Page 18 of Fragile Facade
“Monster?” Director asks, looking down the table. Monster looks at him but says nothing. Something triggered him a few days ago, and he hasn’t spoken since. The only one who can even get near him right now is Ransom, but Director still tries. Psych hovers nearby, waiting to see if Monster will agree to meet with her. He glares at her instead. “I need you with Riot tonight.”
Monster stares at Director for so long that the room goes hushed. Ransom is the only one who keeps eating dinner, not intimidated by the little one’s virulent energy. Eventually, Monster nods and looks away.
Great, a night with the angry one in the throws of a manic nightmare. This’ll be fun.
The cafeteria door bangs inward, and a second later Ghost rips me from my seat. We both fall backwards, and he lands on top of me, all fired up and pissed off—just how I like him.
“Hey, sweetheart.” I smile at his scowl.
“You fucked me over so hard!” he snaps at me, his fist following. I turn my face, but it still lands against my jaw. “You know what shit I’ve had to deal with all night thanks to you?”
“I made you important.” I laugh in his face. “You’re welcome.”
Oh, the rage. No one has a higher sense of self than Ghost does. Oh, wait. I do. But he doesn’t like being unimportant, so he shakes on top of me, weighing the pros and cons of killing me right here, right now. I buck my hips to press my cock against him, just to get him moving. He snaps out of it, his hands wrapping around my throat.
“Can’t chase me to death when you beat me there.” He strangles me, and I grin. I grin harder when he slams my head against the floor.
“Get the hell up. Both of you!” Director rips us apart, and I growl at him for intruding. “Out. Now.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ghost snaps at him. “You made this fucking?—”
“Out.”
Director doesn’t add much power behind his voice, but he doesn’t have to. He’s powerful because he’s proven he can punish us. I hate being told what to do, so I push past Ghost, ignore everyone else, and leave the room. Not because he told me to, but because I can’t stay in this room and not blow the fuck up. I don’t want these assholes to witness my breaking point in such a pathetic way. Idon’tbreak. Not publicly. I don’t crumble or shatter or fucking crack. I’m Riot, the man in charge of creating chaos, not the man full of it.
Vile House is empty as I walk through it. But I’m not empty. My head is full of voices telling me I have to do better, try harder, be the best, and take down anyone in my way to get to the top. My chest is full of pressure that won’t release. Anger because Director doesn’t know what he’s doing. When he steps in, butting in between me and Ghost to try to create some semblance of peace between us, he doesn’t understand the dynamic of what works and what doesn’t work around here. Because if he takes my rivalry games away, he’ll find out real fucking fast where my attention goes.
Don’t crack. Don’t show them weakness. Don’t present any front except the one that shows you as nonchalant and powerful. Hide the rest. Hide the broken parts. Hide. Hide. Hide. Put the mask back on.
Climbing the stairs in a daze, I make it to my room and slam the door behind me. This room is safe. No one is watching me here. I can unravel and unwind, letting the imperfect parts of me rise to the surface to sweat them from my foundation. There’s no need for a charming smile or a double play. So, I stand in the middle of my room and drop all my guards.
Inhale power. Exhale weakness.
Inhale confidence. Exhale insecurity.
Inhale indifference. Exhale vulnerability.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
I’m no longer the weak, inferior boy who watched his brother get abused and did nothing about it. I’m not the teen who fucked and sucked and felt nothing. I’m not the kid who hid his sickness so well that it caused my parents to focus all their hatred on my brother.
I’m stronger. Faultless. Supreme. I stabbed my dad fourteen times and watched my brother kill our mom. I learned to fuck and create stories in my head, manipulating the rumours and turning myself into a god through the tales my partners weaved. I learned to mask my sickness and turn it into my source of power.
I’m not Killian, the boy. I’m Riot, the man.
I rip my shirt off and toss it across the room. Stepping in front of my mirror, I spin, looking at my back to get the visual reminder of who I am. Riot. Vile House. White and black; complete contrasts, just like me. The skull cracked but grinning like I do.
My blood flow slows, calming me. Krypt uses weed to tell his mind to settle down, and I use visuals. We all have methods to tame our madness, but they’re never guaranteed.
It’s taking me too long to settle, to sink into a sane mind space that can rationalize what the fuck just happened. A scolding from Director, who claims to understand us, but didn’t today.
“Riot.”
My name comes from his mouth in a voice that doesn’t fit his anger. I turn to face him, making sure he sees how turbulent I feel right now, warning him away from warring with me until I’m more sane.
He doesn’t listen. He steps into my room, closes the door, and looks at my torso. Naked and scarred, inked and marred, toned and godly. I work for this body, and since I decided to stop being that pathetic kid, I’ve turned myself into a weapon that charms. Deceit is the mask I wear.
“Ninety seconds,” Ghost says.
