Chapter Eleven #2
A vicious primal snarl twists his mouth, his fangs flashing at me with a threat. Without warning, the anglerfish mouth around the base of his cock bites down on me. The top row of teeth sinks into my lower abdomen while the bottom jaw slices below the curve of my ass, locking us in place.
I cry out from the pain, the nightshade no longer able to camouflage numbness in my body.
Shade roars to the ceiling, his claws digging into my thighs, raking down the lengths of my legs, and tearing the flesh from the bone.
I heal due to his blood inside me.
“Mine.” He yanks me against him, closing the few inches of space we had between us. “All mine.”
He curls over me, trapping me within the makeshift cage his arms create around my head. I’ve never felt so small before, my body so insignificant and breakable compared to Shade.
And I love it.
“You are the undoing of darkness.” He kisses me, and this time I’m able to meet every movement, every turn, every slip of the tongue.
“Me? Why?” I break away from his lips, my vision tumbling into a blur when exhaustion grips me.
“Because my soul says so, even if it doesn’t understand it.”
We stay locked like this, my body forced to drink his come since his warmth has nowhere else to go.
I’m still not sure if he is a dream, one I haven’t decided if it’s good or bad. Unable to fight the demand of consciousness, my eyes fall shut.
I’m led into a darkness that is no longer my own.
I’m in a place I don’t recognize. If my mamita were here, she would call this place ‘Lo Desconocido.”
The Unknown.
It’s very cold in here. I can see my own breath with every exhale, a cloud leaving my mouth to drift to the sky. Reaching my hand out, I flip my hand over, the white flakes settling in my palm.
Snow.
When the snow melts, an electrified zap of pain embeds itself in my skin. I grip my wrist, crying out from the surprise of it. Another snowflake falls and screams echo in my mind, nothing exact, nothing I can remember experiencing myself.
My hand continues to tingle, the petrified screams reverberating in my mind can’t be forgotten. I feel the pain as if it is my own trauma. Looking around for any signs of life.
A room forms ahead, and a middle-aged man is standing over a woman, screaming at her, his greying brown hair falling into his face. I pause a decent distance away, not knowing if what I’m seeing is real or not.
He pushes her so hard, she falls to the ground between the bed and a rocking chair that is nestled in the corner.
I don’t know these people. I’ve never seen them before in my entire life. My Mamita taught me that everything happens for a reason. Whatever the explanation is as to why I’m here, I accept it.
“You fucking bitch! How dare you try to keep him from me!” the man yells, leaning down to point his finger in her face. “He is my son!”
She has tears staining her face, her mascara ruined from being so scared. The woman raises her hand to keep him at least an arm’s length away.
“He shouldn’t have been!” she yells. “He deserves better than you. He is better than you. I can’t believe such a wonderful boy is able to exist in a world that you sour with your existence!”
My brows raise, surprised she would stand her ground like that, given their positions.
He takes a swing of whatever clear liquid is in the bottle he has gripped by the neck.
“If he didn’t have a slut of a mother, maybe he’d end up being a real man.
There’s no way that runt of a kid is mine.
” He takes another long swallow from the bottle.
Sweat glistens off his forehead which has his hair sticking to the moisture.
“I regret marrying you,” he sneers. “I only married you because you were pregnant, but if I had known he wasn’t mine, I wouldn’t have wasted my time with you. ”
“He is yours! How many times do I have to tell you! He is yours!” she cries.
A small boy is crouched in the next room, knees tucked to his chest, and his arms wrapped around his thighs. His face is half hidden behind his knees, but I’m able to see the dark, wet lashes that frame his eyes.
He only has a pair of shorts on, and I’m able to see all the bruises left on his body. He’s a little underweight too. My heart breaks for the unknown child. No kid should experience fear within their own home.
I sit down, huffing hot air into my hands as the temperature drops.
“Where is he? Where’s that waste of fucking space?” his father slurs, stomping out of the room to find the boy.
Standing in alarm, I step forward. “Don’t you dare! He didn’t do anything to you!”
The drunken, sorry excuse of a man has a stained white tank top on that looks like it hasn’t seen the washer in days. He stands in his underwear that has me curling my lip in disgust with the holes around the waistband and the grimy yellow dimming the material.
He notices his son curled up in the corner of the room, then slams the door, locking it so no one can enter.
“No!” I scream, sprinting across the floor. “Open the door!” I try the handle, jiggling it with all my strength. The whimpers leak out from under the door every time his fists make contact.
Patting my hip for my gun, I groan in frustration when I notice I’m not wearing my holster. I have no weapon in this dream, which only irritates me further.
I bang on the door again, pounding it with all my weight. “Open the fucking door!” I yell just as my surroundings change.
The door is gone.
The floor vanishes from under my feet, and I fall, screaming at the top of my lungs since everything is still so dark. Snow continues to fall, and I’m still able to hear and feel the screams of pain.
But these types of wails aren’t just from physical pain. These are brutal, soul-wrenching cries, the ones that steal breath from your lungs. It brings tears to my eyes. All I want to do is soothe the poor soul they belong to.
I land, the snow-covered ground breaking my fall. I groan, pushing myself up until I’m standing. This time, I’m in what looks like a backyard. Beyond the property line is all black, reminding me that this is a dream.
“I said to fucking stay out here until I’m ready to let you in.
” That hateful yet familiar voice has me turn my head, seeing the man who calls himself a father open the sliding glass doors and toss his child outside.
“Maybe you’ll think twice before interrupting me while I’m talking to your mother.
She needs to learn her lesson just like you do. ”
The child in question is a little older in this dream than the last. I’m not sure who he is or what this dream is supposed to tell me.
He cries, banging on the glass door. “Daddy! Let me in,” he begs. “It’s so cold. Let me in! Daddy!” He presses his forehead against the glass, the warmth of his body fogging it. “Mommy!” He tries for her next, but from the slaps coming from the other room, this poor kid is stuck outside.
“Hey! Hey, you aren’t alone!” I run to him, wanting him to know he is safe.
Before I can get to him, the dream changes again.
I take another ride, another fall through the endless pit. This time, when I land on the ground, the snow has only just kissed the ground, lying directly on top of the dead grass in a thin sheet.
The trees are shadows in the night, the stars twinkling above to remind me that there’s beauty, and the moon is full, casting a bright glow onto the same house.
I duck behind a nearby tree, rolling my eyes at myself when I remember no one can see me.
Leaning against the trunk, I smile to myself when I see the boy, who is clearly older now, sit at the living room table with his mom.
The blinds are open, and I’m able to see through the glass of the sliding door.
My heart warms knowing that, despite everything he had been through, he was able to find happiness. I cross my arms to watch them, smiling when the teenage boy tosses his head to laugh.
His head is shaved this time, and he is clearly older. He has a defined jaw now, broader shoulders, and, sitting down, he is taller than his mom. His smile, as quick as it arrived, disappears when the loud shake of the front door slams.
His mother’s hand reaches for her son’s arm, clenching it.
I gasp, stepping forward, wishing I could help, but I’m forced to be here. I’m forced to watch the scene unfold before me, and there’s nothing I can do. I hate feeling hopeless. I became a cop for a reason—to be there for others when no one else can be.
When people find themselves alone and in a situation they can’t escape from. Being in a dream where my hands are tied is now considered one of my worst nightmares.
“Who the fuck do you think you are having dinner before I get home?” the abuser yells.
I grind my teeth, curling my fingers until my hands are tight fists.
Watching through the door, the father grabs the salad bowl and throws it against the wall. The glass bowl shatters, the teenage boy lifting his arm in pain as a shard ricochets off the wall, embedding itself in his arm.
“Fuck!” the boy shouts.
“Don’t talk to me that way!” His father backhands him, sending the young man to the floor.
I gasp, taking another step forward, twisting my restless hands together as I watch the violence unfold.
“You act like you run this household,” he slurs at the mother. “I work. I provide. What the fuck do you do?” He rips her from her seat and, to my surprise, throws her through the door.
The glass shatters from the force, the sound of the door breaking has goosebumps pimpling on my skin, and the air frozen in my lungs.
Blood tints the layer of snow on the ground. She whimpers, pieces of glass sticking in her arms, her face. Nothing that will kill her, but enough for her to be in a lot of pain.
I sprint to her, forgetting that I’m useless. I fall to my knees, skidding across the thin layer of ice, and try to help her up.
“You have to move. You have to get up. Come on.” I try to grab her, my hands sinking through her as if I’m a ghost.
I suppose in a way I am.