You just don't do that shit.
People like Dylan, the ones who pick on those smaller than them, or people who are insecure, just to get their rocks off, fucking disgust me. And then those victims blame themselves.
It all starts to click. Jasmine's mannerisms, the things I couldn't figure out are clear as day now. I knew they looked familiar.
Jasmine is my mom.
"No!" My fist slams against the steering wheel.
Get control.
I breathe out. "She needs me." She doesn't know it yet, but she does.
I don't know where I thought she lived. Part of me expected it to be a rundown part of town. Call it misguided preconception. Tidy houses line the streets. A couple of people are walking their dogs. The fences and gardens are all well maintained. There's even a small park with children playing on swings. The area is just . . . nice. If only her neighbors knew exactly what went on behind closed doors.
Do I even know?
The car slows as I look for her house number. I spot her car in the driveway and cut the engine, rolling into a space on the street. If he's inside, I don't want to give him the heads up. I watch the windows from the car. There's no movement and I really hope he stayed out to cool off.
I jog up to their house. I wonder how she'll react when she sees me. Will she be relieved, or will she turn me away? If there is one thing I learned from my mother, it's that abuse can and will completely brainwash a person.
No.
God, I have no right being here, but I keep walking, controlling my every move. There are concrete steps up to a screen door. I reach out and press on the handle.
Locked.
Oh, hell no.
I bang my fist against the screen. It rattles in its frame, but I don't care. If Jasmine is home, she's going to know I'm here. "Jasmine," I call, moving down the side to look through the kitchen window.
Nothing. The worktops are free of clutter. Cookbooks are lined up neatly on a shelf. There's a bowl of lemons and oranges on the table-shit I've only ever seen on the television. It looks like a show home.
I move back to the door and see movement from the house next door. I spin around, a pair of weathered eyes stare back at me. The old woman mouths something quickly, then disappears behind the curtain.
Odd.
I rattle the screen again. Still nothing. I press my ear to the metal and hear a crash from somewhere inside. My stomach drops.
My legs carry me to the front garden, where I look for something-anything-to break the lock. My foot catches on a large rock and I grab it and race back to the door, hammering down on the handle until my shoulders burn and the cheap metal crumples and the door swings open.
"Please. Dylan. I'm sorry." Jasmine's small voice reverberates through me.
There's a laugh and goose bumps break out over my body, my shirt clinging to the cold sweat that coats my skin. "You're sorry. I saw the way you were looking at him," Dylan snarls. His voice is deep and cold. "Did you fuck him? Is that why you're working there? You want to be a whore? A little slut? I'll fucking show you how to be a good whore."
I take the stairs two at a time, pausing when I reach the second floor and see a trail of blood leading to a closed door. I should have had Torch come with me.
"Please. Stop." Jasmine's cries are more desperate now.
I follow their voices and charge into the room.
Jasmine looks up at me from the floor, her chin pushed into the thick pile of the carpet. Her lower lip is split, her eyes red and swollen. The left one has almost entirely closed up and a large purple welt covers her temple. By tomorrow I'm sure that they will turn black and blue. Her clothes hang off of her in pieces. But what gets me, what royally pisses me off and makes me want to kill the fucker, is seeing Dylan connected to her body.
His thrusts are hard, his grunts forcing cries from her tiny body. While he gets off on torturing Jasmine, she begs him to stop.
It is as if all my thoughts gnarl together as the need to protect her floods my bloodstream, an insatiable craving twisting my insides as I lunge forward to keep this monster away from the girl with the haunted brown eyes. I knock him to his back and slam my fist into his face, hearing the crunch of his nose under my hand. His head hits the wall behind him and his eyes roll back. My fists connect with his face, over and over again. I'm like a man possessed. Blood spatters on my clothes. My knuckles split but the pain almost feels good. I can't control myself as the way he was hurting her replays in my mind again and again. My vision fades in and out until all I see is black
"Cutter!"
My eyes snap open, landing on the sweetest image I have ever seen. Although Jasmine looks as rough as I feel, she is beautiful, in every sense of the word. Tears run down her cheeks as she reaches out to touch me but pulls back, her teeth grazing over her bottom lip. She winces, her tongue peeking out to gently glide over the split in the skin.