Chapter 21
Dakota
Two days. That was how long it’d been since Mason said a word to me.
Two days of spiraling, obsessively replaying our last conversation in my head.
We’d gone longer before, but after the state I’d left him in…
It was bringing me back down to a place I never wanted to be again, dredging up every awful memory I’d made throughout almost all of my formative years.
Waiting for Mason reminded me of waiting for Anthony.
I hated it. Hated waiting for him. Hated how many years I’d lost to him.
He didn’t like when I had any emotions, and I knew that was because it made him nervous. He didn’t like when I was sad, or angry with him, or anything other than docile and accepting. Every time I got mad at him, he’d disappear.
It was my punishment.
“Don’t do that shit, Dakota. You know I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“But you are!”
“How? How am I hurting you? I’m nice to you. I’m gentle.”
He was right. And I didn’t know what to say to that, how to articulate just how deeply the pain he’d embedded in me was. How it scraped my lungs every time I breathed. How my heart had to grow around the complex shape of that pain, and I was disfigured now because of him.
“You know how, Anthony.”
He wouldn’t answer me then. Not when I moved to stand in front of him, or when I put my hands on his shoulders, or when I kissed his neck, or when I grabbed his dick over his pants.
I stepped back, standing on flat feet. Hating myself and hating him.
“I’m eighteen in three weeks. Will that make you hate me? Will you still want me then?”
“I’m not a fucking pedophile,” he snapped.
“No? You’re not?”
“No.”
“Yes you are.” My hands were shaking. It didn’t matter what I said to him.
“I’m three years older than you. That’s nothing.
” His lips were pressed tightly together, and I couldn’t tell if he believed what he was saying or not.
I didn’t know how he’d justified this to himself for as long as he had.
Maybe it got easier with time for him, in the same way it got harder with time for me.
“Closer to four years,” I reminded him.
“Who gives a fuck?”
“You took my virginity when I was fourteen.”
“Because you. Begged. Me. To.”
I wanted to get away from him so badly. I didn’t want to keep doing this with him. It made me feel so dirty, and not only physically. My soul was tainted by what he’d done to me.
But every time he left, all I could do was cry until he came back. It wasn’t like I had a choice, anyway. I was tied to him forever.
He was the thorn in my side I’d never be able to dig out. The poison and the antidote.
I narrowed my eyes, and I knew he could see in my stare what I wanted to say next. It triggered him every time I said it, made him leave me, made him scared.
Maybe that was why he stalked out of the room before I got the chance to open my mouth again.
Because there was nothing worse than that.
I rolled over in my bed, all the shades drawn and my hair loosely braided, an oversized t-shirt wrapped around my body.
My phone laid on my nightstand, its quietness screaming at me.
The cut on my foot was healing, and I didn’t have any bruises on my neck anymore.
But I felt worse, like all my external injuries had simply sunk below my skin, started harming the inside of me instead of the outside.
That internal type of injury hurt worse.
And I didn’t know how to heal those.
If time heals all wounds, why am I bleeding again? Why does this one keep reopening?
Is Mason tired of me? Is that why he won’t message me again? Why he won’t come fuck up my life again?
Am I too messed up for him now?
He only wants me messy when he’s daydreaming about fucking me.
I stumbled out of bed, pushing up on weak legs, the world instantly going dark. I dropped down on my carpet, staring at my hands until the blood came back to my head. After a minute, I could get to my feet without passing out.
Shuffling into the bathroom, I refused to look at myself in the mirror. I didn’t need reflective silver to confirm the dark circles under my eyes or the knots in my hair.
I pulled back the shower curtain and turned the knob, water sputtering into the tub until I pulled up the stopper.
The pipes shook and rattled, then a stream began pouring out of the shower head, freezing cold with weak pressure.
I took off my clothes and stood in the middle of the bathroom, arms crossed, goosebumps spreading over my skin, while I waited for the water to warm.
Cold air drifted over me, making my teeth chatter, but I didn’t move. My eyes were steadily focused on the bathmat, the matted fibers and the one loose thread hanging onto the linoleum.
Why did the deer run away, Dakota?
Because she’s prey.
And so am I.
The water was warm now, so I stepped into the shower, running my fingers through my hair to undo my braid, allowing the hot water to pour over my head and wash my body clean. I always showered after Anthony was done with me; I couldn’t live with the feeling of his hands lingering on my skin.
Water and soap and scrubbing and shame.
If I didn’t have work today, I would’ve stayed in my bed until night fell again—but I did, and I needed the money.
Since I was working in the evening, I’d just decided to get up and go to my two daytime classes as well.
It’d be good for me to go outside, to see people, even if I didn’t especially want to.
Fully drying my hair took too much effort, and my hair dryer was old, so I got it about halfway dry before putting it back into a braid down my spine—a cleaner, neater one this time. Then I finished getting ready and headed out of my trailer, locking the door behind myself as I stepped outside.
It was cloudy, like always, but maybe a bit warmer than usual.
I put my earbuds in my ears and started my walk to the bus stop, keeping my head down, watching the thick black soles of my boots on the pavement.
Emotions and memories ebbed and flowed in my brain like the tide, predictably climbing higher up the beach every time I got some reprieve. It was an endless loop, an everlasting force, the unbreakable pattern of my thoughts.
By the time I was sitting in my Unit Ops lecture, I was so tired I wanted to go home and crawl back into bed. The constant mental turmoil drained my body as it drained my mind.
An unpleasant ache spread across my lower back, sinking its hooks into my muscles, cramping across my abdomen. I bent forward, focused on breathing through the pain—I feared knew what it was. Cramps radiated from behind my hipbones, making me nauseous. A cold sweat prickled along my skin.
I held perfectly still, waiting for the wave to subside enough for me to move.
It was difficult to do anything other than grip the edge of the desk and stare blankly as my uterus crushed itself.
I usually got cramps before the blood started flowing, so I hoped I could hang on until the end of lecture.
A gush of wetness in my underwear made my eyes widen with panic.
Too late for that.
Class wasn’t over for another thirty minutes, but I couldn’t sit here knowing I was actively bleeding into my underwear. I gathered my belongings, then stood and silently made my way across the row to the side aisle, slipping down the wide steps by the wall as pain throbbed low in my stomach.
Dr. Killshaw’s eyes flickered over to me for an instant.
Pushing out the door, I took a steadying breath. There was a nice bathroom just around the corner, and it was empty when I went inside, heading straight into a stall.
I yanked my jeans down, my underwear stretched on my thighs, as I sat on the toilet. There was an undeniable red splotch staining the cotton gusset of my underwear. I gritted my teeth, the cramp spreading in my abdomen, twisting around my spine.
I didn’t have a change of underwear, but thankfully the blood hadn’t seeped through the outside much, and wasn’t on my jeans.
Trying to remain unbothered, I pulled out the little zippered pouch I kept in my bag and unwrapped a pantyliner, cringing as I stuck it on the fabric over the stain. Just, whatever. What-fucking-ever.
It was my own fault for not putting anything in my underwear this morning, despite starting the row of sugar pills in my pack of birth control. But my period never started on the first day of those, so I hadn’t thought about it.
I put a tampon in, then threw all my wrappers away and packed everything up before leaving the stall, washing my hands.
There wasn’t enough time for me to go home in between now and my next class, despite how badly I wanted to.
Since I was already on campus, I was somewhat determined to stick it out.
Even if my body was trying to kill me.
I dragged myself up to the sixth floor, finding it more busy than the last time I’d been here. Students sat in groups, working on projects or studying together. A few people were alone, headphones on, laptops open.
The armchair in the corner I’d been sitting in the night Dr. Killshaw found me up here was vacant, as were the seats around it, so there was a reasonable amount of privacy.
I sat in the chair, looking out the window at the clouds hanging low over campus, the students pouring out of the buildings during the class change after a little while.
I leaned my head on the backrest of the chair, softly closing my eyes in an attempt to soothe the headache steadily wrapping tighter around my skull. It would be nice if I had some ibuprofen with me, but I didn’t.
“Hey,” a low voice said, making me jump a bit. I tilted my head, cracked my eyes open. Dr. Killshaw was standing right next to me. I guess class ended. “What’s going on?”
My entire life is just a wreck and I keep making it worse.
And I got my period.
I also have no idea why you’re talking to me now.