Page 464 of Rage

I wake screaming some nights, phantom hands grasping at my flesh. Jaz is always there, and when I beg him to hold me, his arms become a fortress against the terrors that haunt me.

As my strength returns, so do the memories, replaying like jagged shards of glass, cutting deep. They come in flashes, vivid and cruel. The bonfire's warmth on my skin. The sweet taste of the drink in my red cup. The dizziness that wasn't just from alcohol. Three faces, leering and predatory, emerging from the shadows between the trees.

I come to consciousness screaming again, clawing at phantoms. Jaz holds me, his embrace both a cage and asanctuary. "Let it out," he whispers fiercely. "Your pain is your power. Use it."

And so I do. I rage, weep and curse the universe for its cruelty. Jaz weathers it all, a rock against which my storm breaks.

Time passes, measured in small victories. The day I can sit up without assistance. The first steps I take, wobbling like a newborn fawn. The morning I look in the mirror and recognize the face staring back at me, battered but unbroken.

Jaz becomes my protector, my confidant, my dark angel. He teaches me to channel my pain into purpose, to forge my anger into a weapon.

"Revenge isn't just about violence," he tells me one night, his eyes glinting in the lamplight. "It's about reclaiming what was taken from you. Your power. Your autonomy. Your future."

I absorb his words like a sponge, letting them fill the hollow spaces inside me. With each passing day, my resolve hardens. I will not be defined by what was done to me. I will rise, and I will make them pay.

It's on a quiet evening, as Jaz changes my bandages, that the final pieces click into place. The scent of antiseptic hangs in the air, sharp and clinical. His fingers brush against my skin, and suddenly, I'm there again. The bonfire. The trees. The laughter that turned to screams.

"I remember," I whisper, my voice hoarse with the weight of revelation. "I remember their faces.”

Jaz's hands still, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "Tell me, little fighter," he urges softly.

The words spill out of me like blood from a wound, each memory a fresh cut on my psyche. "The bonfire... it was a party, a bunch of us from the same college. I can see the flames dancing, hear the music pulsing. My red cup... the drink tasted off, but I ignored it. Everything went fuzzy after that."

Jaz nods, his jaw clenched tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he listens. His fingers resume their ministrations, gentle yet grounding.

"There were three of them," I whisper, my voice cracking. "They... they followed me when I stumbled away from the party. Into the trees."

I trail off, choking on the words. Jaz's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "You're safe now," he reminds me. "Keep going. Let it out."

Drawing strength from his touch, I press on. "They took turns. I could smell the ocean nearby, hear the waves crashing. But no one heard me. No one came." Tears stream down my face, hot and bitter. "When they were done, they beat me. Fists and feet and cruel laughter. Then... nothing. Just darkness."

Silence falls between us, heavy with shared understanding. Jaz's thumb traces soothing circles on the back of my hand. "I found you there in the morning. You survived," he says finally, his voice thick with emotion. "You're stronger than they could ever imagine, little fighter. And so damn brave."

I nod, a shaky breath escaping my lips. "They were in some of my classes," I whisper, the words tasting like ash on my tongue.

Jaz's eyes widen, a spark of dangerous interest igniting in their depths. "You know their names?" he asks, his voice low and urgent.

I close my eyes, letting the memories wash over me. The lecture hall comes into focus, its tiered seats filled with faceless students. But three faces stand out with cruel clarity, etched into my mind like a brand.

"Yes," I breathe, my voice barely audible. "I know their names."

The room seems to shrink around us, the air growing thick and heavy. Outside, the wind picks up, whistling through thetrees and rattling the windowpane. It's as if nature itself is responding to the tension building between us.

Jaz leans in closer, his presence both comforting and intimidating. The scent of him—sandalwood and something darker, more primal—envelops me. His breath is warm against my cheek as he speaks. "Tell me, little Bee. Give me their names."

I open my eyes, meeting his intense gaze. The world narrows to just us two, everything else fading into insignificance. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a war drum urging me forward.

"Tyler Matheson," I say, the name like poison on my lips. "He sat two rows behind me in Psych 101. Always cracking jokes, acting like the class clown."

Jaz nods, his expression hardening. "Go on," he encourages softly.

"Marcus Delgado," I continue, my voice growing stronger. "We shared a Creative Writing seminar. He... he used to compliment my stories. Said I had a way with words."

A bitter laugh escapes me, the irony of it all threatening to choke me. Jaz's hand finds mine, his grip firm and grounding.

"And the third?" he prompts gently.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "Ethan Reeves," I spit out, hatred coursing through me. "Captain of the lacrosse team. We had Calculus together. He was always surrounded by his adoring fans."

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