Page 58 of Dark Ink

Her footsteps retreated quickly. Each one filled me with anger. With frustration. With fear. I’d become obsessed with her, my little Raglan Road girl. And I couldn’t have her. Couldn’t get my hands around her. Couldn’t get her inside of me.

The student, a girl, freckles, eager eyes, poked her head back inside.

“Professor Merrick,” she said as if I was listening, “you’re here.”

But I wasn’t. I was with Eithne in the rain.

I was still haunting her. She might have walked away but…

I would never ever let her go.

Eithne

The rain was loud against my umbrella, but it couldn’t quite drown out the noise of my thoughts, as relentless as the stream of cars that kicked up muddy waves onto the sidewalk, battering me like the wind that buckled my umbrella.

I could have stayed. I could have met that girl’s shocked gaze and kept it as I flicked the tip of my tongue across Rian’s lower lip. I could have drawn Rian closer instead of pushing him away.

I fought against these thoughts. They flooded in like the tide, drowning me and there was no help in sight. My only salvation was Rian. But I’d turned away from him once more.

My status at the college was more important. My graduating was not a luxury, but an absolute necessity. I had responsibilities, I had bills, I had Stewart.

These were the thoughts I grappled for like a lifeline in the choppy waves. But they slipped through my fingers every time I brushed against them. These thoughts were no longer the sturdy, reliable safehold they once were. Rian had eroded the rock as effectively as time itself. I was losing control. Control over my actions. Over what I thought I once believed, over what I thought was important. Control over myself.

I climbed the stairs to my new apartment. What was Rian doing? Was he still thinking of me? Did he regret letting me leave? Had I pushed him too far away this time? Had he decided that I just wasn’t worth it? The trouble. The effort. The instability.

As I pushed open the door, I considered calling him. Inviting him over. Continuing where we left over. Continuing what I shouldn’t have stopped. Continuing what I was increasingly wishing I hadn’t stopped.

But the idea of calling Rian fell from my head the very second I flipped on the lights. I don’t know what it says about me that my first thought was that the blood on the carpet wouldn’t come up easily. That I’d be scrubbing at it all night long. That yet again I would be not getting my security deposit, my hard-earned money, back because of my older brother.

I don’t think it says anything good considering that Stewart’s hands were bound behind his back, blood dripped from his busted cheek, and a man with crazed eyes sat perched on the back of the couch next to him with a baseball bat slapping in rhythm against his open palm.

“This must be the sister then,” the man said, grinning maniacally.

A black hoodie covered a shaved head. It was damp from the rain so it clung to the shape of his skull.

“The sister who would surely answer the phone. The sister who always answered,” the man continued, smacking Stewart’s cheek with the baseball bat, making him wince. “The sister who had to answer, just had to answer if you let me call one more time, Nick. Just one more time. Just one more time!”

I let out an involuntary scream as the intruder, Nick it seemed, brought the bat down on Stewart’s knee with a sickening crunch of bone. I tried to run to my brother’s side, but Nick stopped me with the bat pointed at my chest. He clicked his tongue as he wagged it back and forth.

“Don’t hurt him,” I said, voice little more than a pathetic squeak.

I heard the words, my words, but it was as if my ears were stuffed with cotton. They sounded muted. Distant. Unreal. It didn’t sound like anything I would ever say. “Don’t hurt him.” Too much like a nightmare. Too much like something that happened in the movies. Too ridiculous.

But it was all I knew to do. Because I hadn’t done what I was supposed to do, what I should have done: pick up the phone. Call Stewart back. Be there for my brother.

I saw it all before me as I stood there in the harsh glare of the yellow bulb (I hadn’t even bought a lampshade yet. There was already blood on the couch, on the floor, and I hadn’t even bought a lampshade yet). I saw Stewart’s fingers fumbling over the numbers as he tried dialling again. I saw him hunched over as the rings continued uninterrupted, his bony spine already preparing for the impact of this stranger’s bat. I even heard his whimper of despair as my pre-recorded voice announced that I was unable to come to the phone. That I was too busy obsessing over my professor. That I had better things to do like trace my fingers over the place where my knees, straddled across Rian’s naked groin, had smeared the paint across the canvas. That I had seen Stewart’s call and ignored it, because I wanted to see Rian again. Run my tongue along his lips again. Take his cock inside of me right there in his office.

Guilt flooded through me as I imagined Stewart not understanding why I wasn’t answering, why I chose this very moment to abandon him. Not understanding that I chose bodily pleasures over familial bonds.

I couldn’t explain any of it. Not just because Nick was there with his baseball bat and dangerous flint in his black eyes. I hardly understood it myself. Who had I become? When had the decision become so easy: Rian over Stewart, my professor over my own brother, my pleasure over my responsibilities? I couldn’t explain it. Other than to say I was sorry. Other than to vow that I would never make the mistake again. Other than to whisper, whimper, beg, “Don’t hurt him.”

A voice laughed inside my head. Maybe it was my father’s. Maybe it was Stewart’s. Maybe a chuckle or two was already there, behind the saliva-soaked gag tugging back the corners of his lips. You’ve already hurt him, can’t you see? The damage is already done.

“Stewart,” I tried to say, reaching out, fingers grasping at air. “Stewart, I—”

I would have preferred to see anger in his pain-hazed eyes. He had a right to be angry. To be upset. I’d failed him. I’d promised to be there for him, like he’d been there for me when our father had been cruel. I’d failed. Anger would be right. I could take anger. But it wasn’t anger. It was fear. Terror. A man lost at sea. A boy who couldn’t find his way home.

My heart broke and yet I still couldn’t run to him, still couldn’t wrap my arms around him, nurse him, comfort him, love him. The end of a baseball bat pressed harder against my ribcage. A pair of pupils narrowed at the other side. My skin crawled. He was smiling. Corners creased in merriment. Almost fucking twinkling with delight.

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