Terrible, horrible monsters.
* * *
I wake up gasping for air, clutching my blanket, my heart thrashing inside my chest, my lungs desperately seeking air as I hold my teddy bear tightly against me. It’s like I’m drowning and for a moment I actually think I’m buried beneath the water. It’s how I’ve woken up every morning for the last thirteen years. I used to breathe as loud as possible, but I’ve had to train myself to be quieter since I have a roommate now. As my eyes open to the sunlight, my breathing ragged, I quickly roll over and bury my face in the pillow, smothering the fear and panic out of me. I grip handfuls of blanket, reminding myself that I’m not drowning, that it just feels like it. That monsters don’t really exist. That it was just people. Really terrible people who did something really f**ked up and never got caught. Never had to pay. Just went on living, hiding their evil fangs and claws, while I was left to wander the world alone.
I breathe in and out until my face becomes hot and the scent of the fabric softener in the pillowcase overwhelms my nostrils, then I turn to the side, facing the wall, sliding the bear aside. I can sense that my roommate, Callie, is awake and I don’t want to see her looking at me. She’s got music playing on the stereo, some girl bellowing out lyrics to a poetic song. It’s not really my kind of music. I like the rougher kind that will drown out the thoughts inside my head and the emptiness in my heart. But the soft beat of this one is kind of soothing, I guess.
I lie there with my head on the pillow, staring at the wall, deciding if it’s worth moving today or not. My body feels like it’s been run over by a truck, like every single one of my limbs is dislocated and my organs have burst open. I’m fairly sure I’m okay, though, except for my ankle. Last night it was so swollen I could barely get it out of my boot. I landed very awkwardly when I jumped out the window and I’m pretty sure I felt something pop. There’s nothing I can do about it, though. I won’t go to the student health clinic and see a rent-a-doctor and I not going to go to a real doctor. I don’t have the money for that and I don’t want to get into debt more than I already am over tuition. I hate owing people things. It makes me dependent and dependency leads to getting hurt. It’s going to suck, though, when I have to go to my part-time job, waitressing at Moonlight Dining and Drinks.
After a while, Callie turns down the music and then I hear her moving around, rustling through papers, opening and closing drawers. Then it gets quiet.
“Violet,” she says and I tense. When we moved into the dorm, we kind of established without really talking about it, a no-talking-to-each-other-unless-necessary rule, so it’s weird she’s speaking to me. Plus I think she thinks I’m a prostitute or at least a slut because I created a rule that when I tie a red scarf onto the doorknob, she can’t come into the room. Really, I’m just dealing, but she doesn’t need to know that. It’s better if she just thinks I’m a slut, even if I’m still a virgin.
I remain motionless, even when I hear her walk up to the side of my bed, hoping she’ll give up and leave. It’s not like I hate her or anything. Callie actually bothers me less than most people, but that’s because she rarely talks. She never really asks me for anything, either, like privacy in the room, but sometimes I willingly give it to her because I don’t want to walk in on her again with her football player boyfriend. Those two like each other too much.
Finally she leaves and shuts the door behind her and I’m free to breathe as loud as I want to. I roll over to my side, wincing at the pain in my ankle. Damn it, it hurts, but I’ll live. It could have been a lot worse and I sort of wish that it had been. A little more dangerous, maybe landing closer to the fence instead of kicking that football player in the forehead. I wonder if his head’s okay. I did kick it kind of hard, but not on purpose. Usually when I kick a guy I have a good reason to, but this time he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe I was.
I check the clock over on the desk and realize it’s later than I thought. My chemistry class is going to start soon. I need to get up and moving. I carefully sit up in the bed, slowly as my muscles ache in protest. I’m still wearing the dress I had on last night because I was too tired when I got to my dorm to bother changing into my pajamas. The fabric reeks like cigarettes and booze, which usually happens whenever I go to a party. The stench of partying, no matter where it takes place, always seems to embed itself into my clothes and my pores. I need a shower, but I don’t have time.
I slide my foot over the bed and flinch at the tender throb in my ankle. It looks horrible, twice as swollen as it was last night and it’s starting to turn a light bluish purple. But I’m going to have to tough it out. Shutting my eyes, I push myself up, letting a little weight fall onto it. “Motherfucker,” I curse as the pain swells through my leg and I collapse down onto the bed. A few inhales and exhales and then I try again, but the pain is too unbearable. I’m trying not to lose it, but I can’t miss class. I want to accomplish something for once and that’s getting good grades and eventually doing something with my life other than wandering around, pushing my limits. I’ve managed to attend all of my classes this entire semester and it’s probably the longest amount of time I’ve spent in one place, besides Preston’s house. That’s an accomplishment for me and I’ve had few of those throughout my life, unless you can count the record number of times I got into fights or got passed around to foster homes.
Sucking up every amount of strength in me, I force myself to try again. Shifting my body upward, I straighten my legs and get my feet underneath me. I take gritted breaths as I steady myself through the pain and limp over to my closet. One foot in front of the other. I can do this.
I grab my boots, but then decide against wearing them and reach for the one pair of flip-flops that I own. I wiggle my uninjured foot into one and then bracing my hand on the door frame of the closet, I struggle to wiggle my injured foot into the other. Not only does it hurt like a bitch but my foot is too swollen to fit in it.
Giving up on the shoe, I collect my book from the desk and then put some deodorant on. I comb my fingers through my hair and twist it up in a bun on the back of my head. I’ve looked a lot worse than wearing a day old dress and one shoe before, like the time I traded my shirt for a can of food and a pocketknife during one of the brief times I lived out on the streets and had to walk around in this weird tube-top bra for a while.
I hobble over to the door and maneuver it open, relieved when I make it into the hallway. Now if I can just make it to the elevator then all will be golden. Putting all my weight on my good leg, I gradually move down the hall, ignoring the stares and whispers as I pass people, heading to the elevator. I internally celebrate when I make it onto the elevator and it takes me to the bottom floor.
After a lot of struggling and holding on to walls, I finally make it outside to the yard surrounding the McIntyre Building, the dorm where the University of Wyoming puts most of the freshmen. I check my watch dragging my foot across the sidewalk as I move toward the grass and realize that I’m going to be late. I try not to flip out and put more weight on my ankle so I can pick up the pace. I breathe through the pain, reminding myself that I’m as tough as nails. But then I step into a divot in the lawn and my ankle rolls awkwardly.
I trip to the side and drop my book. “Damn it!” I shout, bracing my hand on a nearby tree as the pain spreads up my leg.
People walking down the sidewalk stare at me like I’m a nut job and I’m briefly thrown back to Amelia’s garage, surrounded by Jennifer and her friends. I hate how I feel just from remembering it. The sharpness. The little self-worth. I’m not that person anymore. I’m strong, shielded, and unbreakable. Yet the memories get to me, force my shield to drop. I want to run to that one thing that helps me turn it off, box up my emotions and lock them silently away inside me. But I’d need to move in order to do so. Fuck.
“Knock it off, Violet,” I mutter to myself, my skin damp from exertion. “You’re letting stuff get to you. Suck it up.”
I push back from the tree but then immediately return my hand to it. Shaking my head more at myself than anything, I slump back against the tree. I’m frustrated. I’m not going to make it and panic claws at my throat as disappointment in myself seeps in. I need a way to fix this… make the violent flood of emotions go away. Now.
I search the grassy area beneath the trees looking for a distraction from what’s going on inside of me. There’s a group of guys across from me playing Frisbee. I could pick a fight with them, see if I could get them to actually hit a girl, but fighting is usually a last resort, because it causes very little adrenaline to surface anymore. Or I could pick a fight with that creeper over by the tree, taking pictures of me with his camera, the ginormous flash blinding me even from this distance.
I lean forward, squinting to get a better look at him. The last time someone was taking a picture of me like that was right after my parents died and every damn reporter in the country wanted to get a picture of the girl who survived the slaying of her parents. But it’s been ages since that happened and no one seems to care anymore.
The longer I stare at the guy, the more he backs away through the trees, clicking his camera repeatedly, and I start to drift forward, with a threatening look on my face.
“Well, you look like shit,” someone says from beside me and I stop. “I can see you didn’t take my advice and stay off that damn foot.”
Luke Price suddenly appears at my side in the shadow of the tree next to me. I’ve seen him around school and last night when I kicked him in the face, but I don’t really know him other than what I told him last night, plus the fact that he seems super intense. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with a small hole in the hem and his jeans have a small hole in them, too. He’s got cropped brown hair and intense brown eyes that automatically make me picture him as a fighter or boxer or something. But as far as I know he’s just a football player, another jock that’s probably walking in his father’s footsteps.
He reaches up to scratch the welt on his forehead from the impact of my boots and I notice he has a leather band on his wrist that has the word “redemption” on it. I wonder if it means anything to him. If he’s been saved from something?
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Stoically Aloof.” I aspire to sound disinterested but the soreness in my leg and my anxiety is straining my voice. I glance back over to where the guy with the camera was lurking but he is gone. Shaking my head, I turn back to Luke, forcing myself to be the normal, indifferent Violet that I strive to be. “God, you really know how to charm a girl.”
He eyes me with this illegible expression. “Who says I was trying to charm you?”
I’m not sure if he’s aiming to be a flirty douche or just a douche, but either way I’m done talking to him. I need to get myself calmed down anyway. I inhale and blow it out as I glide forward, but freeze as blinding pain radiates through my leg and I start to fall toward the ground.
“Shit.” Luke hurries forward with his arms out in front of him. “Let me help you.”
I stick out my hand as I stagger back against the tree. “I got it. I don’t need your help.”
He stares at me with condescending doubt. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“I just need a breather and I’ll be good to go,” I insist, portraying confidence on the outside that I lack on the inside. I’ve pretty much given up hope that I’m going to make it to class today and the anxiety is only escalating. The ideal thing for me to do now is to go back to the dorm and take care of the problem the only way I know how.
He crosses his arms, his lean muscles flexing, and presses his lips together, either to conceal his irritation or amusement—I honestly can’t tell from the intensity dripping off of him. “Where are you trying to go?”
“I’m not trying to go anywhere.” I press my palms flat against the rough tree bark. “I’m going to go to class.”
He crooks his eyebrow. “To chemistry?”
“Yeah,” I say. “The class you’re supposed to be at, too, I’m pretty sure.”
“Yeah, I’m running late.” He gives a fleeting glance at the sidewalk and then his gaze lands back on me. “And now I’m going to be even later thanks to you.”
“No one said you had to stop and talk to me.” I square my shoulders, preparing to march my way across the yard with my head held high, showing that I do have some dignity left in me, even though I know I’m not going to make it all the way. I can pretend though, at least until he leaves.
I make it five amazing, dignified steps before my knees give out on me. Then Luke steals all the dignity I have left as he rushes forward and catches me in his sturdy arms. Even though it would have hurt worse, I would have rather face-planted into the grass and injured myself, then let my pride be wounded like it is now.
“What are you doing?” My flip flop scrapes against the grass as I endeavor to get my feet back under me. “I said I got it.”
“Sorry, but you obviously don’t,” he replies simply, tucking his arms underneath mine he helps me to my feet.
I consider shoving him as one of his hands slides down my side and to my waist, but then I realize he’s doing it to support my weight. I’m not sure what to do. I don’t ask for help with anything—I’m not that weak anymore—but technically I’m not asking Luke for help right now. He’s just doing it on his own, which isn’t the same. At least that’s what I tell myself to make this situation feel better. Besides, he’s become a very good distraction from the emotions stirring in my chest before he showed up. I’m starting to settle down, calming on the inside. No one’s ever done this to me before, except for maybe Preston and his ex-wife and my ex-foster mother, Kelley, and those instants were few and far between.