Page 39 of Fragmented Illusions
My vision becomes obscured, and my breathing turns frantic, quickening my heart rate to an impossible level. All I feel is a constant searing pain in a place I never could have imagined I’d feel pain.
Somewhere deep in my consciousness, I am aware of where the pain is pinpointed, but I don’t know what he’s doing so I focus on the dark instead. The dark is the lesser of two evils right now.
Abruptly, something hot and wet traces the skin of my neck and it only takes a moment for me to register it’s a tongue. A tongue is trailing from right underneath my chin, moving down my neck before pulling away as quickly as it appeared.
My sudden enclosure of darkness makes sense. He would have had to take his mask off to do that and he wouldn’t want me to see his face.
I don’t even know what these two men look like.
They know everything about me, and I know nothing about them—except the fact they’re brothers, but that doesn’t exactly help me at all.
I don’t know if they go to the same school as me. If they even live in the same city. I don’t know a single detail of their features—only their voices, but again, not helpful.
As quickly as this whole fiasco of a night began, it’s over. Both of their hands leave me at the exact same moment and this time, I take advantage of it. I roll and fall from the bed, landing hard on the floor. I rip the fabric from my eyes as I back as far into the corner of my room as I can. They’re both standing near the back right corner of my bed, shoulder to shoulder.
Creepy has a knife flicking through his fingers, the quiet clanking of metal on metal ringing through the room but is otherwise quiet. And Silent is, well, silent. They both keep their gazes fixed in my direction. I may not be able to see their eyes, but I can feel them burning into me, nonetheless.
Creepy takes a step forward and I slam my eyes shut, protecting myself the only way I can. If I can’t see it, it’s not as bad. It’s never as bad if you can’t see what’s happening to you. Because in your head, you can go anywhere. You can get lost if you want to, and when you get lost, nothing else exists. Just you, trying to figure your way back out, but secretly hoping you never do.
“Sweet dreams, pretty girl,” a voice whispers across my skin, erecting gooseflesh across every bare inch of me.
Then they’re gone.
I don’t open my eyes to confirm, too frightened I’ll see I was wrong, but I know they left. The heaviness their presence brings has evaporated and I can pull oxygen into my lungs again.
A battered and bruised version of me stares back. I have splotches across my upper arms, my ribs, my outer thighs, and deep, blue-black circular bruises mar my inner thighs, but that’s not even the worst part. Not even close.
Carved into the flesh of my mons pubis is the letter S.
S.
What the fuck does S even mean?!
Wetness stains my cheeks and I angrily swipe my hands over them. Ripping my eyes away from my reflection, I spin around, my bare feet digging into the carpet. I curl my toes as I press the bandage to my now bare pubic bone, breathing through the pain. It’s still fucking bleeding and it’s been hours since they left. He cut deep enough through my small patch of pubic hair that I had to shave it off completely in order to clean the wound properly.
They covered my body in bruises, cut into my flesh, scarring me forever, and then left without a trace.
If it wasn’t for the overwhelming proof covering every inch of my skin, I’d be inclined to believe I imagined the whole fucking thing. That’s still what I want to believe because there is no fucking way it happened—but it did. Itvery muchdid.
Being assaulted and abused. Overpowered and useless.
I wish I could say I feel a sense of power at realizing this, but I don’t.
In fact, what I feel is so off-base, I know I’m still sick.
Mentally deranged, really. Because I’m not scared. I’m a little mad, but most of all, I’m intrigued.
Their dynamic screams intimacy. The way Silent held his brother’s throat… I must be remembering what happened incorrectly because it felt sexually energized. Intense, yet it seemed like he was taking care of him… being brotherly.
I shake my head, dispersing those thoughts. I’m letting myself—my mind—go haywire and I need to put a halt to it right now.
I pull on a pair of underwear, then grab my leggings off the edge of the bed and pull them up my legs, carefully maneuvering the waistband over my bandage. Next, I grab my sweater and pull it on. It hangs to the middle of my thighs since it’s oversized—which is the exact reason I chose to wear it today. Thankfully the winter weather is fast approaching and there’s a bite in the air, so my thick sweater won’t be out of the ordinary.
I throw on a pair of tennis shoes and turn back to glance at myself one last time. My hair falls down my back in my natural waves, the curling ends brushing the base of my spine. My eyes are free of any makeup except a coat of mascara, but I do have a full face done. Foundation, concealer, and some bronzer to bring some warmth to my pale face.
The makeup mostly hides my freckles, but a few deeper ones manage to peek through the multiple layers covering my face. But today it looks flawless—from me having spent four hours perfecting it. Although I’m exhausted from not sleeping because of my late night visitors, I feel rejuvenated.
I don’t know if it’s because of this newfound sense of purpose coursing through my veins, but I’m not going to overthink it. I swipe up my purse off my dresser and hang it over my shoulder as I leave my room, locking the door behind me.
