Key to Hell (Hell Night Series Book 4), page 18
I smile sadly at him. “The effects of my heavy periods.”
It’s a lie, and we both know it. Food has been the last thing on my mind, and besides, my appetite has turned to dust since Aziah left.
“I’m going over there,” I inform him and wait for his protest. It comes just as I expected.
He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I stubbornly set my jaw. “Well, that’s just too darn bad, because I’m going anyway.”
He walks over to me and pauses before he slowly lifts his hands to my shoulders. I stiffen at the contact, but I don’t pull away. It’s gotten easier having Trouble touch me. It still sends anxious jitters racing through me, but they quickly fade away.
“He needs more time. He’ll come over when he’s ready.”
“I’ve given him time, Trouble. I need him, and I need to know he’s okay. I know he’s over there blaming himself. I’ve seen the scars on his hands. He’s had enough time, and I’m scared of what he’ll do if he’s given more.” I pull in a deep breath and slowly cup his cheek. “You once told me that he and I are supposed to help heal each other. That’s what I want to do. I know he needs me too.”
His expression turns sad and regretful. “If you go there, what you find is going to hurt you. He’s not in a good place right now.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod. “I know, but I have to go.”
“Okay.” He jerks his chin up. “But I’m going to go with you.”
I shake my head. “No,” I respond. “I need to go alone.”
“Rella—”
“Please, Trouble.” My voice cracks. “This is something I need to do on my own. This is his and my story. I love you, but this is something he and I need to get through on our own.”
His eyes narrow for a moment. “Just take your cell phone with you. Call me,” he frowns, “if it’s bad.”
With a nod, I go out to the living room and slip on my shoes, stuffing my phone in my back pocket. Aziah’s house is closer to the edge of town, about a fifteen-minute walk. By the time I’m standing in front of his house, my long-sleeved shirt is sticking to me and the underside of my hair is damp with sweat. I never got my driver’s license because there wasn’t a need to. I never left Deanna and Mick’s house. I could have gotten Trouble to drop me off, but I wanted the time to think while I walked.
I’ve only ever been in Aziah’s house twice, both times when we were kids. His dad wasn’t home either time, and Aziah didn’t want to bring anyone home while he was. I didn’t blame him.
Half of the houses in Malus have been upgraded and are well taken care of. That’s definitely not the case with Aziah’s. The yard is overgrown with dead grass, the porch looks like it’s barely standing, and the paint is peeling off the walls. It’s clearly been neglected.
I slowly walk up the steps and debate on knocking. Doubting he would answer, I decide to just go inside. There are dark curtains over the windows, and all the lights are off, but there’s still enough light for me to tell there’s not much inside. Very minimal furnishings and no personal touches.
I don’t find him in the living room, dining room, or kitchen, so I move down the hallway and peek inside the first door I come to. It’s a bathroom. I skip the next door, remembering it’s the basement. I’ll try that last if he’s not in any of the bedrooms. The two spare bedrooms come up empty.
I smell his scent as soon as I step inside the last bedroom, and it immediately soothes something inside me. The barren room holds only a king-size bed, two nightstands, and a dresser.
I’m just about to go to the basement when I hear a noise coming from one of the doors in the bedroom. Unease creeps up my spine when I approach the open door. It’s a bathroom. My heart drops to my toes when I find Aziah sitting in the bathtub. He’s in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, his chest bare, every inch of his body covered in tattoos. His eyes are closed, his head leaning back against the wall.
What has my stomach revolting is all the blood covering his arms. His lower torso is covered too, but I think it’s from all the lacerations on his arms. His face is pale, and it has fear racing through me. I dash over and drop to my knees beside the tub.
“Aziah?” I croak, tears clogging my throat. I shakily reach out, put my palm against his scruffy cheek, and turn his face my way. His eyes pop open, and they look glazed over for a moment before they focus on me. “What have you done to yourself?”
“Not enough,” he mumbles.
“No,” I cry. Tears track down my cheeks as I look over his body. Streaks of blood slowly flow toward the drain. My heart feels like it’s being stabbed repeatedly with a dull knife. “I can’t—” I choke. “Why? Why would you do this?”
His voice is a deep rumble. “Because I got you pregnant. You were only ten fucking years old, Rella. And because you miscarried and were left alone. That bastard hurt you. He made it so you can’t have any children.”
He closes his eyes again.
“But it wasn’t your fault!” I cry. I want to both hug him for comfort and slap his face for being so stubborn. “I did it to myself. Dr. Manor said it was because of the blood loss. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”
His eyes snap back open and fire blazes in them. “No,” he snarls, and I drop my hand from his cheek. “You were ten goddamn years old. You were repeatedly raped.” He leans forward and thumps his chest hard with his closed fist. “By me,” he grits out. “I belong in the basement of fuckin’ hell for what I’ve done. As much as it hurts to know this, you did the only thing you thought you could do to get out of the situation. It was a fuck of a lot more than I ever did. Yes, my father made me do those things to you, but his blood runs in my veins. I’ll always—”
“Stop!” I yell, unable to listen to anymore. “Just stop it!” My chest feels so tight I can hardly drag in air. “You can’t keep doing this. It’s killing me knowing you’re blaming yourself. I don’t….” I stop and swallow thickly, licking the tears from my mouth. “I don’t know how to help you,” I finish on a whisper.
“You can’t.” He leans back and pulls his eyes off me to stare at the wall opposite him. “You need to leave. Get as far away from me as you can.”
My chin quivers. “Do you really want that? Do you really never want to see me again?”
His expression turns pained. It’s gone seconds later, and he locks his jaw. “You’re better off without me in your life.”
Doesn’t he see how much this is hurting me? Now that I’ve come back, I can’t imagine my life without him.
I shake my head. “No. I don’t believe that for a second. Why can’t you see how important you are to me? Why can’t you look past your guilt and see I need you in my life?” Gripping the edge of the tub, I lean forward until he’s forced to look at me. “I need you,” I say forcefully. “And I want to help you. You’ve helped me so much already.”
All of a sudden, he sits up, his black eyes locking on mine. Something stretches across his face. Something so dark and fierce it sends chill bumps over my arms.
“You wanna help me?” I nod, not liking the look in his eyes, but still desperately wanting to do something that will take away some of the darkness inside him. He grabs the rim of the tub and hoists himself up. “Let’s go,” he demands, stepping out of the tub.
I eye his arms. Most of the blood on them has started to dry, but there’re still some wounds that are oozing.
I stand but don’t make a move to leave the bathroom. I stand in front of him and look down at his arms. “Can we please see to those first?”
“After.”
Without another word, he stalks out of the bathroom, and I’ve got no choice but to follow. I find him in front of the basement door. His head is bent, and he’s glaring down at whatever’s in his hand. It’s not until I’m right beside him that I realize it’s a key. A key that’s covered in blood. His hands are torn up worse than his arms.
I choke back a sob and only just stop myself from reaching out to grab his hand.
Using the key, he unlocks the door. His eyes meet mine for a brief moment before he descends the stairs. A sick feeling forms in my stomach as I follow him. Something tells me finding him in the bathroom the way he was won’t be the worst thing that happens today.
By the time I’m halfway down the stairs, Aziah’s already switched the light on and is out of my sight. At the bottom, I look around and find him over by a table. The basement is a big open area with concrete walls and floors. Except for the table, there’s not much else down here. A few boxes, crates, and some odds and ends. Despite the hot temperatures outside, there’s a chill in the air.
I gingerly walk over to him. His body is rigid, the muscles in his arms bunching, and his jaw works furiously as he clenches and unclenches his teeth. He keeps his eyes pinned on the table.
“Aziah,” I call quietly. “What are we doing down here?”
He finally looks at me, and I almost stagger back at the raw emotions on his face.
“You said you wanted to help me.” He grabs a belt from the table and holds it out to me. “This is how.”
I look at it then back to him, unsure what he’s suggesting. “I don’t—”
“Take it,” he commands with a hard voice.
My eyes widen when I realize what he wants me to do. My heart doesn’t just plummet to my feet, it sinks through the concrete floor, like there’s a ten-ton weight tied to it. “What!” I shout. “No!”
“Take the belt.”
I take a step back and shake my head. “No. I’m not hitting you with that.”
“Take the goddamn belt, Rella!” he bellows, making me jump.
“Why?” I yell back. “Why would you ask me to do something like that?”
“Because it’s the only thing that calms the demons in me. It’s the only thing that will give me a measure of peace. Because I need you to do it.” He pauses, his expression morphing from anger to abject sadness. “Please,” he pleads hoarsely.
I’m being torn apart inside. The thought of Aziah being hurt makes me sick to my stomach, but the thought of me being the one to hurt him is pure agony.
My mind wanders back to our childhood. I never saw Aziah as the person who was hurting me. It was only Mr. Masters that I saw. Not because Aziah was his son, but because Mr. Masters was making him do those things. Mr. Masters was the one who hurt me over and over again. That day in the gazebo, I was not only trying to kill myself, but also trying to overpower the pain of Hell Night. The knife slicing into my wrists was torture, but the pain of what was being done to me once a month was ten times worse.
I look at Aziah. Is it the same way for him? I know what he was forced to do to me torments him every day. Will being hit by the belt lessen that pain? Mask it somehow? I don’t want to hurt Aziah, but will doing this help him? And am I strong enough to do what he’s asking?
I close my eyes. I’ve got no right to deny him if this is what he really needs. I slit my wrists, knowing he and the others would find me. Knowing it would hurt them.
Opening my eyes, I set them on his face. I take the three steps separating us until I’m standing directly in front of him. Swallowing hard, my hand shakes as I reach out for the belt. His body relaxes and something calm settles over his face. I try to take the buckled end, but my gut tightens when he pointedly gives me the soft end, making sure the buckle will be what hits him. It’s dark leather, and although it’s not a big belt, it feels like it weighs fifty pounds.
He doesn’t say anything as he turns around. I inhale a sharp breath when I see the horrendous damage to his back. There’s not an inch of space that’s not covered in ink, but it’s not the ink that horrifies me. There’s a multitude of scars hidden within the colorful designs. Raised lines, some short and some long, cover his entire back from the base of his neck all the way down to the top of his sweatpants.
I stifle the cry that’s making its way up my throat. I step closer on trembling legs and tentatively reach out, grazing the tips of my fingers over the raised flesh. He flinches. Some appear to be older than the others. I wonder how many came from his father’s hand, and if some came from someone else’s. If so, who else has hit him?
“Oh, Aziah,” I whisper brokenly, the ache in my chest intensifying.
I don’t know why I do it. It’s just feels like the right thing to do. Leaning forward, I place a gentle kiss against one of the scars, right between his shoulder blades. His skin is soft and warm, and I feel the muscles in his back ripple against my lips. I lean back and wait for him to turn around, but he doesn’t. His shoulders rise and fall rapidly, like he’s breathing hard, and his head is tipped forward. He braces his hands on the table and leans over it slightly.
“Hit me,” he says quietly, reminding me of the belt in my hand. All of the anguish of knowing what I’m about to do comes rushing back.
“I-I don’t think I can,” I reply shakily.
He looks at me over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Just do it. Think about all the times my father forced me to hurt you. Think about the filthy hands that touched you. The pain you felt. The fear. The look in his eyes as he watched. Being alone in that gazebo. The pain of losing the baby and the fact you will never be able to have your own child.”
Tears well in my eyes, and my chest feels like it’s going to explode with grief. My hand clenches around the leather.
“Think about every single time we were in the Hall. Remember every second of it. Pretend like I’m him. Hit me like you hate me. Hit me like I’m him. Because I am him, Rella. I did every vile and painful thing he wanted me to do to you. Punish me for the sins committed against you. Use all the fear and pain you felt lying on that table against me.” He grits his teeth. “Do it, Rella,” he demands loudly.
His words hurt. They hurt so bad that I feel like I’m dying inside. They also make me so angry. Angry at his father for making Aziah the way he is today. Angry at Aziah for letting his father continue to torment him even now, and for asking this horrible thing of me.
“Hurt me,” he snarls. His voice sounds so far away. “You wanted to help me, and this is how you do it. Remember what Marco and Gabriela did to you. Remember how scared you were the first time they touched you. How much it hurt. How much you wished you could stop them. How helpless you felt when you couldn’t.”
Image after image of my time with Marco and Gabriela filter through my mind. Every second, every touch, every time I prayed to God to ask him to help me. I feel their hands all over me and my stomach rolls with bile. The images change to when I was in the Hall. Mr. Masters standing over me, leering at my body, his hands touching me in places no person should ever touch a child. Then Aziah is there on top of me, except it’s not his face I see, but his father’s. The grin he gives me is sickening.
Needing the images to go away, I let out a scream. I lift my arm and swing the belt down on his back, not even realizing what I’m doing, only seeing Mr. Masters, Marco, and Gabriela in my head.
“Harder!” he seethes. “Make me fuckin’ bleed, Rella! Make them all bleed!”
I lift the belt again as I feel their hands all over me. The vileness of their touch and the pain that came during and after. I remember the first time Aziah was forced to violate me. The fear I felt and the way his eyes pleaded with me to forgive him. How broken I was once it was all over.
I slash the belt down one more time before my mind registers what I’ve done. A cry bursts from my lips when my eyes fall on the bloody welts on Aziah’s back. My world shatters and revulsion at myself churns in my stomach. I let out a wail of sorrow because Aziah and I both are just two fucked-up people living in a dark and painful world. I’ve just hurt one of the only people in the world who’s ever tried to save me. I cry so hard I can’t catch my breath and my throat turns raw.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my arms lying limply at my sides. When I realize I’m still holding the belt, I release it like it’s just burnt my hand.
My knees turn weak and dizziness clouds my mind. My legs give out, but before I can hit the ground, warm arms are wrapped around me, holding me up against a hard chest.
“I’m sorry,” Aziah croaks. “I’m so goddamn sorry, Rella.”
I sag against his hard chest, desperately seeking something to hold on to.
“I can’t do that anymore,” I cry and look up at him imploringly. “Please don’t ask that of me again.”
Torment and regret fill his eyes, making them even darker. I can barely see the whites of his eyes.
“Never again,” he asserts, his tone filled with anguish. “Fuck, Rella. I’m so sorry.” He says it over and over again.
I stay huddled against him, my arms around his waist and his arms bound tightly around my shoulders. This is the first time he’s held me like this. Like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing. Like he’s afraid to let me go.
After several moments, my cries become quiet, hiccupping sobs and my chest finally doesn’t feel like it’s going to explode.
When I pull back from him, his eyes move over my face before narrowing on my clothes.
“Shit. I’ve got blood all over you,” he states roughly, regretfully.
I look down to inspect my clothes and find blood on my chest and shoulders. Some has smeared on my neck, and I’m sure there’s some on my face too. It’s from the many wounds on his arms.
“I need to let you clean up. If you go back to Trouble’s house like this, he’ll kill me.”
I wouldn’t go as far as that, but he’d for sure be upset and would want to know what happened. I have no plans to tell Trouble what went on in this basement. All I want to do is forget it ever happened.
He grabs my hand and tugs me behind him. “Let’s go.”
I follow him up the stairs, his steps slow, almost sluggish, and worry if it’s because of all the blood he’s lost or if he’s going through an emotional dump. My own steps are lethargic, my head beginning to pound from the stress.
He takes me to the spare bathroom, dropping my hand as soon as we’re in front of the sink. He takes a step back. “I’m going to grab you some clothes so you can take a shower.”
