Temper: Book One of the Taboo Series, page 16
My heart quickened. “You need a hospital.” I desperately wanted to help him but his wounds were overwhelming. “Let me take you.” Muscles twitched beneath his skin in argument.
He glanced at me in the cracked mirror. His face purpled from the pain. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I'll wash it and be fine.” I didn't even try to withhold the loud, doubtful snort.
I debated with myself. Any reasonable person would call for an ambulance to take him against his will. I was concerned for his reasons to avoid professional medical attention. My first thought was how it might anger Elizabeth and though it wasn’t rational I understood.
I pulled a thin washcloth from the drawer. As I cleaned the wounds I noticed deeper, longer, and older marks. I bit down any questions and forced myself to empty and turn cold.
Chapter 32- Raw
I used a white towel and a bandage to wrap around his torso. I didn’t know what to do about the marks across his arms. “That’ll do,” he whispered as he stared into the sink. He gently pushed my hands away.
Desperation had made me do things I never thought myself capable of. I couldn’t forget the epiphany I received in the garden. He had maimed me in ways no mortal should be allowed to. I knew I would never heal from the infected love I held for him.
I wanted to force him to look at me. I wanted to drill my honesty into his brain and make it weep. I wanted to bleed all of Elizabeth’s poison from his mind.
He looked nothing short of traumatized as he stared down the drain of the sink. His eyes were wild and frightened like a stray cat approached by its former abuser.
When they caught mine in the glass I saw all of his darkness, pain, and rage settled at the bottom. I could hear how it called to be free but he pushed his true self down too far.
My chin trembled. My feet felt glued to the floor as though they refused to leave him in his time of need. I tried to remind them of what he did to me but they ignored my pleas.
I bit down on my tongue. I needed to release the toxic waste of emotions but didn’t want to grant him ammunition.
“Say it,” he hissed.
“I hate you,” I blurted. I felt like a child tattling on myself.
He bit down on his lip, trying not to laugh. A tremor of anger shot through my body as I straightened.
He turned and leaned his hips against the sink. He pulled a cigarette pack from his pocket and shook it until he found a blunt. He fidgeted with the twisted end, avoiding my gaze again.
“Is that all?” he asked. He was too humored and prideful.
I glared at him. The truth shot from my tongue though my intention wasn’t to wound, “I hate you because I never stopped loving you.”
His already discolored complexion became transparent as his face darted up. His mouth gaped as his fingers stilled. His eyes bounced between mine as though in denial.
“No,” he growled.
He shoved away from the sink and lifted me under my arms. The room spun before he planted me on the rim of the sink.
I didn’t pull away as his hand gripped my chin to force my gaze to his. “Don’t you ever say that shit to me again.”
My heart hammered as I saw the emotions he tried to repress. My words spawned rage but also much more.
He held the same pained affection and desolation but I couldn’t understand it. He was the one to sever the relationship. I suffered no guilt in our demise.
I leaned closer. His eyes shone with surprise and tenderness as they darted to my mouth. His fingers could bruise if they tightened. His hands could break me if he willed them but I knew he would never physically hurt me.
I had never felt so wild. It instantly became my favorite personality. His old ways of freedom and rage piqued as he glared down at me.
If I accomplished nothing else that night, I would make sure to give him a taste of the life he refused. I would remind him of who he was long before her touch.
“Or what?” I dared with a twitching smirk.
He released my chin to bolt his hand into my hair. His fingers twisted in the strands. His breath grew ragged as though I was his lifeline and he had waited for too long to grasp me. It made no sense but I couldn't deny what I witnessed.
He stepped between my thighs and my hands rested gently on his shoulders. His chest pressed against me as his lips brushed mine.
My soul wept for the minuscule intimacy. We were seamless- two beings torn from the same cloth, matching perfectly to complete an image in a tapestry.
I sighed as the unwelcome words slipped over my tongue. “I hate knowing your lips have touched hers.”
He leaned away. “They haven’t.” His brow furrowed as though I was the one who was sick and insane.
His voice held so much honesty I almost believed him. I couldn’t let myself drown in my instinct to accept and love him. He was Elizabeth’s student and more. I was foolish for trusting those brilliant eyes.
I shoved my foot into his chest to separate us. He stumbled and grimaced as his back hit the wall. I almost apologized, never intending to hurt him, but I withheld.
“Don’t lie to me,” I spat. “She gloated almost daily. I saw for myself the way she wrapped herself around you.”
He shook his head, his untamed curls dancing to the tune of his lies, “I’ll admit not every touch of hers has been as appropriate as I asked but she knows the boundaries.”
I gasped as I fought not to laugh. “Boundaries? I found her nibbling on your neck. You didn’t push her away.”
He scoffed. “There was no nibbling.”
A hiss escaped my teeth as fury seeped through my veins. “Your memories of that night are distorted. You left after crushing me and I was punished for it.”
He charged towards me. He planted his fists against the sink on either side of my thighs. His gruff voice bounced off the white bricks in the room. “You’re selfish, ungrateful, and blind. You’re not the sole person she’s been punishing for all these years.”
I wanted to spit in his face. His lips were a whisper from mine and for the first time in my life I didn’t want to kiss them. I wanted to tear into them the way he did.
His words made me recall the scars riddling his back. I hated to imagine her hurting him but wouldn't allow myself fall down the cliff of caring. “You’re the one who disappeared,” I accused.
He stumbled as though stabbed. I couldn’t define the emotion surging through his expression. His spine bent against the weight of it. I didn’t recognize that kind of pain.
“I didn’t have a choice.” I was amazed how such softly spoken words could sting so much.
“I despise cliche mumbles of how we don’t choose the people we love.” He opened his mouth to interject but I raised my voice. “You jumped from wanting to marry me to her bed without pause.”
His lips twisted as he sneered. “I told you it’s not like that. She’s terrible at keeping her promises but that’s one of the few she has.” His hand was steady as he lit the blunt, glaring at me as he dragged on it.
I blinked away the mist of frustration. “Don't deny you love her. You already admitted she's the one who can give you what you want. You chose her.” I sighed as the words left my lips uninvited, “And now I look pathetic.”
His wry smile told me he would argue but I never expected the words, “I don’t love her. I’ve always loved you.” His eyes widened as though he didn’t mean to speak them. His hand raked over his face before pressing to his closed lips.
My fingers gripped the sink. “Don’t you ever say that shit to me,” I retorted cruelly.
I ripped the blunt from his hand and inhaled deeply. He calmed beneath my glare. He seemed to come to terms with the fact that the words were said. It brought a strange, peaceful light to his eyes as though the sensation of the syllables were missed.
His being relaxed as he watched me. “I’ve never seen you look so alive.” He laughed as though he thought himself crazy. The genuine happiness dancing within him was disarming. The sound of his maniacal laughter pulled a smile across my lips. We were both a little ruined and odd. We always were. “In a filthy motel bathroom is where you become uninhibited and free.”
His voice, eyes, and soul pulled at me in places I wished they were never able to reach. “I hate you,” I repeated.
I was too comfortable in his presence. I was an addict slipping back into old habits. He was my relapse yet I couldn’t find shame. I knew I was insane as his eyes gleamed with soft humor and I relished in the pleasure of my binge.
His smile softened. “I know.” I rested my head against his shoulder. His fingers came to sweep the hair from the back of my neck. His lips were in my hair as all of my thoughts, memories, and emotions conflicted in a silent, bloody battle.
He had been my best friend, my lover, and my future. He became my enemy, my sadness, and almost my end. I didn’t understand what he was in that bathroom. I didn’t know if he was again a friend, my heart, or my demon.
I never wanted him to release me though I needed him to.
“Happy birthday,” he whispered.
Chapter 33- Beaten
I plopped onto the bed and stared at my new red sneakers. My mind tried to wrap around all that happened, but nothing felt real.
Hannah was dead and I never knew. I survived the past two years to end up alone in a cheap motel room with the man I loved and despised. I felt trapped in a Shakespeare play but couldn’t figure out if it was a comedy or tragedy.
I fell back across the mattress. I smiled as I drifted to sleep and despised myself for it.
My eyes fluttered open to see him kneeling at my feet, sweetly pulling the sneakers from my feet. He stomped out the last of his cigarette on the carpet before draping me in a stained, worn blanket.
“Thank you,” I whispered as I curled beneath the thin fabric.
I woke again in a panic as heavy thuds reverberated through the dark room. I listened and realized the sound came from the bathroom.
The hiss of old pipes from the sink and shower and muffled fists against the painted brick walls startled me continuously but fear kept me from checking on him. I didn't understand how he possessed the energy to still be awake after so much blood loss and spent energy.
Silence settled around dawn and I stopped fighting my heavy eyes.
I lifted myself as the late afternoon light seeped through the brown curtain. I needed to use the toilet and thought I’d make him move to the bed. When I opened the bathroom door I was surprised to find him sprawled across the dingy floor.
The blood-soaked towel was removed from his back. He used it as a pillow. I stared at the bruising and gashes. He grimaced in pain even as he slept. It was unsettling to see him across the floor.
The Hugh I knew washed his hands until they became so chapped they bled. He hung his clothes by color and function. I caught him multiple times remaking my bed even after his mother fixed my imperfection. He would wash a dish with soap and scalding water simply because it sat on his ruthlessly clean counter.
This version of Hugh bared open wounds against unknown germs on a filthy bathroom floor. His injuries were because of me and mine because of him. Doubt flickered and sizzled in my mind as I reflected on his deceitful declaration of love.
Before I could fully turn away he scrambled to stand. He rubbed his eyes, wobbly and groggy. “You alright?” he asked in his gravelly, sleepy voice. I nodded, my throat stuck. He squinted at me. “I’ll take you home.”
I still questioned my safety with him behind the wheel. He was obviously exhausted but I worried for Stan.
Hugh left the key in the door as I slid into the passenger’s seat. For too long we rode in silence. The thumping and screaming from his speakers didn’t fill the void between us.
I didn’t mention how I finally slept without one image of gore. I didn’t ask him about the change in his behavior or the violent sounds through the night. It all felt too personal. We shared one strangely intimate moment in the tight bathroom, but it was gone and I wasn’t yet capable of inviting another.
Every brush of his arm against mine drove euphoria through me. I hated knowing I lived so long without him and would have to continue doing so. I was broken but so was he.
I recognized the addiction in him too when he hissed with masochistic pleasure from our subtle contacts. He gave in and I allowed him to. His fingers draped over my knee as though he needed to touch me.
I wrapped my hand around his to hold him against me. I died knowing I would have to release him for my own health and sanity.
I was suffocating when we pulled into my driveway and stopped in front of my house. His eyes trained on something in the distance. I could almost touch the fury clouding his mind.
“Where are you going to go?” I asked. He knew he wasn’t safe there. She hadn’t cared he was burning with me.
His brows twitched as though the answer was obvious. “Back.”
Disgust and regret filled me. I tried to hide the shiver in my voice, “Thank you for bringing me home safe.” I had cracked myself open for the pleasure of one single night with him and the result was devastating.
He narrowed his eyes as he stared at the same spot in the distance, never taking his eyes from it. His voice trembled with the vehemence in his tone, “You’re not safe yet.”
My body froze at his words. His glaring eyes, still glued to the mirror, defrosted my muscles with a flaming rage. I slammed the door and spun, ready to run.
The front door busted open as Stan ran from the house. He gathered me in his arms, “You’re home.” He turned, expecting Hugh to step from the vehicle.
Tires squealed against the pavement as Hugh spun the car around and sped recklessly towards the street. Stan gaped in confusion and pain. I swallowed my guilt. I was the one who welcomed Hugh into Stan's life.
The blood drained from my body as a shiny black town car pulled from the bushes near the edge of my property and follow him. We watched the empty road as I tried to comprehend what it meant.
✷✴✷
Stan was elated with his dreams of my being home having come to fruition. He enjoyed caring for me while babbling through the days. He noted my mental absence but blamed it on my need to adjust. He claimed I needed time to get used to being back home, loved, and safe.
My house no longer felt like home, but that would mean I had none. It belonged to a part of me that was dead and buried deep beneath scar tissue.
Hugh’s words played on a loop in my brain, “You’re not safe yet.” Each time I heard it in my head the anxiety rose. I needed to protect myself. Though I wasn’t under her roof, no one was ever truly safe from the far-reaching claws of Elizabeth Fellows.
I began to discuss my agenda with Stan. He never tried to stop me. I could feel his worry and sorrow for my constant apprehension but he was supportive. He gladly opened the first part of my trust fund to accommodate my goal. “Whatever you need to feel comfortable here, Princess,” was always his response.
The first week I did research on what I wanted and needed. I knew the difference between security and paranoia. By the end of my first month home, I had a security system and a new seven-foot wrought iron fence bordering the property with sharpened tips. Two gates lead from the grounds, each connected to the central alarm.
I met with a burly man in uniform. I slid him an envelope that would command his attention at my beck and call, supported by his entire force. I had learned from the woman who mangled me.
I stood in my backyard to look out among the projection of safety and felt a prick of comfort. Stan’s fatherly hand on my shoulder and a grin on his face completed the image.
Soon I began the manic purge. The pastels and creams of the lower floor were replaced with deep hues of comforting warmth- browns and grays with bold, strong contrasts of red for strength.
The bedroom reminded me too much of my youth and was torn apart. The plush, lavender carpet was removed to reveal the mahogany underneath. Mr. Stan always claimed it was a blasphemy to have covered it anyway. The walls were painted a dark, misty blue. I thought the color to be calming and serene until I laid staring at it and realized why I chose it.
It was reminiscent of the color of his eyes when they flashed with anger, passion, and the sharpest love. Though it hurt, the color was home.
“It’s a new house,” Stan remarked one evening as we sat in the den with books in our hands. I nodded in gratitude and agreement.
I was unable to hold long conversations. I couldn’t concentrate on them when the obsession for safety constantly pestered me. Even the change of decor was for my own safety in a strange way.
The words from across the coffee table made all other voices quiet, “The last time I saw him he was coming to get you.”
Stan’s voice was filled with anguish but there was more he didn’t say. “When?” I asked as my book fell into my lap.
“The day before you turned seventeen. I had finally received the documents and signatures you needed. He called me when he got there. Hannah was already headed to Maine because of her niece’s death. Is that why you didn’t get married?” His voice was full of confusion and pain as he stared at me with misting eyes. “He said you wanted her blessing and I don’t know if he ever got it before she died. He wanted the paperwork before he talked to her about it to show her he was serious and responsible about the decision.”
I tried to suppress the emotions from my voice as I looked away. “I never knew the papers came in.” Hugh had held the keys to my liberation and happiness but had swallowed them without me ever knowing they existed. “He was with Elizabeth at the time. That was the night I caught them.”
He pursed his lips and tilted his head. “Caught them?"
I nodded, afraid to be honest with him. I didn't want to hurt him but he deserved the chance to move on. " I didn’t see him for months. He hid from me because they were intimate," I said as diplomatically as possible.
Stan shook his head and narrowed his eyes. “Do you realize how hard it was for him to stay away from you for so long?” I jolted at the anger in his voice. “He got caught trying to slip you a note and was locked in a closet for three days. He came home from Elizabeth's almost every week with black eyes.” Stan stood too quickly and knocked over the armchair. “I still have the shirt he wore when she lashed him. Even I can’t get that amount of blood out.”
