Page 22 of Terror Tuesday
It’s another Sunday night, Greek Life meeting night, where she’s downstairs, oblivious. Her room is messy, the aftermathof her hurried change from perfect student to pristine sorority president. On the floor is a pile of clothing, including a lacy thong. Not black, like the one she had on the night before. This one is delicate and innocent. Must’ve gone under the structured suit I saw her wearing to the president’s house.
I pick them up and hold them to my face, inhaling long and deep. It’s better than any fuckingweedApollo smokes. Certainly more potent than pills. This drug has lingered in my system for three years. Since I first saw her. But I could never have her.
Until now.
I paid my dues. Bided my time for that fuck she’s been with to disappear until I couldn’t stand it any longer. So now, I’mmakingmoves.
Including unzipping my jeans and shoving the fabric over my heated dick, stroking myself with a vise-like grip. I imagine what her pussy must feel like. How tight and wet it must be. Her expression of resistance giving way to acceptance as I plunge inside, then her shock and horror at realizing my come is buried close to her womb.
Fresh panties fill her drawers, and I snag the top pair while continuing to cushion my cock with the dirty one. A picture of her on her mirror from a Red Night event last year peers back at me. Seductive eyes. Skimpy dress barely covering her thick ass. Breasts so huge I could survive off just sucking on them.
It makes me come so violently, I almost lose my footing. But I aim directly for the crotch of her clean underwear. Coating it with everything I have. My love. My obsession. My hatred of the rules. My concern that she’ll never metamorphose. But my hope that she will.
When I’m finished, I fold the panties carefully, placing them back on top.
I can’t wait until she unknowingly carries my seed pressed to her most intimate places, my darkness seeping inside her, staking my claim.
seven
A therapist would tellme that I need more sleep. Typing furiously on a tablet, a physician would prescribe me a pill. My mom would brush the hair from my forehead and ask if I was getting enough sunshine. Dad would ask who he needed to kill to make me rest.
It’s nobody’s fault but mine.
Snapping awake, I rush through my Monday morning routine. Hopefully, none of the girls stop me, or else I’ll be late for class. With a toothbrush in my mouth, hopping on one foot to pull on a fresh pair of underwear, trying to save my soul, I push out the memories of what happened yesterday.
The acrid odor of him. A flap of his chin. Cracks in the corners of his mouth. The shudder down my spine, listening to his words…
I hurl the toothpaste from my mouth, then spend time doing my makeup and skincare. It’s important. Despite the hurry, IamOlivia Cardell. President ofOmega.
It was always expected of me, part of the path I chose to chase the dreams they sold me. Become the president of a top-tiersorority. Win the right internships. Gain acceptance into grad school. Rise like a phoenix into politics.
No one warned me about how many favors I’d owe. How much of my soul I’d have to sacrifice to get what I thought I wanted.Maybe that’s why I like it. The pressure and power. Thepain.
It drowns out the memories. Gives me something to control. Something to polish until it shines.
Because if I stay busy, focus my energy on being perfect, I don’t have to remember who I really am. It’s enough to keep the shame from forming ashes in my mouth.
As I move around to get dressed, something feelsoff. A weird texture…like the fabric has already been worn. There’s a scratchy spot near the elastic on my panties that I swear wasn’t there before. I shift. It clings. The itch arises, crawling toward a place I don’t want to think about.
I glance down at the pile of laundry I shoved into my drawer last night. I’d washed it, right?Right? A chill whispers across my skin.
Don’t be ridiculous.
No time to change now…
With one last glance in the mirror, I note that I look like a girl who’s been through hell andstillhas to strut into class like my mascara isn’t hiding a murder. From my eyes rises a different smile, like that of one whoknows.
As soon as I fling open my door, snagging my Valentino bag, I halt. Sora stands in front of me, tapping a fingernail on her bicep, her arms crossed. “You didn’t find me at four yesterday.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Sora. After class, I swear. I’m already late?—”
“Olivia!” Hailey’s bright blond hair flashes as she runs up the marble staircase to meet us, as I push past some girls with a hurried good morning. “I wanted to tell you that Josh finallyasked me out! You were right. He was just worried about that mole on his face!”
I have no recollection of a conversation about a Josh, but I nod appreciatively. “I wish you and Josh all the happiness in the world!”
“Olivia, are you free for an interview for the newspaper on—” Anaya catches me just before I can get out the door, Sora still hot on my heels.
“At the end of the week, Anaya! Text me a time you want to sit down and,of course, I’ll help you!”
