3. Trixie
THREE
TRIXIE
15 YEARS OLD
I watch the blood seeping from the cut on my wrist. I want it to ease my torment, but it never does.
The only thing it does is give me the pain I’ve started to crave, and I hate myself for it, because it’s his fault. The pain he inflicts on me is wrong. I know it’s dirty, but now I cut myself to take control, and give myself the power to enjoy this pain. I want control over at least one part of my life, if it’s the last thing I do.
I wipe the tears away and lean my head against the bathroom door. How did this become my life? How can this be happening to me?
He tells me I can’t tell anyone. No one will believe me, but maybe he’s lying. Someone might believe me.
Finally, forcing myself to move. I turn the shower on. My wrists aren’t the only place I’ve cut myself. I glance at my thighs as the blood drips down.
I don’t know how much longer I want to live.
Present Day
I stare at myself in the mirror as I finish applying my makeup. The cut on my lip is hard to cover today, but I’ve managed to hide the other bruises, which is something I’ve learned to do well over the years. But when I press the sponge to my skin, the pain stings. It always hurts.
I look into the mirror as my bedroom door swings open, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want him to touch me again. Last night was enough. I didn’t even fight, mainly because I was too high to care. But it didn’t stop him from hitting me.
If anyone could see the bruises I have on my body, they’d think I’ve been in a fight with Mike Tyson. But I make sure every bruise, every mark, stays hidden.
I feel him standing behind me, Robert. Even his name makes bile travel up my throat.
Shutting my eyes tighter when he moves my hair aside, giving him access to my neck. His lips press against my skin. I try to push him away, but he quickly wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me against him.
“Last night was good. I hope I didn’t hurt you,” he murmurs, kissing my neck again. His hand moves under my t-shirt. “You know, these are my favorite.” He squeezes my right breast before pressing his lips under my ear. “I think we can have fun before you go to school. After what you did, I deserve to have it all.”
All I did was hit him for hurting me, which he didn’t like.
“Robert!” His name is shouted from downstairs, and he quickly pulls away. He doesn’t want to get caught, not after what happened last time. Even though I was the one who got the blame. No one believed me, they never do. Somehow, I was made out to be the bad guy. I was the one who asked for it. I was the one who walked around in little skirts and begged to be touched. It was all my fault. Now, I’m the reason we had to move to this state.
Quickly I grab my bag and leave my bedroom, not wanting to see anyone. I’m not in the mood to talk, especially not with him around. She’ll blame me for something, even if I had nothing to do with it.
Throwing my bag in the car, I slam the door shut, and cuss to myself under my breath when my bag falls off the seat. Leaning over, I shove everything back in, then stop when I see the card Declan gave me.
I didn’t go to the party. I don’t know why he thought I would. Is he crazy? It’s the last place I wanted to be. Besides, I have a feeling he’s planning to make my life even more miserable than it already is.
The way he spoke to me at lunch, there was something in his tone. A warning.
I’m already broken. What can he do to break me even more?
He’ll come to me, asking why I wasn’t there. I won’t answer. I’m ready for whatever he has to throw at me.
Well, at least I hope I am.
Parking the car, I don’t glance at the hockey team. That’s where he’ll be. No eye contact, that’s my plan. It’ll help me. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
“Hey, Trixie.” I smile at Ash as he walks up beside me, smiling as we make our way to my locker.
“Did you go to the pool party?” he asks.
I turn to him. He knows I didn’t, because we were too busy getting high together.
“I thought maybe you went to show your face,” he adds.
I stop in front of my locker. Another flower. The same flower as yesterday.
Well, at least they aren’t showing up in my car anymore.
“Do you know who’s sending you them?” Ash asks. I shake my head. I have no idea. A part of me doesn’t care, but it’s been going on all summer. Whoever’s leaving them either needs to show me their face or stop leaving them.
Grabbing my books for my first class, I shove the flower inside my locker. That’s when I see them, Lileah, some of the hockey team, and a few of her friends.
Before they can walk past me, I slip into my classroom. Math. I hate it. I probably won’t even pass. I have no idea why I even need to take it. It won’t help me in the future.
Then again, I don’t even know what my future looks like.
A part of me never thought I’d be alive past sixteen. The number of times I considered ending my life, just to get out of the hell I live in. But here I am. Senior Year.
With no idea what I want to do with my life.
I take a seat in the back, thankful no one else is here yet. Maybe I can get through the year without being noticed. Stay in my own little bubble.
Taking out my notepad from my bag, I open it and flip to the page I was working on last night. I was always good at drawing; it was one thing I learned from my mom. She was the best artist I’d ever seen.
When she was alive, I never cared about art. But after she was taken from me, I needed something to connect me to her.
So I picked up a pencil.
At first my drawings were colorful. Happy.
But over time they changed.
Now, my life is nothing but darkness.
Pain.
That’s the only thing I see now.
“You should show Mr. Benson this, you know. Ash leans in closer, watching as I add detail to a drawing of a hand wrapped in a snake, blood dripping from the wrist.
In class I draw nice simple things, so the teacher won’t ask questions about my work. “You draw some dark shit, you know,” Ash mutters.
I smirk. He knows. He’s seen the things I’ve drawn, the things I feel. The things I wish I could do.
I stop sketching when I hear a group walk in. Lileah. The hockey team. Another girl.
I quickly shut my pad when I feel someone standing at my desk. I don’t look up, but I see her through my lashes. Lileah.
“My brother’s not happy you didn’t show up yesterday.” She takes the pen from my hand and taps it a few times, and I finally look up at her. “Advice?” She smirks. “Don’t piss him off.”
She tosses the pen onto my desk and walks away.
This is going to be a long year.
Math dragged on. I zoned out for most of it, which sucks because if I fail, I’ll be stuck in fucking summer school. That’s the last place I want to be.
Maybe a tutor will be a good idea. But that means being in a room with someone I don’t want to be alone with.
I can’t win.
English is better. I loved it at my old school. I liked the teacher.
Again, I sit at the back. Alone.
Ash is in most of my classes, but not this one. At lunch, I sat with his friends, I don’t really talk to them. They hate the world, for no reason. I hate it because I couldn’t fight back.
The second Declan walks into class, laughing with his friends, my body tenses.
How can someone so heartless be so good looking?
If I’d met him under different circumstances, I’d probably stare. Do a double take.
But he’s ready to make my life hell.
And I don’t even care.
Declan walks up to my desk, drags the chair next to me closer, and sits down, stretching his legs.
I tap my fingers against my pad, waiting.
Say something.
Anything.
His energy is suffocating.
He slowly licks his bottom lip, leans forward, and places a piece of paper on my desk.
And then he walks away.
I stare at it.
It’s not just folded in half, it’s folded into thirds.
What the fuck is this?
THE LIST
COME TO POOL PARTY - $100
WEAR A BIKINI - $10
BLOW JOB - $500
WEAR A SKIRT - $20
NO MAKE-UP - $10
Closing the paper, I turn to Declan, who’s watching me. He wants my body as fucking payment for his damn car. I know who he is. I know about his family. They have more money than they’ll ever need—enough to last them for many lifetimes.
So why the hell does he care so much about his fucking car?
I stick my middle finger up at him, and he blows me a kiss.
I don’t even want to know what else is on this list. Right now I don’t care, because I have a feeling none of it is something I’ll want to do.
No make-up. A skirt. Those are the two things I choose, but there is only one problem with that, he’ll see all the bruises covering me.
And, if he asks about them, I have no idea what I’ll say.