Complete Me(121)

Six photographs. Me in kindergarten. Me in a tiara at my very first pageant, my hair in ringlets. Me, me, me, me.

In every photograph, my face has been crossed out with a red pen pushed so hard into the photographic paper that the emulsion has been scraped off, leaving a series of ragged red x’s where my face should be. There is one piece of paper mixed in with the photos. Block letters cut like a cliché from newspapers and pasted on the sheet: YOU DON’T EVEN EXIST

I stare at it all, surprised that the room is silent. Surprised that I’m not screaming, because this is so very wrong. But the world is as silent as death. Hell, the world looks like death. No noise. No color. No light.

It’s all gray. Even those red x’s have faded to gray. And the gray room is actually shifting to black. A cloudy, inky black that surrounds me, blanketing me, drawing me down, down, down . . .

Nikki!

Nikki!

I feel a sharp sting across my cheek. “Nikki!”

“Damien.” It’s my voice, but it sounds horribly far away. I lift my hand and touch my cheek.

“Sorry,” he says, though he sounds more worried than sorry. “You fainted.”

“I—what?” I sit up, groggy, and realize that somehow I’ve ended up on the love seat. I focus on Damien. “Fainted?”

I haven’t fainted in years. Not since I was accidentally locked in a storage closet during college. Dark enclosed spaces have always freaked me out, and I’d passed out. But never have I simply slipped into a faint like this.

“You had reason,” Damien says, correctly reading my face.

Those photos. My photos.

I shiver. Whoever did this is in my life. This isn’t just nasty texts. This is flat-out targeting me. And if I don’t exist, then what the hell does that say about their endgame?

I draw in breath and try to calm the machine-gun beat of my heart. I sit up straight, my hands on my thighs. My skirt is hitched up a bit, and I clutch tight to the bare skin above my knees, digging my nails in tighter and tighter, using the pain to help pull me out of this fog.

I breathe deep. “My mother,” I say. “Whoever is doing this got these from my mother.”

Beside me, Damien gently plucks one hand off my thigh and holds it tight. Guiltily, I relax my other hand.

“Your mother?” he says. “What are you talking about?”

I relay Jamie’s conversation with my mother.

“This is good,” Damien says, releasing me long enough to type out a text on his phone. “It’s solid information,” he adds, since I must look confused. “A definitive connection. I’m going to have Ryan speak with your mother. I think he’ll have better luck getting her to cooperate than I will.”

I nod, then arch my neck as I look toward the desk. There is nothing there. “Where—”

“I put it away.” His voice is as gentle as the hand that eases my fingers once again off my thigh. I jump a bit; I hadn’t realized I’d started again, but I can see the small red crescents where my nails cut into my skin.

“I—” I look away. I’m too transparent, my wounds far too visible. I desperately wish that I didn’t need the pain, but I do. I do exist, goddammit, and if I’m going to have any chance of pulling back to myself, I need it desperately.

“Tell me,” he says softly. “Tell me what you need.”

I look down at the fading crescents. “You know,” I say, my voice low.

“I do, baby.” He slides off the love seat to kneel on the floor. His hands are on my knees and he gently spreads my legs. “You want me to touch you.” His voice is as gentle as the pressure of his thumb upon my inner thigh. “You want me to f*ck you. You want to feel the sting of my hand against your ass or the burn of a rope around your wrist.”