Page 96 of Phobia
“Please,” I blurt out. “Please help me.”
He wanders closer, his mouth falling open. He licks his lips. His hands stray to his belt, beginning to tug it open. “You look like her,” he near whispers. “That whore who stole my father.”
“Mickey …” My voice is hoarse from so many tears, from screaming until my throat is sore.
“You’re pretty like she was.” He’s just a few inches from me now as he rips his belt from his waist. He holds it now in his hand, allowing the metal buckle to trail along the floor in his wake. “Such a pretty little whore.”
I swallow and attempt to shrink away as he leans in close, his face just a hair’s breadth away from mine. “Please.” I tug at my restraints, ties that burn and dig into my ankles and wrists. “Please, brother.”
“Brother,” he scoffs. “Do you use that word so I’ll take pity on you?”
I shake my head, my lower lip trembling, broken, bleeding. He catches it between his thumb and forefinger and tugs, digging his nail in. “You think I’ll be merciful? Were Dom and Angelo merciful?”
“You’re not them,” I gasp, desperate. “You’re not like them!”
“Not like them?” He grins. “You’re right. I’m not like them. I’m worse.”
He digs into the pocket of his jeans and withdraws a pocket knife. The screech as it switches opens makes me jump and try to shrink away, but he doesn’t let me. He grips the back of my head as he holds the knife to my throat and then shoves his lips over mine. His tongue thrusts inside, and our teeth knock together.Wrong, wrong, wrong.I panic. I’ve never been kissed before. If this can even be considered a kiss. It’s all tongue and teeth, his rape and pillage of my mouth. When he pulls back, my lips are bleeding from his rough treatment, the way he bit down.
I’m crying again. The skin of my neck, where his knife bites, is bleeding. More blood, more blood. It trickles down the front of me, staining the already ruined collar of my white shirt. The feel of it, I’ll never forget the feel of it, the way it tickles and stings.
“Please,” I beg again, but he’s already too far gone. He licks my blood from his lips, a feral ripple flashing in the darkness of his eyes. So dark, almost black. Like a monster’s eyes. A demon’s.
He cuts the ties at my legs, tears my pants down to my ankles so I’m bared completely. My prick is a wrinkled, terrified thing between my legs, pink and soft. I’m vulnerable, naked, exposed. I have no idea what he’ll do next, shifting where I’m seated to attempt to hide myself, but he grasps both of my thighs in his huge hands and forces my legs apart. He leers down at me, observing me, taking all of me in, and I let out a whimper.
I’ve never had anyone look at me this way, see all of me like this.Please don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me.
I gasp as a calloused palm runs over my shaft and then grips it tight. Too tight. Squeezes. Tears spring to my eyes. I can’t look, eyes darting around the room frantically, anywhere but at him.
“Does that feel good?” he hisses. “Do you like that? Like it the way your whore mother liked it? You filthy fucking cunt.”
This is the worst punishment I could ever experience, the worst torture. Have I not been a good brother? A good boy? A quiet, timid, obedient boy?
Before I can beg him to stop, his grip falters, and he lets me go. His knife slices through the bindings at my hands, freeing me. I’m too afraid to move, but he grabs hold of my hair again and lifts me to my feet.
“Get the fuck out of here. Out of this house. Away from this place. I never want to see you again, do you understand?”
He throws me to the ground, and I stumble, falling to my knees, my buttocks exposed to him. I hurry to pull my pants up and refasten them around my waist before he changes his mind. “But … I don’t have anywhere to go. Where can I go?”
His hands ball into fists as he stalks toward me. “I don’t give a shit. But if you stay here a minute longer, I’m not responsible for what I do.”
I don’t need to hear anything else. I run.
I run, and I keep running. Away from that mansion, away from my brothers. Away from the blood they shed and the hurt they caused.From everything I’ve ever known.
After hitchhiking into the city, I live on the streets until I find my way to a shelter. From there, because of my age, I’m put into the system, fostered and eventually released at eighteen to fend for myself. I never tell anyone my true name, who I am, where I’m from. Adrien Beck died when Mickey threw him out. Adrien Hope now exists in his place.
I heal. But like a broken pot glued back together, some of the cracks are still visible. I’m whole but imperfect. I’m alive, but I don’t forget.
I wake up on the cold bathroom floor, drenched in the sweat of my nightmares, vivid memories from a past life I’ve pushed far down. It’s dark, all the lights are out, and there’s a distinct chill in the air as if one of my windows is open. I grimace as I start to move, the tightness at my knee distracting me momentarily.
I freeze. My wound is bandaged, the blood cleaned from the surrounding surface of skin. Did I do this? The last thing I remember is the smell, the sight of crimson painting my fingers. The sharp sting of the peroxide. No, I was dead to the world, knocked out cold. It couldn’t have been me.
Then … who?
“Is … is someone there?” I whisper into the darkness, my voice trembling. Could it be … the presence I felt earlier? Has my stalker turned savior in an attempt to heal my wound? Or is there some darker purpose? Are they still inside?
I stagger to my feet in panic, but as my eyes adjust, I notice something else. Something strange. The bathroom is immaculate, clean. Though I’d been sick all over the floor and the rim of the toilet, no evidence of it exists now. Someone … cleaned it all.
