Page 69 of Unmasking Mayhem
Shockingly, he puts the filter to my lips, and I take a drag, holding in the smoke for as long as I possibly can. He holds the cigarette while I smoke it, refusing to open my eyes. Sure, he knows I'm awake, but he doesn't know what my next move is. So I continue to let him talk, even though it physically hurts me on the inside at every word he says.
"You were never a match for me back then, and you're not a match for me now. As much as I applaud you for trying to fight back, that was the dumbest thing you could've done." He takes the cigarette back and finishes it, pulling the blankets over him while I'm stuck lying on top of them.
It's not long before I hear his familiar snores, and a smile spreads across my cracked lips, reopening a cut and leaving the metallic taste of my blood inside my mouth. I wait, sneaking my eyes open to watch as he sleeps, my heart breaking all over again as I think about the night he killed my baby—the one thing I wanted more than anything else in this life.
Once I'm sure he's in a deep sleep, I work on cutting through the rope around my wrist with my knife, trying to be quiet so I don't wake him. I even hold my breath, fearful my gasps will wake him up. But they don't, and I'm able to break free. I gently put my blade to his throat, and before he has the chance to wake up, I make a deep gash across his neck, his eyes shooting open, nothing but darkness staring back at me.
I go a little overboard and mutilate his body more than I needed to, but the release I felt as I stabbed him felt too good to stop. So I keep going until his face is unrecognizable. And when I'm sure he's dead, I back up to the wall and slide down it until my ass hits the dusty floor. I drop my knife, my hands covered in his velvety blood.
He's gone.
I killed him.
So why am I still afraid?
Gathering myself the best I can, I slip into the bathroom to take a quick shower, washing his blood off me for the last time. My legs are wobbly like a baby deer's, I'm barely able to stand, and the movie Bambi begins playing in my head, making me smile. The water washes over me, its warmth a stark contrast to the chilling reality I've just executed. I let the rush of water cleanse not only my body but also the weight of all the horror Dustin forced upon me. It’s a bittersweet liberation, and yet I can still feel the specter of his anger clinging to my skin, even as the remnants of his life circle down the drain. I scrub at my arms in frantic motions, needing to remove every last trace of him, butno matter how hard I try, I can't wash away the memories, the pain, or the trauma.
Each drop of tinted red water that hits the tiles echoes like a million reminders of my failures: moments spent suffocated by his controlling grip, nights of fear when I broke down, and the precious life he extinguished without a second thought. But now, I’ve taken the reins of my life, and reclaiming my power is intoxicating. Yet, the adrenaline coursing through me is laced with uncertainty and dread.
Something feels wrong.
Once I’m finished, I step out of the shower, water pooling at my feet before vanishing down the drain—much like the remnants of my past, swirling away into oblivion. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall, and I barely recognize the person looking back at me. My hair hangs in wet tendrils, my skin is pale and dotted with bruises, and my eyes—the once vibrant blue, now dazed and glassy—betray the depth of the battle fought both internally and externally.
I need to move.
The weight of apprehension settles in my stomach as I wrap myself in a towel, a fragile shield against the memory of carnage that just occurred. I can’t stay here; this is still Dustin’s territory despite my triumph. I quickly wash my bloody clothes, trying to get as much blood out as I can before I put them on while they are still drenched.
I stand here shivering, still inhaling the musty odor as I open the bathroom door and peer out, Dustin's dead body lying in a heap just feet in front of me. I feel sick. I pause, listening and breathing quietly, straining to hear if he’s stirred awake. My body begins to tremble even more, and a lump forms in my throat. But knowing I left my knife on the floor, I know I have to go back over there, and like a zombie, I do.
Frozen as I stare at him, tears streaming down my bruised cheeks, it feels like I'm suffocating. Finally, my feet find their way, and I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what lies beyond that door, the threshold separating my old life from whatever comes next. As I push the door ajar, the air feels charged, almost electric, each creak of the hinges echoing the motto I’ve borrowed from the darkness: Never look back. I step into the dimly lit corridor that feels like a labyrinth of echoes, shadows dancing upon the walls where we used to be together. But I can’t afford to think of that now; I need to find a way out, to slip through the cracks of his world, to emerge on the other side as whoever I choose to be.
With every step, the fear that had held me hostage for so long threatens to creep back in. Memories flash—Dustin’s sneer, his controlling demeanor, blood that feels as if it still sticks to my skin—but I push them down. I focus on the present, the sharp voice of conviction lingering above the noise.
I was a fighter; I am a fighter, and I will not let this be for nothing.
The faint sounds of the city filter through the walls, a reminder of life beyond the suffocating darkness. The silence stretches, and as I crack the door open, no alarms ring in my ears, and no screams of my name follow me into the night. I step outside, heart pounding as the cool air brushes against my skin—my first taste of freedom in what feels like an eternity.
The world is darker than I remember; it’s late, and the streets are slick with rain. The distant glow of streetlights flickers above me, illuminating my path as I venture out. Each step takes me further away from the nightmare I’ve left behind and toward the unknown I must now face.
But suddenly I feel it, the weight of vulnerability sinking in. My legs tremble slightly from adrenaline as I swipe my fingers across the knife still tucked into my waistband, a small yetempowering assurance that I can protect myself. I digest the reality of my situation. I’m alone. Weaponless against the many dangers of the world, and despite the buzzing hope for a fresh start, shadows still twist around me.
I need to find my way back to the guys. I need to remind them why I fought this battle. Even if the city wraps around me in darkness, I know our bond is stronger than the ties that sought to keep me subdued. After a few moments of hesitation, I begin my journey to go home. The winter chill bites at my skin, but each drop of rain that falls feels cleansing; it forces every dark memory further back until they’re buried deep, overlapping with the memories I’ll create to replace them.
As I cross street corners, uncertainty grips me again. What if they’d given up on me? What if they didn’t care? No. Those thoughts have no place in my mind now. I chase them away with steady breaths; I need to hold on to my hope, my belief that they’re still searching for me—that they know I’m alive.
The walk seems longer than I remember, shadows stretching out to pair with memories I thought I’d overcome. Each step echoes with the prospect of typecast rejection, a fear that prickles at the back of my mind. But the thought of their faces—the grim determination of Hawk, the unwavering strength of Red, and Raze’s infectious laugh—fuels me. They’ve seen me in my darkest moments, and they won’t turn away now.
And then I see it.
The flickering neon sign of the community center, though dim, reminds me of the memories we made with each other, the light illuminating the bonds that refuse to sever. My heart races as I approach, my nerves raw but my spirit undeterred. I thrust the door open, the echoing chime fading into the muffled sounds of deep conversations and laughter.
As I step inside, a hush spreads through the room, all eyes drawn toward the figure—with me standing at the precipice ofreinvention. In that very moment, I know I’m no longer just Whitney; I'm a warrior forged in the fires of hell, and here, among the ones I love, I'll rise from the fucking ashes.
I walk further into the building—my safe space—and pull my hood off, trying to stand tall. Clearing my throat, hoping my voice doesn't crack or give my situation away, I decide to speak up. "Does anyone have a phone I can use? I'm trying to get back home to Boston."
twenty-two
battling demons
