Page 10 of Shattered In Darkness

The door opens, followed by quiet footsteps. Like a mouse. Her face comes into view, a smile plastered on her face. I can see how she is straining to hold the smile when all she wants to do is cower.

She must be ashamed to be my mother.

“Sorry. I just wanted to see how you’re adjusting.” She looks around my new room, still barren. “I see you haven’t unpacked yet.”

I exhale a sigh. “Give me a break, Mom. It’s been two days. I’ll unpack when I’m ready.”

She nods and takes a step back. Fucking coward. “Okay. We’re trying to take all the empty boxes to the dumpster on the same day. So, try to get it done by the end of the week.”

She does not bother to stick around and chat about anything else. The door shuts, and I’m left alone again.

“Annoying bitch,” I mutter angrily. I know I can be cruel some days, and heartless. My mother does not deserve that. My sister does not deserve it, neither does my dad. I know that.

But, some days, I feel so fucking cold.

No matter what I do, it never drifts. It sticks to me; it festers, and augments. I fear one day, I will become a black hole, and I will swallow everything around me. My meds help to regulate my anger and impulsiveness. Somewhat. But something is missing. I am waiting for the day when I find something that makes me feel alive and warm. Something that quiets the noise in my head and brings light into the dark.

A hopeless dream. I’m sinking. Screaming. Nobody hears me. Nobody reaches for me. The stars don’t twinkle, and most days I feel more dead than alive.

I stalk over to where I set up my gym equipment: a few dumbbells and a multi-functional weight bench for arms and legs. I work out regularly. Almost daily. It’s a good way for me to release my anger. I sit on the bench and I’m about to start working my arms when movement outside of the window catches my eye.

Scooting towards the edge, so that I’m not too obvious, I stare at the figure in the house across from me. My bedroom faces a bedroom in the house next to us. A girl catches my attention.

I typically never give women more than a second glance, but this girl, my eyes stay glued to her. She’s exotic. A beautiful creature. Hypnotic. I watch her movement, analyzing her features, and wondering what it would be like to touch her, to smell her, to hear her.

What the fuck is happening to me? I’ve never thought this way before.

She looks like she’s cleaning. Thank fuck. Sloppiness is not attractive to me. I need a clean, spotless space.

My eyes drag over her face and her hair that falls over her shoulders like soft silk. It’s a dark color, like a mixture of brown and black. I imagine it wrapped around my hands with my fist around her throat.

Fuck.

The image causes my dick to shift and twitch in my shorts. She’s perfect. I’ve seen plenty of pretty girls, but this girl? I need to be closer to her. I need to feel her. Just watching her perfectly round ass in those tiny shorts makes me envision things that are completely new to me.

I don’t like being touched; it feels foreign and wrong. But suddenly, I want to know what it is like. To be touched by a girl, to feel her hands wrapped around my cock. Stroking. Squeezing. I groan and rub myself over the fabric. Not enough. I need more.

She appears to be around my age, a teenager, maybe fifteen like me. Or my sister’s age, who is a year and a half younger than me. Maybe they will become friends. Maybe she will come over here for girly sleepovers. Maybe I can watch her undress or get close enough to feel her skin.

Fuck. I hope so. The urge to be near her is strong. It pulls me, like an inevitable gravity.

She has not noticed me yet, lost in her own world.

What is keeping you so distracted, my sweet Bambi?

Bambi. That’s what I shall call my mystery girl. It suits her. Her eyes. They are gorgeous. Wide and doe-like, yet slanted upwards. Like a doe. Or a siren.

She flits from dresser to window to floor, oblivious to my steady gaze. Her fingers graze glass and wood as if she’s coaxing dust motes into ballet, her movements all nervous intention and unconscious grace. Light etches itself along the bones of her arms. Her mouth twists in concentration as she folds a shirt, pink tongue caught between her teeth.

My pulse stutters.

There’s this sick, primal hunger in me. It gnashes at the inside of my ribcage, demanding to get closer, to burrow under her skin. I want to unspool her, cell by cell. I want to watch those wide eyes shatter. To see what happens when she finally sees me and realizes she can’t look away.

She kneels to smooth the bedspread, her hips arching perfectly, her hair spilling wild down her spine. With every second, the void in my chest contracts, singular and greedy. She’s a lifeline. A pulse in the deadness. My world distills to her silhouette framed by a neon-tinged dusk, and for the first time in my memory, I ache. I hunger for something outside of myself.

I’m rock hard now, dizzy with it. I palm myself again. Clumsy, frustrated, feral. My heart punches at the inside of my ribs, and it feels like both a curse and a gift, this visceral ache. Is this what everyone else feels? Is this what I’ve been missing?

She turns suddenly, and for half a second, our eyes meet. I go dead still. Predatory, poised. She freezes too, a flicker of surprise, maybe curiosity, etched across those uncanny eyes. There’s a charge threading between us. Unstable, electric.