows how many years.
He’s endured more than I have from someone he thought he could trust.
I shake away the dawning thoughts of seeing him weak and vulnerable. I don’t see him as either of those things. He’s more than his past, more than he believes he is.
I fall back into the bed. My body sinks into the silk sheets as I stare up at the old ceiling. The wood is splintered and dips in from water damage. Nails stick out of a few of the boards and rusted chains hang just a few feet away from the bed.
I wonder who created these rooms, were they always like this or designed to be like this?
How do they know so much about us and if we’d be here or not?
They had to create enough rooms to fit our entire town in.
I mean it's a possibility with how small it is, but how had I never noticed Ronan. Is he originally from here and I passed by him more times than I can count on one hand. I feel like I would remember a face like his. He’s attractive, aside from his malicious ways, he can pull any woman he wants.
With a wink of an eye or a charming smile he’d have them wrapped around his finger.
I know, I'm experiencing it.
All he has to do is ask me to undress and I’ll do it, without a doubt he’ll leave me a shaking, horrified mess.
He touches me like I belong to him, like I’m all he has ever hoped for and that should be terrifying.
I’m falling for a guy that uses my body like an object and then discards me without a second thought.
I want to know what he thinks as he takes from me. Does he feel the same way I do? Will we leave here as a couple? Is that a word to describe his way of torture, of love? Am I foolishly hoping for something from him that I know he can’t give me?
Deep down something tells me this isn’t more than a game to him. He seems used to this, he knows what he's doing and I’m falling right into his trap—into his game of hell.
After a beat of silence, I feel myself falling asleep. The sound of chains rattling teases the back of my mind, but the haze takes over. This place makes me tired, drained.
Book made for edfloresauthor@