Page 43 of Ethereally Tainted

“Stalking me now, are we?” I mutter under my breath, trying to ignore the way the rain makes his eyes look so miserable yet so tangible.

He huffs in amusement at my words, and I feel the tension in my arms as I cross them in anticipation of his response. I can still vividly remember the first time we met all those weeks ago, the memory of it is like a persistent alarm that rings in my head, jolting me awake every morning. Then, as now, he erupted with laughter at something I said, as if it were the most hilarious thing he’d ever heard. Maybe that’s it. The poor thing has been stuck here longer than I have.

Six weeks here, and still nothing to get me out of this place. I know I have to keep going, I cannot give up now, I need to feel freedom in my touch. However, I also know I cannot make hasty decisions. I need to play it smart, plan my escape well, and then figure out what the hell I am supposed to do once I have escaped.

There is nothing left for me out there, and while some victims would deem it safer to stay here, where they actually have a roof over their heads, I certainly do not feel that way. I exchanged one prison for another, and I am determined to be released, even if I have to claw my way out like a wild tiger.

“Nah, it’s my time outside too,” he offers me a smile, one that feels genuine, but at the same time not. As if the smile has double motives.

His captivating scent lingers in the air, encompassing me in an intoxicating cocoon of deep floral notes, spicy aromas, and a musky, earthy scent of damp woods, making my knees weak before I regain my composure.

I need to get away from him, to make sure he understands that we can never be more than strangers. To protect myself from potential heartache, I choose to keep people at arm’s length, avoiding any kind of meaningful relationship as they never work out in the end. Just look at what happened to Everlee and how I lost her. Friendship is a weakness, something that can hit you straight in the heart like a shotgun and bring you down to your bare knees, only to make it nearly impossible to rise again.

The rain comes down in torrents, drowning out all other sounds. My hair is plastered on my face because of the rain, my clothes are completely soaked, and the cold causes me to shiver uncontrollably. Without uttering a single word, I stand up from the bench I was sitting on and head through the vaulted ceiling opening when I sense resistance. Glancing back, I notice that the guy’s much larger hand firmly grasps my wrist, its veins protruding and glistening in the rain. My throat tightens as I attempt to ignore the way my thighs involuntarily clench in response to the sight of them, and I quickly pull my hand away.

“Don’t touch me.”

I spit in his direction with a contemptuous sneer, which only makes him laugh harder. I promise I see something smoldering in his sapphire blue eyes, like a rolling thundercloud ready to unleash its fury. To destroy everything in its path, destroyme.

He seems to have some sort of inner turmoil, but I can’t make sense of what he’s struggling with. Not that it matters in the first place. He grabs my hand again and holds it tight, barely acknowledging my attempts to leave. His gentle caress causes my entire body to shiver with delight, reminiscent of the second time I encountered him in the bathroom. At the time, he understood my state of mind without having to say anything, providing me with comfort and solace without knowing how much I was hurting.

I’m wearing a hoodie, but the wind still chills my skin, and the sensation of his hand on my wrist sends pleasant shivers up my arm and into my chest, calming something deep within. The urge to pull my hand away from his grip is so strong that it’s almost impossible not to do it, but at the same time, it’s like a subtle feeling inside of me prompting–no demanding–me not to do that. To let him feel me, to let me feel the touch of his skin, and it’s something I have never craved before.

When I look directly into his eyes, a wave of heat washes over my cheeks, and my lips part in surprise. The thought of being touched has always made me panic, yet why does this moment feel so safe? Soright?

As if wrestling with whether to let me go, his eyes focus on me with a tantalizing stare, his jaw tensed. Streams of rain pour down around us, causing trees to crinkle as water pools from their leaves. He stands with a commanding attitude, his frame taller than mine, and I can’t help but be captivated by his ravishing looks. Never would I have thought that someone could look soappetizingwhile being drenched in rainwater, feeling it sink into their skin and nourishing it. I shudder, shocked at my own train of thought as I work hard not to let my mind take over my actions. I cannot afford to get close to anyone, so whatever he’s trying to do, it’s not working.

Then, as if he senses my inner turmoil, his grip on my wrist gradually loosens, and my hand falls to my side. Instantly, I long for the soft touch of his fingertips on my skin.

His gaze is heavy with unspoken feelings as if he is searching for the right words. The tension between us hangs in the air like a fog as we stand in the rain, and it’s as if you could cut through it with the dullest blade. His eyes reveal more than what his words can express, allowing me to get a glimpse of his innermost thoughts and feelings. The look that passes between us is hot, full of potential promises that will never be fulfilled because I cannot let things move forward any farther than they already have.

Just as I am about to say something to him–not understanding where the courage comes from–he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving me utterly bewildered and shocked, with a heart hammering faster than ever and a craving settling deep in my bones.

Chapter 17

Grey

Rehabilitation.

One word.

A collective term used to describe all the torture they subject patients to. It is meant to be a source of healing in therapeutic contexts, providing the opportunity to recover mentally and cognitively.

Throughout my childhood, I underwent many stages of rehabilitation. None of which worked. All they do is torture the answers out of you, forcing you to re-live the past and tell the world about all your faults. Rehabilitation is designed to foster hope and optimism among patients. A belief that they will heal and be reborn, becoming these new and refreshed versions of themselves.

But with rehabilitation comes pain; they pin you down to a bed that feels like stone and jab multiple needles into your body, forcing you to succumb to their will. They say they do this to keep the monsters inside us from awakening and the darkness from engulfing us until there is no way to bring us back.

Don’t they know? I am the fucking monster. There is no hope for me.

My existence has been engulfed in this darkness that represents the fog and the obscurity of all that is selfish, wicked, and cloaked in the darkness of all that we do not want to see. There is only one big black hole where my heart should really be, but I can no longer feel it beating inside my chest, can no longer feel anything but this rage against everything and everyone who ever failed me.

They said it was my fault that I killed my parents. Don’t they understand that there are powers and dangers broader than a single child?

Sometimes I’d like to think I wasn’t born this way, that something fucked up my childhood because I never truly had one. At least that’s what that stupid psychologist–Alicia Lewis–says, but fuck her. She knows shit about me.

Then there are times when I’d like to think I was born this way and born to create a neutral line between the good and the bad. Straddling that fine line is much more exhilarating because nothing is definite in this world, only shades of gray. I consider the thought, but then I remember how ridiculous it is, and the thought is swiftly forgotten.

Right now, I’m standing in the shared community bathroom in front of the mirror, just staring at myself and my uncombed red-black hair with a strand that curls just above my eyes. With each passing day, the lifelessness in my eyes becomes more apparent. I can feel my life slipping away, petal by petal, like a rose in the winter cold. The less I’m out in the sun, the paler my skin becomes, while my muscles gain strength.

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