Page 7 of The Awakening

I rub my head, trying to remember how I got here, when I got here, anything. But I can’t. I don’t have a single thought in my head except for fear. The same fear that consumed me my entire life while living within these walls. My eyes begin to sting, the fear becoming all too much, and then I hear him. My father.

“Sloan!” his voice bellows down the hallway. “Sloan, don’t you hide from me, you little bitch!” My blood runs cold as I begin backing up towards my window. No, no, no, this isn’t real Sloan, this can’t be real. My door flies open, my father standing at the threshold clutching a beer can while the other hand holds tight to a cigarette. I quit—literally stop—breathing. This man who caused so much pain, so much trauma, so much hate, is standing in front of me as a wicked smile stretches across his sweat-covered face.

“Ahh, there you are. Have you missed me?” His words are like venom burning across my skin—his plaque-covered teeth, or lack thereof, showing through cracked lips. He looks awful, the drugs and alcohol tinting his skin in a reddish hue, inflammation consuming his whole body. Pockmarks cover his cheeks and forehead, evidence of the harder drugs he’s now taken a liking to. No shock there.

“You were late coming home from school today—that’s not good. My friends were expecting a playdate with you, and now I won’t be getting paid. That means someone is getting punished. That person is you.” Then, he rushes towards me, dropping his cigarette and beer can as he barrels into me, my body slamming against the window, causing it to splinter more. I yell out as I try to grab his hands that are gripped around my neck. His hold is tight as he squeezes harder, constricting my windpipe. I can’t breathe. He’s so heavy, so angry, as his beady eyes are on mine. Redness filling the once white in his eyes.

Thrashing and kicking against him, he doesn’t budge, not even a little. Black circles start to form around the outskirts of my vision. My breathing is completely gone—no air in, no air out. The blackness grows more and more until there’s nothing left. My eyes close. This is it; this is how I go. I didn’t see that coming.

The pressure that was once around my neck suddenly disappears, and I suck in a greedy amount of air as I choke to fill my lungs. Coughing hard, I open my eyes, expecting to see the ceiling of my bedroom, but I don’t. Harsh overhead lights blind me as I try to focus and regain my breath. Someone’s shaking my shoulders. Large hands grip me tightly as I hear my name being called out.

“Sloan. Sloan, wake up, you can breathe. Take it easy, try to slow down and breathe normally. You need to hold on, you forgot to hold on, my love.” Everett, was that Everett’s voice? Squinting hard, I see his silhouette against the lights, a perfect outline of his gorgeous face staring down at me.

“Whe-where am I? What the fuck was that?” I cough out, gripping my chest as the sensation of being choked slowly releases its grasp on me. I hear a deep sigh before I’m lifted to a sitting position, a firm body sitting behind me, propping me up with their own.

“That was your first lesson in emotional training. It’s our virtual reality simulation of your worst fears, traumas, and memories you’ve buried deep down. It brings to light these moments for you to relive them. Feel the same pain in hopes that you react in a different way,” Everett replies, his tone laced with something, but I can’t pinpoint it, especially not at this moment.

“I-I—it felt so real,” I choke out, holding in the tears that threaten to slip. It felt so fucking real. I’m not scared though, I feel angry. I feel enraged, and all I want to do is punch something. I stand abruptly, steadying myself before turning on Everett and now Dean, who’s getting up off the floor behind me.

“Why wouldn’t you warn me? Why throw me into something like that? You both know how bad it was! You knew!” I’m so angry I can’t stop the words from coming. I’m angry and want them to know. “You could have given me a little heads up before I was almost choked to death!” I’m yelling and my posture goes rigid as I spit my words. The look on their faces are expressions I’ve never seen from them. They look scared, they look guilty, as their eyes soften on me. They both stand there, their eyes pleading and apologetic.

“How could you do—”

“Little one, we know you’re mad, but you want to be a Shadow? This is what it takes to be one of us. You think Everett and Dean wanted to see you go through that? You need to toughen the fuck up. That was level one, wait until the more difficult levels. I suggest you take a walk, cool down, and remember why you’re here training in the first place.” Arno’s deep voice comes from behind me as he walks into the virtual reality room with the three of us. Turning on him, I give him a deep scowl, my anger uncontrollable at this point.

“Get your little ass to the gym. I’ll be there in a minute, and we can spar so you can get that rage out.” I say nothing. I walk past him, not giving the guys another look. Reaching the door, I tear it open and begin to step through, but I hear them speak and I freeze.

“Her anger is getting worse. She’s locked up her rage for too long, and now it’s coming out, and she can’t control it. Like mine was.” Dean’s voice is a punch to the gut. The door closes behind me, and I lean my back against it, releasing a deep breath. I didn’t want to snap at them—they were doing exactly what I asked for. I asked for all of this. Everett, Dean, Arno, and Colson all went through this same training. Each one experiencing their traumas in hopes of learning how to control their emotions. I shouldn’t have yelled at them. Guilt quickly takes hold of me as the anger begins to dissipate within me.

I enter the gym with my head down. I feel like shit remembering the expressions Everett and Dean both gave me as I screamed in their faces. What’s wrong with me? I should’ve known that was a test. Making my way over to the punching bag, I begin a one-two combo, starting off slowly and getting into a rhythm. Once I’m warm enough, I pick up my speed, throwing in uppercuts and jabs as I practice my footwork.

Increasing my speed even more, I spin around, throwing out my arm, expecting to feel the give of the punching bag, but a strong hand grabs my forearm and swings me around as I land on my back. A knee presses hard into my chest, rendering me immobile.

“I expect better from you, little one. Next time you feel the need to act like a scared little pussy again, remember why you’re here. Or did you forget already?” Arno’s face is mere inches from mine as he speaks down to me. “Did you think this was going to be easy? Did you think it was going to be a walk in the fucking park? How do you think we became this way? You’re no coffee-bitch anymore. You’re training to be a fucking mercenary, so act like one.”

He releases the hold he has on me, and I suck in a deep breath, pain stretching across my sternum from his knee. He stands, offering me his hand. Grabbing his hand, he lifts me to my feet, patting my back hard with his large hand.

“Don’t expect at any point for this to be easy, little one.” I nod my understanding, looking down at the mat, thoroughly embarrassed by my behavior. I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but I can’t. Arno lifts my chin with his long fingers until I’m looking up at him. A tear slides down my cheek. I close my eyes, trying not to let any more escape. A finger brushes the tear from my cheek, and I open my eyes to Arno. The corner of his mouth turns up, giving me a sympathetic smile.

“That must have been hard. This shit sucks, I know.” With that, I break down, the tears now a steady stream down my face as the images of my irate father play across my vision. Arno pulls me into his body, wrapping his muscular arms around me and holding me tight. I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head against his chest, allowing my tears to fall freely. He’s warm, and his hold on me is comforting as we stand there together. He lets me cry, he lets me feel, he lets me empty myself of the pain I’ve held onto for so long. Arno is with me, as he’s been since we started this journey together, and I’m thankful he’s here.

September 6, 2021

What the hell are we doing as an organization? We’re trained to kill, eliminate, and be invisible. Why are the three of us now being tasked to kidnap some poor girl off the street? Everett, Dean, and I have rarely ever been tasked with the same mission, but today we received news that we would be doing a ‘retrieve the target and deliver said target’ job together and then dropping her off at an unknown location. What the fuck is this nonsense? We’ve had snatch-and-grab jobs before, but this one is cryptic with such minimal information, that it has me confused as hell. I think I speak for both Everett and Dean when I say this feels wrong and completely out of our job requirements. Fuck, we’ll see how this goes, I guess.

The look on her face was soul-shattering. Her eyes were swelling with tears as she yelled at both Everett and me for not giving her a proper heads-up. I understand where she’s coming from and why she’s upset, but our hands were tied. We gave her more of a warning than any other recruit would have received. Nevertheless, my chest is tight with guilt, and I can hardly stand the idea of her being angry with me.

Walking down the hallway towards the gym, I want to help her get her anger out and offer myself up as her punching bag. I need to make amends with her immediately, and if that means I let her beat the shit out of me, so be it. Turning the corner, I head towards the gym doors that look to be propped open. As I make my way down, I hear the faint sounds of a sob. Is she crying?

Picking up my pace, I’m instantly halted at the doorway when my eyes land on her. She’s wrapped in his arms—Arno’s. She’s clutching him desperately as tears stream down her face and soft cries slip from her mouth. My chest bubbles with guilt, but it’s not until Arno threads his fingers through her hair and holds her head to his chest that my guilt instantly flips to rage. My entire body tense as he starts massaging her scalp as she continues to cry into his chest.

This is too intimate, too sensual for a comforting gesture. He shouldn’t even be the one to comfort her. It should be me or Everett—no one else touches her.

Not like this.

I want to walk in there, grab him by the throat, and squeeze until he can’t inhale another breath. My skin is vibrating with anger, and just as I’m about to take a step towards them, a firm hand lands on my shoulder.

“Don’t, mate. Let her cry it out. He’s not a threat,” Everett whispers behind me. How can he say that? Is he not seeing what I’m seeing?

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