Stain (Stain #1)(60)
I can’t help reaching out to swipe a falling tear from her cheek. “Then do your worse.”
She turns away with a small, sad smile. “You asked me once why I was in therapy. And I guess you figured out it’s because I cut myself. I, um…I cut myself because I feel dirty most of the time. Like so dirty that if I could bleach out my insides I would. Sometimes it’s too much, too revolting, so I have to bleed the stain just to feel a little cleaner. Rachel and Tim, they adopted me when I was nine. They were a really nice couple, so I thought I’d finally found a good family that could love and care for me. And it was like that at first. They really doted on me. Especially Tim.” With her head still turned away I can only hear the steady sounds of her whimpers as she tries not to cry. “He worked a lot so when he was home he took over caring for me. I didn’t think anything of it at first, the way he’d ask me to leave the door open when I was showering. Or after I went to bed and he’d come in my room, lock the door, and just sit at my bedside. The first time he touched me, I was almost ready to fall asleep and I felt his hand between my legs…” She chokes on a sob. I make another effort to touch her but she shrugs me off. “Don’t…” She shudders and looks at me with watery eyes, desperate eyes. “Please don’t. If you touch me now I won’t finish. You need to know me, Maddox. You need to know the sort of f*cked-up girl I am. You deserve that much.” She rakes a trembling hand through her hair, probably now adding to her stress by worrying about cussing, before she continues. She could say ‘f*ck’ twenty times a day and I wouldn’t care.
“He made me think it was okay. I didn’t fight him, and I didn’t cry. I just let him do it to me. He said it was our little secret. Just for me and him. He told me if I ever told our secret, they’d send me back to the foster system. Return me like I was some puppy they no longer wanted. Every time he’d whisper that threat to me I told myself I was securing a place in the house. If I made myself accessible to him in this way then maybe he’d eventually see me as his daughter. It happened a lot afterward. Especially when Rachel wasn’t home. We never had sex. Just him touching me. And then one night when I was sixteen he decided he wanted more. He was drunk, I remember screaming and then Rachel came running in. He told her it was an accident and that he just stumbled into the wrong room. She believed him. She believed every single lie he’s ever told her. We never spoke about that night after. Even when I sliced my arm open and they took me to the ER. Nobody said anything. Nobody said a f*cking thing.”
***
Aylee
What the hell am I doing? Is this really happening? I grab a small bit of skin between my thumb and index finger and press down hard. The bite of pain tells me just how very real this all is. But I’m still confused as to how we went from a moment of the purest form of rapture two people can possibly feel to me word-vomiting all over him. Is this my own form of sabotage? Revealing the vilest part of myself to him, letting him see just how truly filthy I am inside so that he’ll run before my demons push him away. I’m on my feet as quick as I can manage. My nudity is an embarrassment that I need to cover. I find my clothes a few feet away from the bed. I start with my panties and shirt, hastily slipping them on and completely forgetting about my bra.
Everything in me is screaming for me to retreat. I’ve said too much. Revealed too damn much to the one person who I never intended to see the ugliness coating my soul. I need to go. Need to get away. The faster I run, the faster I can get to my blade and…
“Aylee.” He blocks my path and when I try to sidestep him, he moves with me. When he reaches out to touch me, I swat his hand away.
“I need to go.” God, my voice sounds so strange. I don’t have much control over my emotions right now and the harder I try to remain calm, be poised, the faster I feel my composure crumbling. If he doesn’t let me leave, I’m going to burst, and I’m not sure I’ll ever stop.
But I guess he’s driven by determination, his own sense of control far more rigid than mine allows him to move toward me with marked focus forcing me to take a step back just to avoid his touch. “Let me go.”
He shakes his dark head and pins me with a too serious stare, “Not gonna happen.”
“Maddox.”
“Aylee.”
The instant he takes me into his arms, using strength to subdue but not hurt me, I fight him like he’s my enemy. I’m not a strong girl, and I’ve never felt the need or the urge for such violence. But with Maddox, I rage. I scratch and punch and kick until we’re on the floor. I use whatever part of my body I can to hurt him, even my teeth to catch the skin on his arms. This isn’t cutting. These emotions aren’t from sadness, they’re from something meaner; uglier. It bypasses the sadness completely and lets me tap into pure, raw, white-hot anger. And I sink into the attack like a well-worn pair of shoes. I battle my demons. I fight memories that have haunted me. I fight what was done to me. I punch and kick through the black tar pooling at the base of my soul, forever trying to pull me under. Through it all Maddox holds me, takes the brunt of my abuse, utterly calm in the face of my brutality—he’s a haven in the tempest of my fury. It’s only when I’ve completely exhausted myself, my breath ragged, heart galloping, pulse spiking with sweat staining my skin that I finally fall into the waiting arms of my anguish. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s not the one that hurts me. But Maddox is there to catch me. The first sob is followed by a second and then a third, and soon enough it’s all too much for me to count. Gasping for breath, I cling onto him.