Page 12 of Bed of Thorns

—Marianne Williamson

Edmond

Darkness.

It had crowded my mind, festering in the farthest reaches for years. On this night, the demons lurking in my mind had breached the surface, the swirling shadows suffocating. I’d stood outside her house, gazing at the only window holding a warm glow and wished I had the capability of being anywhere else but here.

It was impossible.

I’d seen the asshole in the parking lot. I’d watched as he’d confronted her. I didn’t need to hear what the bastard was saying to know he was threatening her. She’d been defiant, pushing back. That much I’d managed to decipher. I’d tried to leave it alone. I’d done everything to keep from following her home, but I had. Then he’d made the mistake of going to her house. Her house! I’d lost it, hunting the man down like a dog.

That’s all I could remember, other than the terrified look in his eyes the moment I’d shoved him inside his house, laughing as I watched tears falling from his swollen eyes. It had felt damn good to have my hand wrapped around his throat. He reeked of terror and sweat as I’d dug my fingers in, cutting off his breathing.

Then blackness.

Nothing but sweet darkness taking over.

I closed my eyes, trying to erase the anger. This was the moment I’d wanted for so long. This was… perfect. She was perfect. But the sense of ugly betrayal remained, holding me hostage. Until I made her mine, it would never leave. I sensed the demons crawling up from the pits of my soul, clawing at my insides, ripping them to shreds. I fisted my mouth, the suffocating sensations remaining. No. They weren’t going to destroy this moment.

I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t be angry, that I wouldn’t touch her, punishing her for betraying me. I’d waited and I’d watched, protecting her from the ravages of my horrible father, but he wasn’t the only one she should be worried about.

Seeing her with that man—that disgusting man—had almost forced me to break the promise I’d made to myself. He wanted her. I’d felt it from across the street. I’d known it when he’d walked onto her driveway. In my mind he’d already touched her, spoiled her. I couldn’t stand it. He would pay for what he did. He would suffer for laying a single finger on her. A smile crossed my face as I thought about all the horrible things that I wanted to do to him.

Then I remembered what Adam had begged of me.

Damn it.

Keeping her safe was necessary. He’d harm her. He’d crush her.

Not now. He couldn’t hurt her any longer. Ever.

But there would be others. They’d come for her. They’d destroy her.

She was my grounding mechanism, yet she was also the jagged edge to the knife that had been shoved into my heart. Breaking into her house was easy, far too much so. She was more trusting than she should be, but that seemed like Mercedes. Now I remained in her darkened room, watching her sleep. She seemed peaceful, where I’d been unable to close my eyes without nightmares crawling in.

I listened to her even breathing for at least ten minutes, craving the first touch yet fearful of how she would react. I wasn’t the boy she’d met all those years ago. The reality that I’d been forced to face was that I was a monster, a man with no soul.

I only had revenge on my mind, sweet, planned revenge.

If I had any decency left in me, I’d leave, never to return, but I wasn’t a good man. I leaned against the wall, studying the room. Then I noticed a picture on the desk. I remained quiet as I turned on the small desk lamp, peering down at the few items placed on the surface. She’d come home and enjoyed a glass of wine, lamenting over the past. As I lifted the picture into my hands, another ache rushed into my system.

I’d lost my ability to feel anything but rage during the first year. The first months had been unbearable, minutes turning into hours then days and weeks. I’d been a terrified kid, barely eighteen, scrawny yet pretending that nothing and no one could touch me. My defense had been to fight, to rebel against everything and everyone.

And I’d been damn good at it, landing in solitary confinement a half dozen times. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d been attacked, driven to near madness by the cruelty of others. I’d survived and I’d grown stronger.

Or had I?

I couldn’t remember the picture being taken. While I’d been broken after my mother’s death, at least around Mercedes, I’d felt like I had a real family again. Then everything had changed, my father’s total darkness erupting into something even I hadn’t seen coming. I rubbed my finger across the picture, trying to recapture the moment.

A painting caught the corner of my eye, the soft light of the desk lamp barely highlighting the contents, but it was easy to see the painting was an unfinished carbon copy of the picture. I shook my head, realizing Mercedes was the artist. I’d never known she could paint. Then again, I’d known little about her before I’d… left. I was mesmerized by her talent, but there was a haunted quality to the painting, as if somewhere in the back of her mind she’d known something tragic was going to happen or maybe she was reflecting her current thoughts.

So much time had transpired.

So many things had changed.

When she murmured in her sleep, a knot formed in my stomach. I’d wanted to hurt her. I’d needed her to pay for everything.

No. No! That was wrong. Crazy.

---