27. Juliet
27
JULIET
S cratch. Scratch. Scratch. My eyes shoot open and dart around the room.
The sheets surrounding me have long since stolen the heat from my body and a shiver moves through me. The nightmare lingering at the back of my mind hovers close, blurring the line between the waking world and the dreaming one. Is he here? Has he come back for me? There’s nothing stopping him now. He can do whatever he wants. Again and again.
I blink, taking in the familiar surroundings of my own apartment. No, it was a dream. It’s not real. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. My body stiffens beneath the covers. All remaining drowsiness evaporates, and I’m suddenly wide awake. My heart hammers against my ribcage as adrenaline surges into my veins. Something had woken me. A sound that should not be there.
Forcing my body to go lax beneath the blankets over me, I remain still, not wanting to give away my consciousness just yet. My breath saws in and out as I strain my ears for any other sound in the darkness. Then it's there again. The soft snick of a lock clicking out of place.
No, maybe I just think that's what it is. It could be a scratching of one of the trees on my window ... never mind that the branches don't reach that far into the balcony. It's possible with wind, right?
Creak. Swoosh. Creak.
I close my eyes with a silent curse. There’s no denying that sound nor the sudden rushing chill of air flooding my apartment. I don’t need to roll over to know that the glass door leading to the tiny balcony off the main room of my studio is open. All of my hopeful thoughts die bloody deaths.
Idiot . I'm such a fucking idiot. I hadn't blocked the track because I’d thought being on the second floor would be enough of a deterrent.
To my surprise, it isn't fear that streams through me at the realization that someone has broken into my apartment—it's pure, raw fury. It burns hot behind my eyes. It’s not fucking fair. As if my life isn't hard enough with the shit I have to put up with at school, but now some asshole thinks they can break into my home—even if it is a shitty excuse for one—and terrorize me.
I lie still, letting them draw closer as I consider my options. Even if I manage to call the cops, what will they actually do? Silver Creek Apartments is under the Silverwood Police Department jurisdiction, and no one there will care if anything happens to Allen Donovan's daughter. My fingers curl inward as more rage pours through me. It's not fucking fair. I didn't ask for any of this.
The quiet in the room is full of phantom tension. It ramps up and up some more as the heartbeat in my ears makes it impossible to listen for the intruder. There's only one reason a stranger would break into my apartment and it's not to steal.
They're here for me.
Bile coats the back of my tongue with an acidic flavor that makes me want to vomit. I stem the urge, swallowing against the need to both puke and scream. Pinpricks touch the bare flesh of my arms and travel both up and down, covering the rest of my skin as alarm bells sound in my head. It's as if they're yelling, "Danger! Danger! Danger!"
Yeah, I already know that. Now, I have to do something about it.
Not allowing myself to think better of my actions, I fake a yawn and stretch beneath the sheets. The footsteps on the floor of my apartment freeze. I keep my eyes slitted as I roll over on my futon and face the open sliding glass doors. The dark figure standing just inside, barely three feet from my makeshift bed, is every one of my nightmares come to life and it pisses me the hell off.
Whoever the man is, he's tall and lanky—though there's no denying his gender. The rotten stench of cigarette smoke and male body odor permeate the air, invading my senses like a disease looking for its next host. He takes a step towards me, and a stream of moonlight glances over his face—his uncovered face.
He's older than me by at least a decade or two. His face is a mask of lines and a scruff of beard growth covers the lower half of his face. Dark eyes glitter through the darkness and I can't make out their color. There's something wrong with this image. He's not even bothering to cover his identity. Does that mean he plans to kill me? Or ... that he knows no one will care what he does to me. Whatever the reason, the image of his face—a human version of a monster—sends me into action like nothing else. I bolt forward. Sitting up and flinging the covers free of my legs, I launch myself from the futon and tackle him to the floor.
I don't even stop to consider whether or not the intruder has a weapon or what he could be here to do—murder me or just to scare the shit out of me. I'm too angry for any of that. Adrenaline surges through my body, making the world slow down as I throw the first punch, slamming my fist into the side of his face. The responding grunt is all masculine annoyance.
I find myself atop a solidly built chest and despite the wiry form, I can tell that he's got at least fifty pounds on me.
" Shit. " The curse hisses out of my chest. Bulky arms close around me and the man rises to standing—an impressive feat considering I'm bucking and kicking the shit out of his thighs and calves and pretty much anything my legs can reach. Not that he seems to notice. No, the man just walks back over to my bed and slams me down.
Stomach acid threatens to come up my throat and I bow upward, trying to throw him off to no avail. My heart beats double-time as my breaths come in shorter bursts. I punch at his chest. He comes down on top of me. Hard hips press into mine, pinning me to the sagging futon mattress, and hot breath, stained with the acrid smell of tobacco, invades my lungs. This time, I can't stop the gag as I force myself to turn away, pressing my cheek into the sheets even as my hands are gripped and brought up over my head. No. No. No. After everything else I've been through, I can't bear this too. Not again. The universe is asking too much.
Or maybe the universe isn't asking at all. Hell, there's no explanation for my twisted luck over the past few months. Dad in jail. Mom MIA. No friends. No boyfriend. No one to care if this man takes one more thing from the town pariah.
The only one who can save me is me—the only one who cares is me. Still, I can't help the words that come out of my mouth in rapid pants. "Why are you doing this?"
The man doesn't respond. The only sound echoing between us is the heavy breathing. The only smell is nicotine mixed with old and new sweat.
I grit my teeth. "Fucking tell me," I demand, bucking again, throwing my hips against him in a fruitless attempt to throw him off. It doesn't work. Surprise, surprise. He doesn't answer and I close my eyes as I contemplate my options. I try to think back to Cory's training, but the harder I try to remember the more my mind races away from it. Frustration wells up inside me, and my eyes begin to burn. Then the nearly soundless click of a switchblade opening has me jerking against his hold and my eyes shoot open once more. A flash of metal passes in front of my face and the intruder finally speaks.
"Don't move," he warns me, voice deep and gravelly—like a man who's smoked at least two packs of cigarettes a day for a decade or more. "Or you'll regret it."
Ice floods my arteries. Or I'll regret it? Why do I have to be the one with regret? Why can't it be everyone else?
I barely feel the blade as he skims my cheek with the flat side. The metal is no colder than the ice inside me. Down, down, down—the blade disappears from my sight but not from my body. The metal presses against my lower stomach where my sleep shirt has ridden up to reveal the stretch of skin above my pajama bottoms. The man turns it deftly, as if the weapon is a part of his body and easy to maneuver. With a sharp jerk, he yanks his hand up. My shirt pulls tight before it loosens far more than it should. When the thin cotton fabric of my pajama bottoms does the same a moment later and air slides over flesh exposed to the air, the room begins to spin.
Like that scene from the Wizard of Oz, everything rises up and floats for a moment before it begins to swirl at lightning speed, taking me with it. Around and around, I go until all I can feel is the wind against my sides and face. Witches on bicycles. Spinning Houses. A tornado from another world forces me to leave this plain even as my body remains firmly planted on the futon and the stranger cuts away the rest of my clothes and then my underwear.
This place feels frighteningly familiar. Like I’ve been here before and just like back then, I don’t fit.
Cool air washes over my sex, the sensation so unnatural in this circumstance that it brings me back to reality. I crash into my body with all of the grace of an inexperienced skydiver. When I slam back into my flesh and bones, I realize that the man has released my wrists to reach for the front of his pants. My head turns slowly, latching on to the silvery metal of his switchblade tossed haphazardly on one of the pillows nearby. Moonlight pours in through the still-open sliding glass door, half the glass muted by the layers of grime I can never quite get off no matter how much I try to clean it. I reach out, seeking the knife with my fingers. Not that the intruder notices. No, he's far too fixated on the fact that he's managed to free himself from his pants and has a cunt in front of him. Gripping me by the hips, he drags me closer, hooking my legs over either side of his thighs as he shoves the scraps of my sleep shirt out of the way and grips a fistful of my breast, squeezing tight.
Frost on the back of my tongue slides into my throat, choking me as my fingers close around the switchblade's handle. I tighten my hold as sickness wells up within my chest, setting fire to the ice that's consuming me. I’m so fucking over people trying to hurt me because I’m my father’s daughter. I’m not the one who stole from them. I’m not the one who ruined their lives. Do they care who they hurt, though? No. They are just as bad as him.
Principal Long’s words come back to me. She wants me to talk to someone, to go see my father? I don't need that. What I need ... is a way to excise the rage spreading its poisonous veins through my body.
The intruder fumbles between my legs, not seeming to bother holding me down now that I've stopped moving—getting closer and closer. A strange sort of ... anticipation rests inside me, coiled like a snake waiting to strike. He fists himself, stroking up and down, pumping his cock as if it's not already hard.
The floaty Oz sensation changes. I can almost see myself lying here, eyes on the ceiling despite the fact that I'm more than aware of everything the man over me is doing. He mumbles something in that raspy voice of his, but I only catch a piece of it. "—cunt's gonna be good on my cock."
I tap the edge of one fingertip against the switchblade. Once, twice, three times. I stare up into the yawning darkness as I feel the hard plastic and rubber of the knife's grip. This is going to be messy. My mother would be so disappointed. Good girls aren't supposed to make messes. My lips curve upward. I'm not her good girl anymore—certainly not after tonight.
"They told me you'd fight harder, but I guess you want this, huh?" the guy says, his hand moving up and down his cock as he shifts forward on his knees.
My mind latches on to those words. They? Who the fuck is they?
My breath rushes in and out of my chest, filling me up, and yet I still feel lightheaded. It's as if a bubble has formed around me and keeps my mind and attention separated from my body. I continue to tap against the knife's handle as I consider where to stab him first. The side? No, not damaging enough. Maybe his kidneys. Yeah, one little slice to those fuckers and he'd bleed out fast. He'll die.
I like the thought of killing someone. Of finally being the one who gets to decide what the hell happens to me ... and what happens to the man trying to rape me.
The stranger pauses and I know without looking down that he's about to begin. He rises up between my legs, hand on his cock, directing it forward. Just as he means to drive himself into me—no preamble, no attempt to make sure he'll even get inside considering I'm as dry as a fucking bone—I twist my hips and the head of his cock slams into the crevice between my thigh and pelvis.
"Fuck!" He shouts. "Fucking bitch!"
A hand swipes out, his fist barreling towards my face. My head snaps to the side, pain radiating through my jaw, and I'm done—so. fucking. done.
Arching up and shoving my free hand against his chest, I reach around and slam the blade home. It cuts through the fabric of his shirt and then the flesh of his lower back easily. Muscle is a bit harder, though, and I have to grit my teeth—digging in even as he screams in pain. Laughter threatens to bubble out of my chest. I shove down on the blade, twisting the handle until I'm sure it's buried deep.
Then I rip it out and punch it in again. The first scream melds into another, rising in pitch as he shoves away from me. Finally, the laughter festering inside me breaks free. I look down at my hands as the man stumbles from the bed. They're covered in crimson.
"F … uck. Ugh." I look up to see the intruder turning around, wavering on his feet as a dark stain blooms across the back of his gray shirt. I tilt my head to the side and watch him for a moment more as he tries to reach for the blade and pull it out. It's not going to happen.
Slowly I rise from the futon and look down at myself. I'm naked from the waist down, the only thing clinging to me are the remains of my big t-shirt, though the bottom part is cut up towards the underside of my breasts. The man's body slams into the opposite wall across from my futon, tripping over my backpack. It tips over and the items inside scatter across the floor.
I'm not sure if I actually hit his kidneys or not—the dim memory of Cory showing me which parts of the body were the most dangerous to get hit play like a grainy old black and white film in the back of my head. I take a step forward and another and another. The man moves away from me, back toward the balcony. I pause as my toes squish into something wet. Blood.
There's no remorse, no sorrow, no emotion. I feel decidedly numb as I lift my head and continue towards my would-be rapist.
"Get ... it ... out!" His voice is slurred, garbled as he tries to shout the words. His side slams into the wall that separates me from the apartment next to mine. I follow him at a much slower pace. He's grunting and cursing and acting for all of the world like a rabid animal. It's kind of funny. I bite my lower lip to keep from laughing again.
Behind me, the distant sound of a deep voice echoes through the barrier of my front door. I ignore it and focus on the man in my apartment as he curses and spins again, hands reaching out to remove the knife in his back. He doesn't even seem to be aware of me anymore. Then his head lifts and his eyes lock on mine. They're black, I realize. Well, maybe not black, but they're dark, and his pupils are so dilated that there's no hint of any actual color.
Rage infuses his expression, the pain receding as he growls and reaches for me, hands outstretched as if he wants to choke the life from me for hurting him—as if he wouldn't have hurt me even more. I stand still. When he gets close enough, I dodge in a circle and he follows. He spins towards me, following me right out onto the balcony.
"B-itch..." The slur in his voice rises above the yelling at my front door.
I might be a bitch, but at least I'm not a dead bitch. Not like him.
Without really thinking about it, I shove him, using both hands to push him right into the wooden railing. The flimsy decades-old barrier breaks, a loud crack sounding upon impact. His eyes widen in shock and then he screams. The sound echoes into the moonlit night as he careens over the edge. Right. To. The. Ground.
I pause at the edge, air sliding over my nearly naked form as I stare down at the man's twisted form. One leg is bent at an unnatural angle. His neck is twisted to the side and something white and red sticks out from his left arm. He doesn't move again. As the dust settles around the outline of his body, reality slams back into me.
The vomit I'd kept down earlier comes spewing forth. I turn and heave. The cheap mac and cheese meal I'd made for dinner splatters right onto the balcony's edge. Retching over and over, I barely notice the sound of splintering wood that filters in from the front of my apartment. I'm still on my knees, breathing through the heaving of my stomach as it cramps and tries to expel everything it no longer holds.
"Jesus Christ, Jules." Gio. I close my eyes. "What the fuck happened?"
I press my lips together, resisting the stabbing pains in my stomach to stop myself from vomiting again—or laughing. The wind whips through the balcony, the lack of a railing making it obvious that something terrible has happened here. I close my arms around myself and look down. I'm damn near naked. The stench of my own vomit permeates my nose.
Pretty girl … pretty, pretty girl … Those words circle around and around my head just like an evil witch’s cackle. Except … I think even the wicked witch wouldn’t be so fucking cruel. I’m no one’s ‘pretty girl,’ but I am … a killer now and I’m not sorry.
"Fucking hell." Gio's bark makes me jump, but almost just as quickly as it sounds, soft fabric slides over my shoulders. My head snaps back. Gio stands over me, his face half-hidden in shadow, though not enough to hide the expression of confusion and surprise that deepens the crease between his brows.
"Baby?" The feminine voice comes from the front door and Gio turns, blocking me with his body.
"Go back to your apartment," he barks. "Don't fucking come here."
"But—"
"What the fuck did I say?" His tone is deep, angry. "Get lost!"
She gasps at the insult. Whatever she says next is lost on me, but she's gone a moment later and that's all that matters. Then Gio is bending down next to me, crouching on his toes as those soil-rich brown eyes of his bore into me. "You're okay," he says, his voice far lighter and kinder than it had been to the other woman. "You're going to be okay, Jules."
I blink back at him. Am I? I want to ask if he means that, because I don't feel okay. I feel like I did the night my dad was arrested—out of control and dead inside. It's as if I packed up all of my emotions into a box and shipped them somewhere far away.
Gio reaches into his pants—jeans , was he sleeping in his jeans? I wonder dimly—and pulls out a cell phone. I watch him punch at the keys before lifting the cell to his ear. I don't have to ask to know who he's calling. Who else would it be but the very men I promised myself I'd never trust?
Gripping the edges of the blanket that Gio had given me, I pull it closer, wrapping my body with it, hiding the truth of what happened. Of what I did.
I killed a man, and I liked it.
A bubble of hysterical laughter rockets up my throat. I shove my knuckles between my teeth and bite down to repress the sound, but a muffled noise makes it out. Looking back at Gio, I realize that his gaze is still locked on me, though seeing him is difficult through the curtain of water in my vision. What the fuck ? —
"It's okay," Gio murmurs, voice soft as he pulls me against his chest, against his warmth. "You can cry, Jules."
Cry? I shake my head. No. I don't need to cry. What I need is a mental hospital.
My thoughts splinter as I inhale, gasping and choking. Somehow, though, with Gio so close, the smell of his soothing cologne, spicy and rich, overwhelms me and erases the filthy odor of sweat and blood and a tainted memory that needs to remain buried.