Chapter 2
Julien
When I blink my eyes open, I’m hit with an ice pick stabbing my brain as the sun nearly blinds me, followed by burning nausea.
I have no idea how much I had to drink. I’d lost track throughout the night, but it was a lot.
I’d also chased some of the shots with blow.
Too much fucking blow. If I move, I’m going to vomit, but I can’t lie in the grass all day.
I smack my lips, trying to get some saliva into my cotton mouth. When I shift, someone groans and snuggles into me. I glance down to find Lance, the little gay twink in my school, who’s a sophomore. God, I hope we didn’t do anything together.
I lift his hand, which is draped over my stomach, and remove it. When I sit up, I choke back the bile and swallow down the acid.
“Fuck me.”
I’m gonna die.
I can’t remember when I’d ever felt like I’d been run over by a semi truck. It’s a level of hell I didn’t prepare for, and I’ve been to some wild fucking parties. Mine was over the top last night. It was a party to remember.
I rub my face and run my fingers through my wrecked and tangled hair, pulling out bits of dead grass. When I attempt to stand, stabbing pain throbs throughout my entire body.
As I wait for my head and stomach to settle the fuck down, I try to recall the party, but after the first couple of hours, most of it’s blank other than quick flashes of doing shots and snorting coke off some girl’s tits.
I also remember following Derrik and Cherry to one of the guest rooms to watch them fuck. I felt nothing then, and I feel nothing now. Then again, what’s the point in caring about anything? In two weeks, I won’t feel shit, anyway.
When I think I can stand without blowing chunks, I sit on my knees, then lift myself onto my feet.
“Jesusmotherfuckingchristonacracker.” I’d never been this hungover in my life.
I block out the glare of the sun and scan the yard as another wave of dizziness tries to take hold of me. People are passed out in the grass, by the pool, and on lounge chairs, several of whom are naked. I’m sure there are more in the house. It seems most of them went home.
The yard is covered in trash and clothes; the shrubs have been torn up, and the pool is filthy, with beer cans floating on the surface. At least no one drowned… hopefully.
I make my way to the kitchen and chase four Advil with the last bit of tequila sitting on the counter—nothing like curing a hangover with more alcohol.
Oh fuck.
I scramble toward the bathroom as the acid starts to rise too fast. I flip up the toilet lid, fall to my knees, and let everything out of my stomach, from the Advil to the tequila, and whatever else I drank and ate last night.
I throw up for what feels like an eternity until I’ve got nothing left, and I’m just dry heaving.
“Fuck me…” I groan and fall onto my back.
I feel a little better with the cold tile floor pressing against my heated skin.
Shakily, I stand and head back to the kitchen to take more Advil, this time with water straight from the faucet.
Leaning against the counter, I breathe deeply to calm my body, which is trying to fight me with every movement.
I’d feel even better if I took another bump of coke, but I’m pretty sure I’m out. The last thing I need is to get addicted to the shit. I need to be lucid for the next two weeks.
Now, it’s time for everyone to go home.
I head toward the stereo system and see it’s still working, which is surprising, considering the rest of the house is trashed.
Several decorations and vases have been shattered on the marble floor, and someone blew chunks on Mom’s antique Persian rug in the living room.
I’d smile at the destruction if I knew it wouldn’t make my head explode.
My big passive-aggressive ‘fuck you’ to my parents is a goddamn work of art, but I’ll be long gone before they see it.
I definitely smirk at the fact that my stepdad will lose his fucking mind when he sees his precious wine collection gone. To be a fly on the wall when he comes home...
After searching for the song I want, I crank it up, turning the volume as loud as possible so it reaches the outdoor speakers and gets everyone off their asses.
It doesn’t take them long to stir awake, all groaning and looking like they’ve swallowed a bottle of acid. They can get over it. Now, it’s time for me to leave. I need to get the second phase of my plan started.
I lean against the wall, watching everyone carry their half-dead corpses out of the house.
Once it’s cleared of people downstairs, I head upstairs to check for any stragglers or those who passed out in the bedrooms.
As expected, I find Derrick and Cherry where I’d left them last night, still naked and tangled together.
“Time to get up and get the fuck out,” I say loudly, hurting my own head. I pinch my nose and breathe through the pain and nausea.
I lean in the doorway and fold my arms, watching them scramble and explain why they’re both naked in the bed. It’s quite funny, actually. Maybe because this is the first time I’ve seen them show any sort of remorse. Maybe remorse isn’t the right word. More like regret at getting caught.
“Dude, ah, we were just drunk, man. It means nothin’,” Derrick says, pulling on his underwear.
Cherry grabs her bra and slips it on, then scrambles to get dressed. “He’s right. It means nothing.”
I shrug. “I’ve known for a while, so you can stop lying. If it means nothing to you, why’d you suck off Derrick in my closet? Why keep fucking around? I don’t want to hear your shit anymore. Get the fuck out. Both of you. I’m done with every one of you motherfucking users.”
Derrick snorted derisively. “Whatever, man. You never gave a shit about her.”
“And you never gave a shit about me, best friend,” I say as he brushes past me and leaves.
Once Cherry’s dressed, she stands in front of me, looking up with doe eyes and resting her hands on my chest. “Baby… Jules… I swear it means nothing. We just fool around once in a while. You’re the one I love. You’re the one I want to marry.”
I tuck a tangled strand of hair behind her ear. When I drag my knuckles gently across her skin, she leans into the touch. “It’s Julien. I hate that fucking nickname. Always have. Besides, I don’t care what you have to say. You only loved the money and status.”
Maybe it’s the hangover from hell. Maybe for the first time, I’m actually feeling something, because when she argues with me and starts to cry, something inside me snaps.
I grab her arm hard enough to hurt, drag her out of the guest room, down the stairs, and through the foyer, before tossing her outside and slamming the door in her face.
She’s banging on the door and ringing the bell, but I ignore her.
I’m more at fault than they are. Derrick was right. My lack of attachment is what ruined us more than anything, although if I did care, I’m sure they still would’ve cheated on me.
I go through the house to make sure everyone’s gone, then I head back to my room, pull out my suitcase and a duffel bag from under my bed. They’re filled with a few weeks’ worth of clothes and other necessities.
After I take a quick shower and feel slightly human again, I wrap up by packing my toiletries.
I’m so distracted that I don’t hear the person coming up behind me.
They grab a chunk of hair and drag me to the floor.
Before I can recover or see who it is, a foot lands in my empty gut, and I instantly throw up all over the rug, which is mostly water.
I’m holding onto my stomach, curled in on myself as the pain radiates throughout my body.
“You fucking son of bitch! What the hell did you do to my house?”
Holt. My bastard stepdad. They weren’t supposed to be home yet.
I don’t say anything because I can’t, as I get up on my hands and knees, swaying, and my breath wheezing. A long dribble of spit travels from my mouth to the floor. My mind is still trying to catch up with what just happened.
“Get the fuck up!” he screams at me. “We rushed home because my security app showed my goddamn house getting destroyed!”
I stand on shaky legs and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
Fuck. I was supposed to be gone before they got home.
I didn’t calculate the security app. My bad.
But now that they’re here, they can know exactly how I feel about them.
Still, tendrils of fear snake around my throat, threatening to paralyze me.
He’s not going to let me get out of here unscathed.
I don’t get a chance to recuperate before a fist lands on my face, and I’m knocked back onto the ground. I black out for a moment, and it takes me a second to reboot my brain.
“Get up!” he screams.
I throw up all over my floor again. I have no idea how I still have anything left in my stomach. There’s blood dripping from my nose, mingling with the water-vomit. I wipe it away and try to stand again, on weak, shaking legs.
“Your mother and I have given you everything you could ever fucking need. Everything! You ungrateful piece of shit! And this is how you thank us? Do you have any idea how much that wine collection cost me? You’re going to pay me back every cent that it will cost to fix this house up and replace my wine! ”
“How could you?” Mom says. That’s when I first notice her, standing in the doorway to my room, looking so fucking much like me, except her face is Botoxed to hell. I’m surprised she can even scowl.
I don’t blame them for being mad. They were supposed to get mad.
It’s not their anger that fuels my rage.
It’s expecting me to be the good son when my mother virtually ignores me, and Holt is my fucking abusive rapist. I’m not even a goddamn afterthought.
They don’t see my pain. They don’t hear me crying out.
Because, like my friends, they don’t care. No one ever cares.
My eyes burn with frustration, and my headache is quickly forgotten.
“I hate you!” I yell at my mother. “You’ve never cared about me!
It’s all about your fucking shit! Your money, your wine, your house!
Meanwhile, I’ve been begging for your attention and fucking help!
Fuck you!” I almost add in the raping, but something keeps me silent.
Lying beneath the rage is fear. I know what Holt is capable of.
“Belinda, leave the room. I’ll deal with Julien.”
My gut sinks painfully. I glance at my mother and silently plead with her not to leave. Instead, she looks at me with disdain and disappointment and turns her back on me. She closes the door behind her, and my stepdad flips the lock.
“Mom?”
“She’s not going to help you, especially now.”
My body trembles and sweats as my eyes water.
I know what’s coming. I should scream out to my mother, to tell her what he does to me in the darkness when she’s not looking or when she’s sleeping.
Or maybe she knows and doesn’t care. She certainly didn’t care when my stepdad beat me just now.
They care more about their fucking shit than me.
“Pull them down.”
I’m unable to find my voice, so I shake my head and step away from him.
“You know I’ll make you pay for your insolence.
I’ve fucking had enough of you. You’re going to take your punishment, and you’re going to please me as long as you live in this house to make up for this disaster while you pay me back.
You’ll be there whenever I want you and wherever I need you to be.
In the shower? I’ll be there. Sleeping? I’ll be there.
Reading? I’ll be there. I’m going to make your life a living hell. ”
“Fuck you. You already make it hell!” I spit, which rewards me with a backhand to my face, landing me back on the floor. I knew it was coming, and I still said it.
“Get into position. You know what I’m capable of if you don’t.
I can easily flip the tables on you. I’ll tell your mother that you raped me regularly.
She’ll believe whatever I tell her, too.
Especially after what you’ve done to the house.
So don’t even think about telling her what goes on.
” His tone is calm with an underlying, simmering rage I can feel down to my soul.
“I’ve always hated you. You’ve always been in the fucking way. ”
There it is. He finally admits the truth after all these years. My eyes water, and I shake my head again. “No.”
The expected punch came from the left, and this time, I blacked out. When I come to, Holt is hefting me to stand. “I will end you. Pull them down. Now.”
I believe him.
On weak legs and with trembling hands, I undo my jeans. I pull them down with my underwear, turn my back to Holt, and brace myself on my bed.
I can hear him remove his belt. He doesn’t waste a second before he whips my ass as hard as he can.
I try to be strong, but by the third one, I cry out, and my legs buckle.
He doesn’t hold back. My pain and crying don’t stop him.
In fact, it fuels him. He gets off on my suffering.
It’s why he rapes me after he’s beaten me.
Eventually, I lose track of how many times he hits me.
My ass is on fire, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m bleeding.
The tears I haven’t shed in a long time spill, and I’m desperately trying not to, but I can’t help it. Holt breaks me every single fucking time.
I hear the belt fall to the floor, but I don’t dare turn around or pull up my pants. He’s far from being done with me.
He rummages around in my nightstand drawer, pulling out the bottle of lube. I know it’s more for his benefit and enjoyment than for my comfort. Then there’s the sound of a condom wrapper.
I hate this more than breathing. It’s violence. It’s violating. It’s humiliating. It’s my shame.
The tears keep spilling, and a sob escapes me, but no matter how many times I’ve cried over the years, Holt never stops. It never ends.
Deep down, I know this is more about power and control than it is about pleasure. He enjoys dominating me and knocking me down to my lowest. He likes me submissive and cowering before him.
I don’t fight. I don’t scream. All my sounds are muffled in my comforter as I submit to him like I always do.
When he finishes, I slowly stand and try to pull up my pants, but not before a painful blow lands on my neck.
All I see is blackness, and then nothingness.