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Fast asleep, wearing nothing but a t-shirt as she’s curled up with a pink stuffed bunny.
For a few heartbeats, all I can do is silently be grateful to see she’s alive. To watch as her chest rises and falls while her parted lips look so delicate with lingering red lipstick. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, just like her face, with the alcohol surely still in her system.
“Stupid Dom,” she mutters and wrinkles her nose, her body shifting in place just slightly before her arm is lifting as if she’s trying to hit something. We can acknowledge the bandages wrapped around her fingertips and all along her right hand. It stays in the air as she continues muttering absolute gibberish, but it slowly lowers until it’s on the bunny doll she’s cradling.
Her breaths grow slower and deeper, proving she isn’t waking up anytime soon.
It’s what allows us to pick up what’s across the four walls.
Pictures.
Red, pink, and white polaroids decorate the walls from top to bottom. It covers my blue walls that previously held various posters of hockey celebs I admire or the various medals and accomplishments I’ve obtained over the years.
It’s easy to decipher the photos in each Polaroid because they have one thing in common.
Iva.
Whether it’s her walking through the halls, sitting in class, in the back seat of our car, or even in the hallows of herbedroom. Various photos of just Iva going on with her daily life on Leighton U property.
Some pictures have her with one of us, mostly Zander and Ares.
As I continue to view the various images, I come to realize how little photos there are of me in the equation. There are none. At least, none where I’m in close range. The few that I do spot myself in, I’m so far away.
And the intriguing part of all those photos is Iva looking my way.
Acknowledging my distance.
Noticing those around me are either my hockey buds or anyone I think can help me get ahead in this game.
Scarlett included.
In all those photos, her expression is the same.
A sight of longing. The fear of being left behind. The hurtful expression of neglect.
I recognize it because those were the looks she’d give that triggered me. Like a puppy waiting to be loved. To be played with. Fed and nurtured by the one who took it in.
Only Iva isn’t a puppy.
She’s the girl who I enjoyed bullying. Just to make me feel a sense of power over something. Over… someone.
To feel what it’s like to be like my father…
“Let this be your final warning.”
The words don’t come from any of us.
We turn around to see Warren at the door, holding a sticky note of neon orange that looks like it barely escaped being burned.
“You’ve marked what was destined to be mine. Enjoyed her taste and sinful moans. You think she’s yours to deflower and ruin. All because you carry atitle you’ve never had to fight for,”Warren reads, word for word.
When he pauses, he looks to the bed, and we all acknowledge the sleeping woman who probably has no clue what happened while she’s nestled in the land of dreams.
“You want to see the wrath of a Real King of Carnage? Keep fumbling these cards, and you’ll realize the true ruler of Leighton, who would never play with his food.”
Play with his food…
“Moonshine?” I whisper, only to see Warren slowly shake his head.
