One Hundred and Thirty-Six Scars(7)

His head turned over his shoulder. “I’ve been watching you,” he began. “For the past few weeks, I’ve heard your screams and I’ve heard your sobbing through these walls. How long has he been doing this?” he asked, his voice dark.

“I—I—uh,” I stuttered, covering my front with my hands and pulling my shirt down in an attempt to cover myself.

“Just tell me. Be honest with me,” he demanded, keeping his head turned over his shoulder.

This was the first time I’d spoken about what went on between these walls. But because this man already knew, it didn’t seem as hard as I thought, I opened to him like the Red Sea.

“Since I was four, but he didn’t rape me until I was twelve. I don’t know why he waited until I was twelve,” I whispered.

Silence. The air thickened with anger, hot molten anger that was vibrating off him in waves. He walked to me, took hold of the throw blanket that was on the sofa and covered me before he walked back to Donald.

“Let me finish him,” he growled, turning his head back down to the lifeless body on the ground.

I could’ve pretended that I needed to think about this, but I didn’t. This man had stolen every single part of me. If there was one thing I would never give him, though, it was my wrath. I would never let him steal away my grace, no matter how haunted that grace may have become.

I ran my fingers through my hair, the greasy, matted mess leaving a residue behind on my fingers. I didn’t care how dirty I looked. “Okay.”

And with that, he knelt down to Donald, gripped his face with his hands and with one snap he dropped Donald’s limp head and lifeless body onto the worn vinyl floor. My breath hitched for a second and although I’d just witnessed a death, a murder—I felt relief.

Walking to me with his face still covered slightly by the hoodie, he pulled out some keys from his pocket. “Go to my room. Don’t talk to anyone. Go there now. Do you understand?” I didn’t answer, I was still partially in shock from what I’d just witnessed. To my shock, was a tidal wave of relief that was waiting to come crashing over me.

“Can I see you?” I asked, swallowing down the lump which had formed in my throat.

The shadow caused by his hoodie accentuated his strong jaw. His large rough hands reached up to the rim of his hoodie, grasping the material with his fingers. I watched carefully as he lowered it over his head to lay around his neck.

He was younger than what I would have guessed. I thought for sure by the size of him he would be well over thirty, but he had to be only around six years older than I was. His eyes were dark, like marbles from a deep orbit shaded by dark eyelashes. His hair in a military cut and the soft olive skin that framed his face had not one defect.

He’s beautiful, I thought to myself.

When he moved his head sideways to look at Donald’s form lying on the ground, his hoodie moved and revealed a hint of his neck where a long slash appeared, it looked as though it ran from behind his right ear right across his neck. I didn’t get a good look at it, and I sure as hell don’t want to ask about it. He just killed someone, I won’t be the one asking questions right now.

“You need to go. Now. I’ll need to wait until it’s dark out before moving the body, but you need to go next door and wait for me.”

“How old are you?” I whispered.

He stilled. “What? Why?”

“Because your body seems older, but your face looks… young.”

“I’m twenty-one.” He pushed the cold metal keys into the palm of my hand. “Now, go!” I winced at his commanding voice, but turned in my footsteps and walked toward the door anyway. Grasping the handle in my hand, I paused, glancing over my shoulder to him. His hoodie was back on his head.

“Thank you,” I said briefly before walking out of the door. I reached his door, slid the key in and turned it open, quickly walking in and slamming it shut behind me.

One hundred and thirty-six scars—that was the most Donald would ever get out of me.

And with that, the tidal wave of relief flushed over me as my legs gave way, dropping me onto the floor. They’re waves that I would ride for an eternity. Physically, I was free. However, under my tainted soul was still the girl rocking in a corner with shackles tied around her ankles, praying for God to save her. God never came, though. Instead, he sent a dark knight.





Twenty-One-Years-Old




“Beast you can’t do this. Hella, tell him he can’t do this,” Jada demanded from her pace walking.

“He can,” Hella added. “And I’ll be going with him.”

Hella had been here for ten years and was recruited at age ten. He was a lost boy. Caught up in the foster care system. One night he was sleeping under one of the local bridges in NYC when he was found. I guess they took him because of his tender age and because he had no family, no-one who cared—a lost boy. He was utterly ruthless and shredded anybody with the snap of your fingers.