Page 28 of Creep
I fucking hate myself and I wanna die, but I don’t have the balls to do it. I have one reason and one reason alone for fighting this shit. Holley. I hate her so much for it too, and my anger gets the best of me from time to time, but I also know it’s not her fault. She never asked for this life, neither of us did. We got dealt a shitty ass hand and we’re doing our best with what we were given. Make lemonade out of the lemons life gives you and all that bullshit. But that’s exactly what it is—utter bullshit—because even if you are handed a shitty life, you make of it what you will. You can roll over and accept the beatings, or you can stand the fuck up and fight for your life. I know who I am. Yep, I’m the little bitch who rolls over, taking every beating and never fighting back. I’m a fucking coward.
Head against the shower wall, I drop the razor to my side and shift my legs until my knees are against my chest. I sit in that position until the water runs cold and shivers wrack my body.
* * *
I get dressed,leaving my wounds uncovered after cleaning them because the fabric of my clothes rubbing over them and my injured ass creates enough of a constant sting to keep me focused. I make my way to the kitchen, deliberately keeping my eyes peeled for Vincent, but I don’t see him anywhere. The house is eerily quiet.
As I step into the kitchen, I see a carafe of coffee still hot from being made recently. Smiling because I get to have some much needed coffee, I pull open numerous cupboard doors until I come across the one stocked with glasses and coffee mugs. I fill a mug, adding my usual two teaspoons of sugar and a splash of half and half I find in the fridge. I bring it to my lips and eagerly take a sip of the steaming beverage, burning my tongue in the process. I am a major coffee addict but I never got to drink it because it was a luxury we couldn’t afford.
As I drink my coffee while leaning against the counter, Vincent casually strolls into the room. Jeans grace his long legs and a tight black T-shirt stretches across his muscular chest. His hair is damp, indicating he recently showered.He looks utterly fuckable.I drag my eyes from my mug to his face and find him already staring at me.
“Mornin’, baby doll. Sleep well?” He winks before turning around and grabbing a mug. I ignore him as he moves about the kitchen, preparing himself a cup of coffee, adding half and half to his. Cup in hand, he takes a seat on the stool right next to where I’m standing.
Rolling my eyes, I ask him if I’m allowed to go home yet. But if I’m being honest, I don’t want to go home, but I also don’t want to be here. It's a catch twenty-two because either way I’m fucked.Literally.I cringe, my body physically shuddering and nausea rolling in the pit of my stomach. He keeps his eyes locked on me as he takes a drink. I follow the movement as he swallows, his throat bobbing before he sets his mug down. I clear my throat as an indication for him to answer, but of course he ignores me.
“Are you going to give me an answer?” The impulse to snap at him is immense, but I’m surprisingly able to fight it.
“Baby, you’re not going anywhere. You’re mine now, or did you forget that? Because I can give you a reminder if it’s needed.” He grins.
“No, I do not need any reminders. I just want to go home.” I turn away from him as I say it, my blatant lie apparent even to me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his brow quirk at what I said. “Do you really, though? Because I don’t think you do, little girl. As much as you loathe me, you loathe your parents more. You’d rather deal with me and this situation then go back to your pathetic excuse of a life. Tell me I’m wrong.”
My ability to fight the urge to talk back dwindles greatly as anger hits me like a punch in the gut.How fucking dare he say shit about my life being pathetic.Of course he’s not wrong, but it still doesn’t give him the right to talk about shit he knows nothing about.
Knowing I’m going to later regret the words I spew in anger, I can’t help myself—another brain to mouth malfunction.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. And besides, you don’t have the right to say shit about my life when you have taken me as a payoff for a debt. If anyone is pathetic, it’s you.”
One second I’m sitting on my stool, coffee mug in hand, and the next I’m flying to the floor, my mug crashing to the ground somewhere behind me. My skull bounces off the floor and all the breath leaves my lungs.
Disoriented, I groan and roll to my side, attempting to sit up, but his hand wraps around my throat, shoving me back down to the floor. As I try to take a breath, his hand increases in pressure, crushing my larynx beneath his palm.
“How. Many. Fucking. Times. Do I have to tell you to watch your fucking mouth with me?” Vincent snarls in my face, the tip of his nose grazing mine. His pupils are dilated in anger and because they are such a dark brown, they seem almost black.
My heart falters, fear instantly coating my skin in a sheen of sweat. His eyes in this moment remind me of someone else's eyes. Black, demon eyes which belong to Ben. Eyes which bring flashbacks of memories I don’t want to fucking own. Memories I wish I could light on fire and watch burn to nothing.
I lose myself to their power, getting sucked into the vortex of them. They fucking consume every part of me. My ears ring and my skin is icy cold to the touch and shivers wrack my body. I remember his hands crawling across my skin, making me feel dirty, disgusting. My heart squeezes in pain when I remember everything he has ever said to me, every threat he has ever made and vomit swirls in the pit of my stomach when I remember him shoving himself inside of me—utterly destroying every piece of me. My innocence, my blind faith in the stars, my hope for a new life, all gone in an instant.
I blink my eyes rapidly in a futile attempt to clear the haze which has come over me, but it’s useless. All I can see are the memories.So many fucking memories.
Knowing I’m about to vomit—which happens every time this does—I turn my head to the side right as the bile shoots up my throat and onto the floor beside me. I wretch until there is nothing left and then I continue to dry heave. I hold onto my stomach in an attempt to ease the pain and hope it stops soon, but it’s not likely. The vomiting has helped clear the fog surrounding me and I blink a few times as things come back to me. My ears stop ringing for the most part, but my heart continues to pound.
I lay slumped on the floor in utter, to the core, exhaustion. My face lies less than a foot away from the vomit, but I can’t bring myself to move, or to care for that matter. These episodes I have are always triggered by the littlest things and they leave me dazed and confused every single time.
I forget all about Vincent until I feel his hand on my back. Instant heat shoots through me, but the fear overrides every other feeling, and I jerk away while whimpering, thoughts of Ben’s hands on me still ripe in my mind.
“Hey, it’s just me, Vincent. What the hell happened to you?” he asks in what seems to be a sincere tone, but I have been fooled by manipulation far too many times in my life to let it trick me now.
“Nothing. I’m fine.” I manage to push myself off of the floor, wiping the back of my hand over my mouth to clear any leftover vomit on my lips.I’ll brush my teeth later, I have to clean up this mess first.I set about looking around the kitchen for the things I’ll need to clean up with. I find a mop with some cleaning solution and paper towels. I tuck the paper towels under my arm as I grab the garbage can and make my way over to the mess.
The smell is putrid, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust. I continue to ignore Vincent as I wipe up the bile, tossing the paper towels into the garbage as I go. With it cleaned up, I go to the sink and fill the mop bucket with the cleaning solution and hot water, setting it onto the floor. Dunking the mop in, I go about mopping the entire area, wanting to be certain I don’t miss a spot.
I fucking hate messes, they’re chaotic. My life has enough chaos and I don’t need more of it. Cleaning and organizing makes me feel better, more in control. I don't have control in, predominantly, every aspect of my life, so for things I have the ability to control, such as my pain and my ability to give it to myself, I need it. I thrive on it. It keeps me going and keeps me sane.
It also doesn’t help growing up, the house always seemed as if a tornado blew through it.Thank you tweaker parents.
I believe it’s where the beginning of it all started—way before the abuse did.
