Wayward Girl
Chapter 2
Somewhere, something is buzzing and it won’t stop. At some point I feel a tickle by my thigh. My hand swipes the air a few times, but with no luck, and the buzzing continues. Finally, I decide to make a valiant effort to open my eyes and see what it is that’s bothering my restless sleep, only to find that it’s my phone. It takes another few seconds to realize I’m getting a call, so I pick it up and press the answer button without looking at the caller ID. Mistake number one.
“Is everything okay up there? I saw Carter come down an hour ago. I assume you didn’t jump out the window.” Jace’s melodramatic voice stirs something in my mind and I begin to remember what had happened. It happened, again, and with Carter, the boy who is my boyfriend. Sometimes. It feels like I drank ten cups of vodka, when really I hadn’t had a sip of anything. Mistake number two.
Whatever Carter did in this bedroom must have been awful. As I look around, I find articles of my clothing hanging on the bedpost, the dresser, the mirror, and a really expensive looking vase. Even more, I notice marks left on my wrists from when he must have bandaged them to the bed. How humiliating this would have all been if someone had walked in on us. They’d think I was a sex freak.
“Are you still there?” Jace’s tone rings through the phone.
“I’m here,” I reply quickly, “upstairs.”
“Are you okay?” he stresses the three words like he’s said them a dozen times with no answer.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I dismiss this casually as if I accidently tripped down the stairs.
“Good. Now, bye.” A click ended our painfully short conversation, followed by a sound that I often referred to as the death toll: a subtle, unexpected beep. But I should have known. Jace isn’t the one to stick around and give advice to me about how I should leave the men in my life who are causing me harm, especially if I won’t take it, which I won’t because there is always a consequence. With Carter, if I tell anyone, he’ll beat me up and threaten to tell my mom that I was the one who wanted to have sex, consequently I will be the one getting in trouble, and she’ll believe this because she already knows we are boyfriend and girlfriend and truly believes that her daughter is a slut. Though, really, that is also against my will.
Therefore, Jace only interferes in my life to tell me when I’m making a mistake and to make sure that after I do make the mistake, that I am okay. But, I’m okay with that. As long as I get to have a friend who is real and caring then I will thank him in my heart for the kindness he’s given, compared to other things I’ve received.
For now, I attempt to gather all my cloths and put them on, rather clumsily seeing how my hands are shaking like maracas. I’m not looking forward to going home tonight, but this party is just as bad, or worse, because there are a multitude of guys wanting all one thing, with a fuzzy mindset and a drunken thought process. As soon as I gather my stuff, grab my purse, and check to make sure I put my shirt over my bra, unlike last time, it’s one-thirty in the morning. School tomorrow is going to be hell. Whoever decided weeknight parties are cool has obviously flunked out by now. My homework isn’t even close to being done and I’m seven hours away from first period history.
When I get into my car it says it’s thirty nine degrees outside, so I blast the heat and violently shiver until I can safely put my hands on the stirring wheel and be confident I won’t make any sudden jerks or turns. Once I’m sure, I check around for any drunken teens and make a clear exit out of their round driveway. Exhaling, I mentally high five myself for managing to not run anyone over, and slam down on the accelerator.
I slow down when I reach the gates enclosing my neighborhood and the security guard lets me in without any trouble. Usually, if a person lives here they must show their ID, but since I’m way too cool for that and stopping would only slow me down, I wave at the guard and he lets me in. He knows who I am by the upside down happy face sticker covering my car’s BMW emblem. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to distinguish mine from the dozens of others that pass through.
As I attempt to park my car in the garage without scratching any of the other shiny ones, part of me begins to worry about what will happen when I get inside. No one else parents care about them partying on weeknights, just as long as their schoolwork is A-okay, yet my stepfather throws a fit if I’m not home by midnight. I carry a solid 4.0 and have no behavioral problems, but it doesn’t matter to him. Nothing matters to Rufus except appearances, and if the neighbors mention any late-night vehicle disturbances it’s my ass on the line. Literally.
It’s two in the morning when I reach my bedroom. I walk in and throw my purse on the black leather couch in the far right side of the room, across from my bed, and walk over to the counter where the espresso machine is. I press the button for a cappuccino and take my trench coat off to change into my nightwear while I wait. As I’m doing all of this, in the back of my mind I’m counting the minutes it takes my stepfather to charge through my mahogany door. It surprises me of how long it’s taking, but as always my hope is shattered when I hear footsteps light enough for only me to hear. If Mom knew, God forbid, I wouldn’t know what would happen.
Just then, the black doorknob twists open slowly until I see a sliver of his face peeking towards me, and then it’s thrown open to reveal a tall, muscular man who looks like a younger version of Donald Trump, and angrier, if possible.
I stand there outside my closet, waiting.
Rufus stands up straighter and looks me dead in the eye. “Two, hung? It must have been a raging party.” He doesn’t sound sarcastic, just disappointed and impatient. “Was it?” he toys with me, trying to make me squirm.
I shrug, but immediately regret it when he takes a few quick steps towards me, his hand hovering by his left cheek, waiting to slap me.
“Why did you disobey me? You know your curfew is twelve on weeknights.”
Well, stepfather, you see I have this thing called a reputation. You’ve heard of it. It means that I have to do certain things to remain the person they think I am. And as long as they think I am someone I’m not, they’ll never uncover who I really am. You should be happy I’m doing this, since your reputation would also be on the line if they were to find out my dirty little secrets.
That’s what I want to say, if I were suicidal. Therefore, I stick with another shrug and risk the slap. After I shrug though, he sighs and reveals a smile that could make any kid have nightmares for a year. “I’ll let you loose this time. But you owe me something.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” I mumble, trying to hide how annoyed I am.
“I saved your family,” he snaps, coming closer. “Without me, you wouldn’t have this house, or those credit cards, or a quality education. You wouldn’t have anything. Since your father left you and your mother, I have provided. And so yes, you do owe me something.” He snakes his arms around my neck and pulls me close to him. “Don’t make me regret marrying your mother. Don’t make her suffer.” He breathes in the top of my head, kissing my messy hair. Every inch of me is cold. It feels like bees are all over my body and I can’t get away. I’m watching a horror movie and I’m the damsel in distress, only I know the ending and I can’t get out.
Rufus pushes me towards my bed, my leg caught in between his. When we reach it he takes my wrists and shoves them out on either side of me, exposing my breasts covered by a thin defense of cotton. “You’re too beautiful to resist,” his syrupy voice escalades down my body, leaving me tingling with fear, even though I know what’s coming. I tell myself to dissociate. It’s the only way to get through the next fifteen minutes alive.
When he is through with me, a light goes on in my head and I can see clearly again. I can see the puffy white duvet cover swallowing my tiny body. I can see the door is closed again and he is gone down the long hall, into another wing of the house, sleeping with my mother. I can see my book bag sitting on the coffee table by the couch, by my purse, and I think of homework. Then I realize my cappuccino is ready and so I get up slowly because I can’t get up any other way, and grab it with trembling hands. It dawns on me that I won’t be getting more than a couple hours of sleep tonight, but that’s okay. Nightmares don’t really constitute themselves as sleep anyways.
“Is everything okay up there? I saw Carter come down an hour ago. I assume you didn’t jump out the window.” Jace’s melodramatic voice stirs something in my mind and I begin to remember what had happened. It happened, again, and with Carter, the boy who is my boyfriend. Sometimes. It feels like I drank ten cups of vodka, when really I hadn’t had a sip of anything. Mistake number two.
Whatever Carter did in this bedroom must have been awful. As I look around, I find articles of my clothing hanging on the bedpost, the dresser, the mirror, and a really expensive looking vase. Even more, I notice marks left on my wrists from when he must have bandaged them to the bed. How humiliating this would have all been if someone had walked in on us. They’d think I was a sex freak.
“Are you still there?” Jace’s tone rings through the phone.
“I’m here,” I reply quickly, “upstairs.”
“Are you okay?” he stresses the three words like he’s said them a dozen times with no answer.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I dismiss this casually as if I accidently tripped down the stairs.
“Good. Now, bye.” A click ended our painfully short conversation, followed by a sound that I often referred to as the death toll: a subtle, unexpected beep. But I should have known. Jace isn’t the one to stick around and give advice to me about how I should leave the men in my life who are causing me harm, especially if I won’t take it, which I won’t because there is always a consequence. With Carter, if I tell anyone, he’ll beat me up and threaten to tell my mom that I was the one who wanted to have sex, consequently I will be the one getting in trouble, and she’ll believe this because she already knows we are boyfriend and girlfriend and truly believes that her daughter is a slut. Though, really, that is also against my will.
Therefore, Jace only interferes in my life to tell me when I’m making a mistake and to make sure that after I do make the mistake, that I am okay. But, I’m okay with that. As long as I get to have a friend who is real and caring then I will thank him in my heart for the kindness he’s given, compared to other things I’ve received.
For now, I attempt to gather all my cloths and put them on, rather clumsily seeing how my hands are shaking like maracas. I’m not looking forward to going home tonight, but this party is just as bad, or worse, because there are a multitude of guys wanting all one thing, with a fuzzy mindset and a drunken thought process. As soon as I gather my stuff, grab my purse, and check to make sure I put my shirt over my bra, unlike last time, it’s one-thirty in the morning. School tomorrow is going to be hell. Whoever decided weeknight parties are cool has obviously flunked out by now. My homework isn’t even close to being done and I’m seven hours away from first period history.
When I get into my car it says it’s thirty nine degrees outside, so I blast the heat and violently shiver until I can safely put my hands on the stirring wheel and be confident I won’t make any sudden jerks or turns. Once I’m sure, I check around for any drunken teens and make a clear exit out of their round driveway. Exhaling, I mentally high five myself for managing to not run anyone over, and slam down on the accelerator.
I slow down when I reach the gates enclosing my neighborhood and the security guard lets me in without any trouble. Usually, if a person lives here they must show their ID, but since I’m way too cool for that and stopping would only slow me down, I wave at the guard and he lets me in. He knows who I am by the upside down happy face sticker covering my car’s BMW emblem. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to distinguish mine from the dozens of others that pass through.
As I attempt to park my car in the garage without scratching any of the other shiny ones, part of me begins to worry about what will happen when I get inside. No one else parents care about them partying on weeknights, just as long as their schoolwork is A-okay, yet my stepfather throws a fit if I’m not home by midnight. I carry a solid 4.0 and have no behavioral problems, but it doesn’t matter to him. Nothing matters to Rufus except appearances, and if the neighbors mention any late-night vehicle disturbances it’s my ass on the line. Literally.
It’s two in the morning when I reach my bedroom. I walk in and throw my purse on the black leather couch in the far right side of the room, across from my bed, and walk over to the counter where the espresso machine is. I press the button for a cappuccino and take my trench coat off to change into my nightwear while I wait. As I’m doing all of this, in the back of my mind I’m counting the minutes it takes my stepfather to charge through my mahogany door. It surprises me of how long it’s taking, but as always my hope is shattered when I hear footsteps light enough for only me to hear. If Mom knew, God forbid, I wouldn’t know what would happen.
Just then, the black doorknob twists open slowly until I see a sliver of his face peeking towards me, and then it’s thrown open to reveal a tall, muscular man who looks like a younger version of Donald Trump, and angrier, if possible.
I stand there outside my closet, waiting.
Rufus stands up straighter and looks me dead in the eye. “Two, hung? It must have been a raging party.” He doesn’t sound sarcastic, just disappointed and impatient. “Was it?” he toys with me, trying to make me squirm.
I shrug, but immediately regret it when he takes a few quick steps towards me, his hand hovering by his left cheek, waiting to slap me.
“Why did you disobey me? You know your curfew is twelve on weeknights.”
Well, stepfather, you see I have this thing called a reputation. You’ve heard of it. It means that I have to do certain things to remain the person they think I am. And as long as they think I am someone I’m not, they’ll never uncover who I really am. You should be happy I’m doing this, since your reputation would also be on the line if they were to find out my dirty little secrets.
That’s what I want to say, if I were suicidal. Therefore, I stick with another shrug and risk the slap. After I shrug though, he sighs and reveals a smile that could make any kid have nightmares for a year. “I’ll let you loose this time. But you owe me something.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” I mumble, trying to hide how annoyed I am.
“I saved your family,” he snaps, coming closer. “Without me, you wouldn’t have this house, or those credit cards, or a quality education. You wouldn’t have anything. Since your father left you and your mother, I have provided. And so yes, you do owe me something.” He snakes his arms around my neck and pulls me close to him. “Don’t make me regret marrying your mother. Don’t make her suffer.” He breathes in the top of my head, kissing my messy hair. Every inch of me is cold. It feels like bees are all over my body and I can’t get away. I’m watching a horror movie and I’m the damsel in distress, only I know the ending and I can’t get out.
Rufus pushes me towards my bed, my leg caught in between his. When we reach it he takes my wrists and shoves them out on either side of me, exposing my breasts covered by a thin defense of cotton. “You’re too beautiful to resist,” his syrupy voice escalades down my body, leaving me tingling with fear, even though I know what’s coming. I tell myself to dissociate. It’s the only way to get through the next fifteen minutes alive.
When he is through with me, a light goes on in my head and I can see clearly again. I can see the puffy white duvet cover swallowing my tiny body. I can see the door is closed again and he is gone down the long hall, into another wing of the house, sleeping with my mother. I can see my book bag sitting on the coffee table by the couch, by my purse, and I think of homework. Then I realize my cappuccino is ready and so I get up slowly because I can’t get up any other way, and grab it with trembling hands. It dawns on me that I won’t be getting more than a couple hours of sleep tonight, but that’s okay. Nightmares don’t really constitute themselves as sleep anyways.