Page 53 of Sorrow

My hurricane is giving herself to a man that isn’t me, and some fucking bitch boy is taking what is mine.

Mine.

“Fuck!”

I shove my record player onto the floor with a crash, stopping myself a second before my fist bursts through the drywall, and I somehow manage to keep myself from destroying my house.

Over a fucking girl.

No, not just any girl. Boo’s baby sister.

If future me traveled back to warn me of this I would have laughed in his face, but it’s time I admit that Samara Radley isn’t just some girl anymore. Or maybe I admit that she never was.

Either way, I’m done playing this game we’re playing. I’m done holding back from fucking her in fear of her leaving, because I won’t let her leave when I’m done.

She might be the hurricane here, but I’ll be a fucking tornado if I have to be. I’ll kick his door in and carry her ass home without a second thought, and if she fights me, all the better. In fact, I might need her to fight me just so I can avoid confessing my love or something else equally terrifying.

What a fucking day.

Good thing I know exactly where that prick lives, so I stomp back outside and wave Boo off. “She’s fine, I know where she’s at. Go back to the station and see if you can figure out where those fuckers went. I’ll get Samara.”

I don’t wait for him to respond before I start my car and speed over there in record time. Only... I don’t even make it to his house before I spot her. She’s walking down the street hugging herself, and regardless of the pouring rain and us being a good distance away, I know for a fact that she’s crying.

Did that pussy reject her?

Red-hot rage boils inside of me for a completely different reason now, and when I park my car and run over to get to her, I only know two things: one, I’ll kill that motherfucker, and two... I’m about to show her just how desirable she really is.

I don’t give a fuck who sees.

23

The rain is so cold as it slaps against my bare legs that it only makes me cry harder. I’ve watched enough tv to know that walks of shame are a real thing, but I never thought I’d have one without at least getting laid first.

I just feel stupid. How could I let Hayes get so far under my skin? How could I let him rewrite everything about me without even realizing it was happening? I’m an idiot. I played a dangerous game, and I won the worst prize of all. Now I’m stuck here and I’ll be even more isolated than I was before. Word will spread that the cursed girl, the virgin bitch, the town whore, whatever the fuck they want to call me tried to screw Nate Jackson while he had a girlfriend. No one will blame him, I’m sure. Only me. The double standard is strong around here.

God, I can’t believe I fumbled this bad.

But the curse isn’t done screwing with me tonight. I see Hayes’ blacked out Camaro rolling through the stop sign just ahead of me and know he must’ve gotten my note. So what’s he doing here? Was he coming to give me pointers?

The tires squeal on the wet road as he parks, and I barely have time to react before he’s racing toward me on foot. “Go away,” I mumble. “I’ll find my truck eventually.”

“Did you do it?” he growls, breathing heavily before me as the rain begins falling so hard we have to yell to be heard. “Did you fucking do it?”

“No, I didn’t!” Suddenly, I’m a little girl again, staring up at him after he told me what the song “Dancing in the Moonlight” was really about. It was my favorite song, and the sneer on his face when he told me the songwriter wrote it after his girlfriend was violently raped by a gang sucked all the life right out of me. He was envisioning a better life, Hayes had said, and so was I. But the truth behind it was rotten just like us. “I couldn’t do it. You ruined me, Hayes. Are you happy? You fucking ruined me.”

“I ruined you?” He huffs a humorless laugh, his right hand shooting up to tug my hair back while the other grips my chinroughly. “I ruined you? No, Hurricane. You. Ruined.Me.”

When his mouth crashes to mine, I realize just how much he’s trembling, and somehow I know the storm isn’t the cause of it.

He’s as fucked up as I am.

“I hate you,” I whisper, wishing I still actually believed that. “I hate you.”

“I know,” he breaths into me, kissing me heatedly a few seconds longer before he speaks again, only this time he lifts me off the ground to straddle him. “I hate you too.”

Already, the cold I feel starts to fade. His hands are blazing hot on my bare thighs, his lips like fire on my neck as he carries me to an alleyway and shoves me against the wall.

It feels different this time, like he’s about to give me what I’ve been so desperate for.

---