Page 15 of Deafened By Silence
My boots graze on rockier terrain which makes finding my footing almost impossible. The hands on me are all that keep me upright, and I don’t make their job easy. Dragging my weight down, they’re forced to drag me the rest of the way. I may not be a good prisoner, but I sure am a passive-aggressive one.
Before long, I’m thrown forward and fall heavily to the ground, my left shoulder taking most of the impact. I groan at the pain, only sparing a moment before scrambling back and shoving the sack from my head. Frigid air slices through my throat as I gulp down ragged breaths, blinking hard to clear my vision.
Shapes moving around me blur into one. Patches of orange flicker in the wind, bouncing against a sea of hooded silhouettesholding the flame-lit torches in their hands. Barren trees stretch overhead in a network of branches trying to block out the hint of the moon and cage me inside. The ground is damp beneath my fingers, an underlying scent of disturbed soil speaking of a recent downpour I must have missed whilst studying.
At my feet, a figure looms over me. Beneath the hood, which is pitch black like its adjoining robes, sits the full-face mask of a mutilated pig. It’s horrific, converted into a scowl with evil eyes and blood dripping from its silicone ears and nostrils. I’m disturbed by it, but I don’t recoil in the way that I’m sure is intended.
Suddenly, a shape lunges from the corner of my vision. This time, at long last to those watching, I scream. There’s nothing fake about the animal snarling and huffing inches from my face. Saliva coated teeth and a thick silver chain glint in the faint light, a hog as big as a wolf jolting with silent grunts. At the end of the chain, another masked man stands, not making much effort to control his beast.
Every instinct screams at me to move, to run, todo something, but I’m rooted to the soaked earth, limbs locked by a creeping dread I’ve only felt once before in my life. The figure before me, still as death in his dark robe, reaches inside the folds of fabric with deliberate slowness. My breath catches. His gloved fingers pull out a single sheet of paper and unfold it with care, like he has all the time in the world. One word is printed in bold, black ink across the center.
RUN.
Dropping the sheet, it flutters gently to the ground in an oddly graceful motion, despite the tension rippling beneath my skin. My tormentor watches it land at my feet before holding up ten fingers to start a countdown. By the time I realize I’m still cemented in place, paralyzed by shock, he’s already on eight.
Panic spikes through me like electricity, and I shove myself upright, boots slipping slightly in the wet earth as I dart into the darkness of the woods. I didn’t pause to think, otherwise I may have stood my ground and refused to participate in this idiocy. Instead, I’m stuck in the world of silence that I usually prefer, that often soothes me. But now, I’m disoriented by it. I don’t know if the countdown has finished, if the hog has been released, if someone orsomethingis right behind me. So I just keep running.
My boots land heavily with every pounding step, my heart ready to explode. Thick tree trunks jump out from nowhere, several taking the brunt of my weight as I rebound from one to the next. The mud tries to slow me down and branches claw at my hair, my only glimpse of light hanging uselessly overhead.
When my lungs are burning, fire licking up my sides, and a stitch clenches like a vice in my abdomen, I hurl myself over a fallen log and crouch behind it, panting. Hiding feels just as hopeless as running when I know my labored breaths and the sobs I can’t hold back any longer will give me away.
Is this a game? Would they really let a crazed animal maul me just for a sick laugh?
Peering over the log, everything is as still as it is dark, but that doesn’t mean they’re not out there. Watching. Waiting. I tuck back into a tight ball out of sight, rubbing my side to work out the cramp. A shiver races down my spine from the plummeting temperature. If the frenzied hog doesn’t get me, the luring caress of winter sure will. I need to find my way back to campus, find a professor or better yet, the Dean. How would the board feel if they knew their precious heir was delivering threats by day and hazing students by night?
Flexing my fingers, I hop up and start to run again. The short stop has cost me vital body warmth as I stumble onwards, using my hands to feel for wooden barricades blocking my way. I’mforced to slow, winding my way through the maze of the forest while pointlessly looking back. If I haven’t been caught by now, surely no one is coming after all?
A body collides with mine in the next instant, all the air in my lungs forced out as my chest slams into a trunk. Colors burst behind my eyes, my temple slamming into the bark, heat flooding to a graze scraping across my cheek as I’m held in place. Pinned in place by a body at my back, I shout for someone to help me. Someone.Anyone. I scream until my voice feels raw, the silence in my head echoing.
An arm snakes around my upper arms and yanks backwards, arching my back. The pig’s mask brushes my cheek, nudging my hair aside with their silicone nose. Heated breath huffs out of the nostril holes and fills my ear. My stomach flips. Not today, asshole. Bucking violently, I manage to jolt my captor off balance. It’s easier than I expected, which somehow makes it worse. Like hewantsme to fight. Then,crack.
A sharp sting explodes across my thigh. I scream from pain this time, the sting bursting like fireworks beneath my skin. My hand flies to the spot, blood instantly rushing to my throbbing thigh. In the slight shine from the moon, the object is brought up to my face, sturdy yet smooth leather being dragged across my cheek. A paddle.
Pushing me forward again, grinding his hips against my ass, I don’t have to fake the retch from an uninvited erection pressing against me, which earns a second whack of the paddle on my still sore thigh. On what I’m sure sounds like a banshee’s battle cry, I throw myself backwards and put all of my energy into elbowing my way free. Pure adrenaline fuels me to land blows wherever I can and bolt the second I have enough freedom to make my escape.
This time, I don’t attempt to be cautious, blindly running into trees and falling over shrubs, but never stopping. My feet fallinto several holes, raised roots trying to hold me back as I’m in full fight or flight mode. With every panted breath and panicked step further away from campus, the surer I become that I’ll never find my way back.
I slam into another obstacle, becoming accustomed to the pain blossoming across my front, but this one isn’t like the unforgiving trees. Warmth pushes back against me, hands grabbing my hips and throwing me upwards. I squeal, my flailing hands connecting with a branch, which I cling to with all my might. Pulling myself up, I attach myself to the thick branch in desperation to escape this horrendous night. The wood beneath me bows as whoever threw me up here also climbs up and nudges me over. Once we’ve shifted into a dip where the trunk meets the branch, I’m lifted into a lap in one easy move.
I struggle at first, shoving against him until the smooth material of his t-shirt gives me pause. A strong, musky smell fills my senses, a solid chest beneath my fingers rising and falling evenly. The darkness of the night is all-consuming, my eyesight failing me even this close.
Using my palms, I feel the outline of his shape, from broad shoulders to huge biceps. Trailing my fingers upwards, he allows me to explore the strength of his jawline and the stubble coating it. No robes, no mask. Not one of the assholes trying to scare the shit out of me and strike me with a paddle.
“Who are you?” I whisper shakily. With the gentlest touch, he pulls my hand from his face and holds it palm up with the utmost care. Using a finger from his other hand, he slowly writes letters upon my palm one by one. C-L-A-Y-T-O-N.
A rush of relief floods me, tears instantly prickling behind my eyes. Clayton is here. He came for me.
Closing my hand as if I can somehow capture the soft tingling he’s left there, I press it to my chest and lean into his warmth without hesitation. My body begins to tremble, as much from thecold as from the creeping spill of fear that continues to seep into my bones. Clayton winds his arms around me, pulling me close, holding me steady as the first tear slips free.
Squeezing my eyes shut, the image of that pig-faced figure waits for me behind my lids, grotesque and grinning. A sob bursts from my throat as I fist Clayton’s shirt in my grip, clinging to him as though the world might fall apart if I let go. The weight of what has just happened crashes over me with brutal clarity, the realization of how far it could have gone slamming into my chest. I can’t breathe, I can’t think. I can only hold on, shivering and aching in ways I don’t yet have words for.
This was supposed to be my new beginning. The chance to make something of myself, to leave a mark on the world. Rhys Waversea has stolen that from me. He’s playing a game in which no one knows the rules, making decisions based on a whim and a wounded ego.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, but Clayton doesn’t shift away. He doesn’t try to communicate any further, just waits with a kindness I’ve come to realize is rare around here. I’ve soaked through his shirt, stolen every bit of warmth from his body, but he doesn’t pull back.
In the thick blackness of tonight, I allow myself this one moment where I don’t have to pretend I’m strong. I don’t have to be composed. I don’t have to carry it alone. I hate the way vulnerability feels like a bruise, but right now, I need it. I need him. I don’t know where he came from or how he found me, but for once, I don’t care.
Shifting slightly, my side still leaning against his front, my fingers brush against the firm plane of his abdomen. The contact is accidental, but I don’t pull away. Instead, shielded by darkness and fueled by the flicker of recklessness rising in my chest, I trace the hard lines of his abs and the subtle divide between his chest muscles. He doesn’t stop me. He lets me touch, lets meexplore, my hand drifting upward with a boldness I shouldn’t feel after everything I’ve experienced tonight. Or perhaps I feel this way in spite of it. A huge middle finger to Rhys that proves I can’t be broken so easily.
