Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty One
Kinsley
The ride share is a blur of motion, carrying me away from the glittering penthouse, from the pulsating bass, from him.
I’m still wearing his jersey, the heavy fabric a suffocating weight smelling faintly of his cologne, of sweat, of power.
The clonazepam is working, a slow, creeping calm that dulls the sharp edges of my panic, but can’t erase the intimacy of what just happened.
My lips still tingle from his kiss, and my skin still prickles where his fingers traced the number on my back. The words echo in my head, a relentless, possessive mantra: “Good girl. My colors suit you. They always will.”
I press my forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the city lights streak by. My mind is a chaotic storm, battling the encroaching calm of the pill. Fear, shame, fury and that insidious, traitorous pull. They all swirl together, in a toxic cocktail.
Why did I let him? Why did I respond? Why did my body betray me?
The questions hammer at me, relentless and unforgiving. The feeling of being utterly out of control, of my own body turning against my will is a familiar, terrifying abyss.
The high school library was usually my sanctuary, a quiet haven of order.
But tonight, even the rows of neatly organized books felt like they were vibrating.
It was 2 AM, and I hadn't slept in three days. The caffeine and Adderall I’d been taking to keep up with AP classes, debate club, and yearbook felt like rocket fuel in my veins.
My senior thesis on quantum physics was almost done, a masterpiece of intricate calculations and groundbreaking theories.
I was going to get into MIT, I was going to change the world.
My thoughts raced, too fast for my pen to keep up, too fast for anyone to comprehend.
Blair, my best friend since kindergarten had tried to talk to me, her voice a slow, molasses-thick drone that only irritated me further.
“Kinsley, you need to go home,” she'd said, her eyes wide with concern. “You're not making sense. You just tried to explain the theory of relativity using interpretive dance.”
Not making sense? I was making all the sense. I was seeing the universe in crystal clarity, a tapestry of interconnected patterns that no one else could perceive. I tried to explain, the words tumbling out in a torrent, my hands gesticulating wildly. I felt like a god, boundless, incandescent.
Then came the crash—the sudden, brutal descent.
The incandescent light flickered and died, plunging me into an abysmal darkness.
The brilliant ideas became a crushing weight of failure as the boundless energy evaporated, leaving behind an unbearable fatigue.
The world, which had been so clear, became a blurry, suffocating fog.
I couldn't get out of bed. The simplest tasks, eating, showering, even just breathing felt monumental.
The shame was a physical thing, a heavy blanket that smothered me.
I missed weeks of school. My MIT application became a crumpled, forgotten dream.
It was during that dark period, pulled from the brink by my parents and a team of doctors, that the diagnosis came.
Bipolar II. And with it, the medication.
The regimen. The desperate, obsessive need for control.
To never, ever let myself spiral like that again, to build a fortress around my mind brick by careful brick, dose by cautious dose. To be perfect. To be in control.
The ride share pulls up to my dorm. I reach for my purse, fumbling for my wallet, ready to pay the driver.
“Already taken care of, ma’am,” the driver says, his voice polite. “Your friend paid for it.”
My hand freezes. My friend. West. He arranged this. He paid for it. Even now, even when I’m trying to escape him he’s still orchestrating my movements, still exerting his control. The realization is a fresh wave of nausea. He doesn't just know me; he anticipates me. He provides. He owns.
I stumble out of the car, the memory of that freefall fresh in my mind. That's why I fight so hard. That's why I need control, because the alternative is an abyss, a terrifying loss of self where I am at the mercy of my own mind.
I walk into the empty hallway, the jersey still clinging to me. The elevator ride up is agonizingly slow. I just want to shed this skin, this reminder of his claim.
My apartment is dark, silent. The quiet is a relief, but it’s also deafening. I drop my keys on the small table by the door, the clatter echoing in the stillness. My phone buzzes in my pocket, a text from Chloe.
OMG! Where did you go?! Are you okay?! Call me ASAP!
I ignore it. How can I explain? How can I tell her that I didn't “know”?
That I was kissed, claimed, manipulated, and left feeling more violated and confused than ever before?
How can I tell her that the monster she thinks is a “normal, hot guy” just gave me a pill to keep me from falling apart, proving he knows my most profound vulnerability?
I walk to my closet, my movements stiff and robotic as I pull out a clean t-shirt and sweatpants.
I peel off the jersey, the fabric clinging for a moment before I rip it away.
It smells of him. I want to burn it, I want to shred it, but I can't. It’s a trophy of his, a brand on my skin.
I ball it up, shoving it deep into the back of my closet, behind a pile of forgotten textbooks, out of sight but not out of mind.
I shower quickly, scrubbing my skin, trying to wash away the feeling of his touch, the phantom scent of him. But it's no use. He's under my skin.
The medicine is finally taking full effect, wrapping my mind in a cotton wool haze. The chaos quiets, but the questions remain. The fear is dulled, but the pull… forbidden pull… it still hums beneath the surface like a dark, undeniable current.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, the darkness offering no comfort. He knows. He knows my weakness, he knows my strengths, and he has just shown me that he is willing to use both against me.
The most terrifying truth of all? A small, dark part of me; the part that yearns for intensity, for someone to see all the way into my storm and not flinch? That part is perversely, horrifyingly captivated.