Page 46 of Hawke

Emery slipped back outside and I could tell how upset I was. This had Hawke written all over it. My eyes watered with angry tears, making it hard for me to see through them. All the man did was embarrass me, but this time he’d gone too far. I had jumped through his every hoop and played all the games, but I was growing tired of it.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” Emery asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied. When my bestie looked at me in question, I let out a huff. “Hawke did this and he’s not getting away with it.” I stepped past my friend and walked back over to Manny. “I need to see Hawke right now.”

“He’s not in tonight, ma’am,” he replied.

Glaring, I then shook my head. “Of course he’s not.” I walked back over to Emery. “Go inside. I’m going to find this asshole and make him pay for this. I’ll be back soon.”

Emery hadn’t wanted to leave me and I understood why. I also knew I’d been a downer lately around everyone, especially my bestie, who deserved to have some fun of her own. After convincing her to do that, I stepped over to a secluded area and arranged for an Uber. I would go see Hawke at his hotel and if he wasn’t there, I’d turn Denver upside down until I found him. I would make him choose between these silly games or me, and if he chose to play, I wouldn’t let him be until he reinstated my membership.

I glanced down at my app and saw my driver was in the area. I managed to tamp down my anger and frustration because I didn’t want to subject my poor cab driver to it. When I found Hawke, however, all bets were off. I would give him a piece of my mind, then return back to Syn where I could have a good time alongside my bestie.

I saw the driver was less than a minute away, so I dropped my cellphone into the jewel encased clutch , then stepped out onto the sidewalk so he’d see me. Less than two minutes later, I was in the backseat rattling off the name of the hotel where Hawke was staying.

31 – HAWKE

Iwas far too restless for my own good and had been that way for days. I needed to calm myself down but so far I hadn’t been able to find a way to do so. The center I desperately sought was close enough to see, but too far away to grab. It reminded me of death. How many years had I spent wishing for the blissful peace that’d accompany it only to be doused with the bitter reality that I was meant to endure this life and all the pain it included?

Even after George and Florence had been arrested and thrown into jail, I had been too fucked up to live a normal life. The years of abuse had taken their toll on me. That much had been evident long before I ever arrived at the first foster home. Having made myself numb to everything around me during the time with Eleanor and my other tormentors, I had gone through each day in some sort of haze. Darkness provided the only comfort in my bleak life, my nightmares only beginning during the times I was thrust into the light.

By the time I had been placed into the Johnsons’ care, I had been so fucked up, mentally and physically, that I would often sit in the dark, devoid of any contact or companionship. Different voices would invade my catatonic state, mostly those of the foster parents, but even they couldn’t reach me. They’d leave me alone with my thoughts, those so black it was still a miracle I hadn’t done myself in.

And that wasn’t for lack of trying. To this day, I still sometimes struggled with it. While I had blacked out during those times of abuse, my body hadn’t been in sync with my mind, or at least what was left of it at that point. Urges struck me, and I’d sit there with my cock in my hands, stroking it until it was nearly raw. I would feel absolutely nothing. There’d be no pleasure, satisfaction, and especially not the one thing I wanted more, relief.

“What the hell are you doing there, boy?”I’d been asked by Frank Johnson.

“I…”I’d tried to respond but honestly didn’t know what to say. My hand had dropped from my limp cock, and the same shame I’d feel each time I’d awaken from a drug induced stupor, filled me.

I had been hauled into a sex therapist’s office but even they couldn’t help me. Three years of torture couldn’t be erased through medicine or conversation. In fact, it’d only made things worse for me. The Johnsons were so concerned they’d done everything from taking doors off their hinges, switching rooms with me altogether, to finally admitting I was far too damaged for them to care for.

“He’s a danger to everyone else here,”Jennifer Johnson had told the CFS worker.

“I’m sure you understand that we have young children,”Frank had added.

I still remembered standing just outside the doorway listening to the three talk about me. Words such as“sexual deviant,” “liability,” “trouble,”all being thrown out in their conversation. It’d reminded me of the nights when I would lie on that godforsaken porch and listen to the buyers discuss how defective I was as if I wasn’t even lying there.

Their words, unlike their actions, had been harder to ignore. They’d repeat over and over in my head even when I had been alone in the hole, or as safe as someone like me could ever be. They’d fuck with my psyche and it was obvious now, they still did.

I let out a growl as my eyes traveled around my hotel suite. My life had changed, but those same demons still haunted me. It hadn’t mattered where I had gone in life since the day Florence’s place was raided, my past still followed me around, destroying any chance of a normal future for me.

“Normal,” I scoffed. What exactly did that mean?

Is it normal to be so emotionally detached from everyone and everything a dozen years later? Is it normal to still dream of a death that’s as unattainable as peace has always been?

For me, it was. I had accepted my lot, many years earlier. It started during those times of abuse, continuing when I fled from that doorway and tried swallowing a bottle of pills, and even much later.

Walking to the mirror, I looked at my chest. The ink that covered so much of me hid a terrible secret. Beneath those tattoos lay scars that proved to be much easier to cover up than the ones inside me. But it’d been the way I’d gotten them that still stayed with me all this time.

I ran my hand over one of the raised bumps. Like the overdose, my next attempt at death had also been thwarted, this time by a kid in the second foster home I’d been thrown into. When the Johnsons had let me go, CFS had placed me in another. The Grants had other problem children as the system had labeled me.

I’d closed myself off even more. I no longer even had the desire for a normal life. There was only one thing I wanted. Well, maybe two. I wanted to rid myself of the agony eating away inside me like a disease. Death, it’d take care of the first, and provide the escape I desperately sought. The Grants left nothing lying around that could aid me in that endeavor, but I eventually found something that would.

Crossing the room, I grabbed the sharp blade from atop the table and walked to the mirror. The first time I had cut myself, I had done it as punishment. No matter how hard I tried, I still couldn’t escape the dark sexual urges pulling me under. The first slice of the knife against my skin provided something I hadn’t felt in a long time, if ever. From such a young age, I’d lost all control over everything. With each nick from the blade, I had started taking mine back.

And I had become quite good at hiding it, too. I started to cut myself in places no one would notice. From my feet, upper thighs, and chest, it’d become addicting. And I knew how far to go, cutting myself just enough to feel the pain ooze from each wound, but not enough to end myself. I’d prayed for the latter, but as I started taking back control of my life, the foolish idea of actually having some sort of future had entered my mind.

Eventually, however, that hope seemed to dissipate. As I spiraled even more out of control, I realized I held all the power in my hand. The self-held tool that’d initially just helped me deal with the pain had quickly become the one that’d help me accomplish my ultimate goal.

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