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“I have a message for your traitor mother.” He slips his jacket off and then the rest of his clothes follow suit. My stomach sours when he gets on top of me. His heavy body crushing mine to the floor. He strokes my hair. “You look almost like her, but then you also look like him.” He yanks my hair and I cry out. He shoves his knee between my legs and…
A scream rips out through me out. My chest is heavy as I choke back a sob that crawls up my throat. It feels thorny, like I’m swallowing pins and needles. Doctor Shackler is standing over me, his eyes sad. “It’s okay, Jasmine,” he says calmly.
“Why can I say it but not see it!” I scream, squeezing the skin on my arms as my nails bite into it. “My uncle raped me. Left me in a ditch with a message for my mom. Why can I say that but not see it?” I am frantic now. “Why?” I lightly sob.
I know rationally I should thank my mind for blocking out the memory. I know the emotions remembering what I do evokes in me. Know that what happened was wrong, sinister, but I want to know. To remember every fine detail to… I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m scared of the unknown. Or maybe I like the feel of pain, like to roll in it as if it’s a summer day in a field of flowers. No one knows why our brains work the way they do. They just… do.
“The mind is tricky, Jasmine. It has the power to protect itself in these situations.”
I push up off the couch, storming out. I make my way to my car and don’t stop until I’m at home. Which is empty because my parents are out of town for work for a month. My dad says Eliza would see that I’m taken care of, but I don’t want to be around her son.
Her evil, nasty son.
God, I hate Easton McKnight.
Slamming my door to my car, I storm into my house. If they knew, they would have never left, but I never told them. I got on my plane and ran off to Africa to see Shawn. The guy I gave my virginity to the first time I went to Africa. Shawn, the guy I cried over when I said our last goodbye this time. Shawn, the guy I’d always love.
Throwing on a tank top and spandex shorts, I make my way across the street. Why Dad didn’t put a home gym in our house, I’ll never know. I knock on the door and Vincent swings it open. “Hi.” I give him a tight smile and he looks me over with concern. “May I use your gym?” He scratches his chin, nodding and letting me pass by.
Since the event, I’ve been working with Justin, the heirs’ personal trainer. I’m not a pro like everyone else, but I am getting better. I put my AirPods in and “The Red” By Chevelle plays as I swing and hit the punching bag. I put in all my anger on the poor bag that did nothing to me. I register that I'm screaming, I feel the wetness on my cheeks, but I don’t care as I lay blow after blow.
Strong arms grab around my chest. I try fighting back but I’m not strong enough. The strong body sets us on the mat as his legs go around my waist. My body is shaking as I sob. When I look into the floor-to-ceiling mirror lining the walls of the gym, I see Easton. His body wrapped around mine. His eyes meet mine and there’s a hint of concern there. His grip loosens, not letting me go completely. I sag into his chest and rip my AirPods out, wiping the tears away.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
He doesn’t say anything, just holds me. Finally, I find my strength and gather myself up, untangling my body from his warm embrace. I grab my AirPods and make my way to the exit.
I’m almost there when Easton tugs on my hand. “Wait,” he whispers. I turn around to face him. He looks as if he’s battling with himself before he sighs. “What’s wrong?” he asks gently.
“Nothing, just hormones.” I jerk my hand out of his grip and make my way upstairs.
“Oh, good. You’re already here. Dinner is almost ready.” Eliza smiles at me, planting a kiss to my head. Eliza and my dad have this crazy friendship. She’s actually my godmother. If anything happens to my parents, I’m her problem. Eliza tries not to show favoritism, but Nixon and I are her favorites. I have memories of having a girls’ day with her. My mom, she’s not a great mom. She was too traumatized to deal with me or something. But Eliza, well, she loves me. I smile at her. “I’m going to go change clothes and I’ll be back.” I throw my thumb over my shoulder.
When I turn, my smile instantly drops as I make my way over to my house.
My empty house.
I’m not even hungry.
* * *
Sometimes the cuts are small, barely noticeable. Sometimes the cuts are thick, tear-shaped drops of blood pooling to the surface before they gush over my pale skin. Staining it red.Sometimes the sting of the knife isn’t enough. Sometimes I need heat. I take the lighter and heat a safety pin until the gray metal is red. Then I press the pin to my skin until it sinks in. I even like to leave the burn marks over the cuts in a design. I am an artist, you know. The metal sizzles into my skin, the tiny spark reaching my brain, firing off endorphins. The inside of my leg carries many scars. Inside and outside. Old scars, angry scars, pink and white scars. New cuts and welting bubbles.
Abstract art, just like my paintings.
The brain is funny. Sometimes, I’m completely immersed in my self-mutilation, other times, I zone out. The damage is done before I register it. I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to be here either.
I grab a pair of sweatpants, not bothering to wipe the crusted blood from my legs. It is highly unlikely, but I don’t want anyone to see. To know that Jasmine, the girl with the rich family, top of her class, the future heir of this town, is anything but perfect.
EASTON
I watch Jasmine as she pushes around food on her plate. Not actually taking any bites. She hasn’t spoken or looked up once. I chew my steak rather aggressively. When I saw her have a breakdown in the gym earlier, I didn’t know what to do. She was screaming and crying. Throwing hard-as-fuck punches. I figured restraining her was best. I didn’t mean to comfort her. I didn’t want to like the way it felt to hold her body against mine. Or how I calmed her.
“I’m done.” I place my fork down and my parents look at me.
“School starts tomorrow so get some rest tonight. No video games past one.” My dad thinks he’s strict—he’s not. I salute him. Place a kiss to my mom's head, and walk up the stairs.
I light a joint, starting up my Xbox. Staring at my phone, I send out a mass message with a very dirty picture attached, to the whole school. I smile victoriously as I feel my evilness warm my blood.
