Page 40 of Deafened By Silence
Her fear stirs something unpleasant in me, not guilt, but recognition. As if she sees what I am trying to bury, and I cannot allow that. On her hesitant nod, I pull a pack of cigarettes and my zippo from my back-jean pocket, handing them to her and removing my shirt. Tossing it over the balcony railing, I point to the bare patch of skin on my lower back and brace myself. Not for pain but for the clean disconnection it brings, the one thing that stills the anarchy in my being. The pain I can control. Whennothing happens, when hesitation clogs the air between us, I growl at her over my shoulder until she sparks up a flame.
The first sting comes and with it the flood, a surge of white static coursing through me, cutting off the noise that has been screaming inside my skull. I hear myself groan, low and guttural, welcoming the release like an addict chasing a fix. “Again,” I bark, because once is never enough, because I know what it takes to scrape myself hollow until the emotions can no longer find a place to settle.
No amount of therapy has been able to help me, to stop these urges. They’re not urges, not impulses, but survival tactics written into my bones. It is a base need which calls to me like a whisper on the wind, drawing me into a lull of peace others would run from. Long story short, I’m broken, but this is how I keep myself stitched together, as crude and temporary as it may be.
My unwilling torturer grabs a plastic cup from the floor and uses jacuzzi water to throw across my back. Like the damage, my internal agony is extinguished almost instantly, leaving behind the kind of emptiness I crave. She frets about the redness and the scarring until I shoo her away, needing to be alone now with only the afterglow of agony for company. Once the marks have healed, I’ll just have them tattooed over and it will be like they never existed, hidden beneath my ink the way everything else in my life is.
Bending to pick up the cigarettes she dropped, I place one between my lips to spark up on a relaxing inhale. Everyone has different routines and quirks, here’s mine, a ritual of obliteration and rebirth. Of burying what I don’t want to acknowledge beneath layers of loathing. This way, I’m safe. No one can hurt me, no one can reject me or laugh in my face, and no one dares to walk out on me.
At least one thing has become clear through all of this. I dropped the ball. I gave Harper Addams too much power over me. Every thrust, every broken gasp, every shuddering roll of her hips. The way her skin glowed against mine, the way she rode me with those perfect curves, the way her eyes rolled back every time my piercing hit her sweet spot.
I lost my precious control, and I will do whatever it takes to get it back.
Chapter Twenty Four
What was I thinking? Well, I wasn’t. At. All. The first party I’ve ever been to, and I have officially entered into a war with the campus queen bee and then gone ahead and slept with the host, who just so happens to be her on/off boyfriend and sworn enemy to the man currently clutching my arm. Not my brightest strategy.
I allowed myself to be pulled into Rhys’s mind games, convincing myself I needed to be a fully fledged student. As if the enrolment papers, long classes, and constant feeling of failure weren’t enough. Nope, I figured a hot one-night stand was going to give me a sense of fulfilment. Maybe I thought it would be thrilling to know I conquered the bad boy billionaire.
Instead, I gave him exactly what we wanted. Another faceless body to add to his endless collection. I let myself be used harder than a recyclable condom, and the humiliation burns hotter than the walk of shame I’m currently on.
At least Aunt Marg will have something to gasp about when she calls later today, though I imagine this will send her reaching for her blood pressure tablets. Yeah, I’ll keep this one to myself. In fact, I’ll keep this from every human being I encounter forthe rest of my life. Except myself of course, because as soon as I collapse into bed later, every detail will come back to taunt me in vivid detail. The delicious ache between my thighs, the heat of his mouth on mine, the reckless way he made me forget that I ever swore to hate him.
His eyes devoured me before he even touched me. His hands, soft from never having done a real day’s labor, clutched at me like I was the last thing tethering him to earth. Twice last night and once again this morning, he claimed me. Owned me. I was the buffet, and he was the starved man who would not stop eating. Literally. He didn’t ask for permission. He took and my body betrayed me by giving, wanting, and begging for more.
It's a little late for a revelation now, but my self-preservation digs deep for one anyway. There isn’t much else to do, walking into campus on Clay’s arm, ignoring the crushing weight of his judgement. Instead, I use this time and the cold slice of morning wind to compartmentalize. I had one hell of a regrettable night, and it’s done now. Rhys will finally be satisfied and leave me alone, and I can move on. I can concentrate on what’s important. What I came to Waversea Academy for.
Clay walks slow, matching the smaller strides of my boots to keep us in sync. Most likely to keep himself from flying into the lecture I know is brewing on his tongue. I’ve clipped my mic onto the belt snatched around my waist, and purposely left it switched off. As far as outfits go, there’s no mistaking what I’ve been up to, but hopefully it’s not too obvious where I’m coming from. Although, contrasting against Clay’s hand-me-down military jacket with patches covering the worn elbows, the stark-white Gucci shirt is like a beacon of bad decisions.
A frown tugs between my brows. I’ve yet to question what Clayton was doing at Rhys’ house. Why he was hanging around outside Rhys’ bedroom in fact, finishing a fight I doubt he started. And more than that, why Clay keeps appearing whenI’m in a situation I have no business getting myself into. I’m beginning to notice his pattern, laying low until needed, showing up when I’m at my lowest. Reliable. Dependable. Kissable.
I stop in my tracks, heat rushing to my cheeks as Clay glances back with a questioning look. Holy shit, Harper. What is wrong with you? My brain is clearly running on fumes, a severe lack of sleep and no caffeine stirring inside. A rumble in my stomach confirms it as I catch sight of the cafeteria doors. Might as well give everyone something else to talk about.
“Grab breakfast with me?” I look up into Clay’s endlessly black eyes. He glances uncertainly at the building and back to me, a look of regret passing his features. “Please, my treat.” Using our linked arms, I look straight ahead so he knows I can’t read his lips, and drag him inside.
Even without being able to hear it, the room falls into a stagnant hush. Eyes follow us, wide and shameless, like my life is suddenly the Saturday morning special. My newly-pink hair is a bird’s nest, tamed only by my fingers, the make-up around my eyes leans more into panada than smokey, and the oversized shirt I’m wearing does little to hide my black underwear underneath. Standing tall, I cross the room with squared shoulders. Let them look. Let them whisper.
I grab a tray, order him a double espresso since he refuses to choose, and pile high two plates with eggs, bacon, hash browns. For myself, an orange juice and a coffee large enough to resurrect the dead. The perfect hangover cure. While I swipe my ID card, Clay carries our tray to a table tucked into the back, far from the curious stares. I give them a few narrowed-eye glares right back, wondering what weirdos are up and dressed this early on a weekend if they don’t need to be. From the table, Clay gives me a small smile, his focus steady as if I am the only person for miles. It’s surprisingly grounding as I take my seat and inhale my coffee.
Not prepared to waste my limited energy on lipreading, I switch on my mic and slide it between us. Clay watches me dive into my plate like one of those disgustingly intense nature shows. I forgot to warn him I left my manners at the door. After an awkward minute of lip smacking and aggressive chewing, I glance up to find it’s not me that has his attention. His eyes are fixed on the plate before him with a slight crease between his brows. I slow the rate of my knife and fork, wondering when I last saw him in the cafeteria. When I last saw him eat in fact.
“Ugh, please don’t make me eat alone,” I pout. Eventually, whatever chivalrous mindset Clay was battling with fades away and he picks up his fork. He hesitates, then starts eating with a hunger that breaks something fragile in my chest. He clears the plate in record time, while I become the creep who’s staring. My stomach doesn’t let me pause for too long, growling for more substance until we’re both finished.
We linger, longer than we should, just breathing the same air and pretending the world does not exist. I distract myself with a game of “What’s the story” about a sophomore and his boyfriend, until Clay’s voice in my head makes me jump.
“Do you ever wish you were like everyone else again?” he asks directly into the mic, which he’s lifted to his mouth. I reach over to lower his hand with a sympathetic grin. Let’s not deafen me any further.
“Quite the opposite actually,” I shrug. Clay doesn’t ask me to explain but for some reason, my usual defensiveness falters. I find that I want to give him more, to appease the genuine curiosity in his expression. “I’d prefer if everyone else was like me. Imagine how many arguments wouldn’t exist because no one could be bothered to sign them. I get to live in my own bubble, free from lies, free from the noise.”
“That must be nice.” Clay nods thoughtfully, leaning forward, tongue wetting his lips. I track the movement too closely forsomeone who’s baring the hickeys of another man. What a wild ride this academy is turning out to be. Returning from whatever mental dive Clay just took, he blinks the daze from his eyes and comes back to me. “What sound do you miss the most?”
Now there’s a question I don’t have a rehearsed answer for. In my bitterness, I’ve come to see all sounds as a concoction of obnoxious noise. But now I’m running through the catalogue of sounds I remember from my childhood, one in particular sticks out.
“My parents loved the seaside. Every summer we traveled, always to somewhere with a beach. It seems stupid really, paying out so much for the same horizon, but I loved it too. The best part was swimming in the sea on a calm day and sinking beneath the surface with my eyes closed. The muffled beat of my own pulse, the waves lapping against me, the illusion that I could hear a whale somewhere in the deep. Once, it began to rain while I was under. I felt like nature’s orchestra was playing just for me.”
As the words leave me, they scrape against a place inside I rarely allow myself to touch. I keep my memories of them locked away because once they slip past the surface, they multiply like a sickness I cannot cure. The pang is sharp and cold, a reminder of what has been stolen, of what can never be returned. My chest feels too tight, like grief itself is trying to crawl back in, demanding I let it spread through every vein. I know if I let it, I would drown myself in their absence. But I also know they would never want me to spiral and throw my life away in their name. They would want me to keep moving forward, even if it feels like walking barefoot on glass.
I only realize I am on the verge of tears because my expression is mirrored on Clay’s face. Grief is painted all over his sharp features, his eyes sunken and all too understanding. My heart stumbles, tripped by nostalgia and guilt for havingforgotten those memories until now. “Oh god, that sounded ridiculous,” I force a laugh and shake my head.
