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I see all of those pieces of me, and yet, they don’t feel likeme. They feel fake. Manufactured. An artificially happy, acceptable representation of myself that won’t upset the world or make others uncomfortable.
If they really knew who I am and what lives in me, would they still respect me? Would my father still look at me with eyes full of love and appreciation? Would Addy continue to work with me? Would Shiloh still want me in her wedding? Would I still be successful?
No. Definitely not. No one trusts crazy.
The chaos that lives inside me is buried down so deep, no one would even know it exists, let alone where to look for it. It’s a loud, painful ache that scrapes against my organs like it’s trying to claw its way out. It’s a roar in my ears that refuses to be silent, andit’s constant.
That’s what I see when I look in the mirror. I see the chaos bleeding through my skin. It lives behind my dark brown eyes, making them appear black and demonic. It’s the cause for the dark circles expertly hidden beneath my concealer. The reason behind the muscles that cover my body—a result of pushing myself too far when I try and run from the never-ending anarchy that isme.
It's no wonder I hate crowds, preferring quiet solitude above all else. It’s the only time I can truly be myself.
There is nothing from my past that should cause me to be thisfucked up. Yes, I lost my mom when I was little. Yes, I was raised by a single father. But he was wonderful. I wasn't abused or traumatized. Nothing crazy happened in my life to make me this way.
I feel dead inside, and I don’t know why. I seek out adrenaline in the form of roller-coasters and haunted houses just tofeelsomething. I enjoy rough, painful sex because the thrill of it makes me feel alive. It helps me let go and justexistin the moment. I like to role-play. Biting. Chasing. Running. I like to be slapped around and degraded. I just plainlike it. It turns me on more than anything else I’ve ever experienced, and I don’t have a goddamned reason for why. It’s just another thing about myself that makes no sense, but I’ve stopped questioning it.
I once saw a therapist in my early twenties. She said I was struggling with survivor's guilt, which is ridiculous because I didn't survive anything. My mom died, and my dad paid the price. I got out unscathed. What do I have to be sad about? Nothing.
When I told the therapist this, she said I was suffering from emotional detachment. She said, oftentimes, children in high-stress environments can shut their emotions off to protect themselves. Again, I said this was stupid because I wasn'temotionless.I feel apathy and sadness for others. I love and love hard. I smile and laugh. I’m not empty all the time. Just…sometimes.
Then she said, maybe I was an empath, and the only way to protect myself from feeling too much was to shut it all off until I felt safe in the quiet reprieve of my home.
So, I told her she was nuts.
A door slamming down the hall jars me from my thoughts, pulling me back to the present.Fuck, I really need to go. I quickly lean forward and reapply my lipstick. The blush color is subtle against my skin but compliments my outfit well. I knew I’d need something chic, comfortable, and professional since I spent all day in court and will have a lengthy drive followed by an even longer rehearsal dinner tonight. Stepping back, I force my face into the vague resemblance of happiness, my cheeks dimpling with a smile, and shove all of my muddled thoughts away.
If I keep doing that, will they eventually disappear altogether?
Shaking my head, I exit the bathroom and make my way back to my office, my hand clenching the tube of lipstick tightly in frustration. When I reach my desk, I snag my jacket from the back of my chair and slide it on, drop my lipstick back into my purse and toss my bag over my shoulder. My eyes slide over my desk in search of my phone. I could have sworn I left it next to my laptop. I rummage through a few documents and folders and come up short. My brows furrow in confusion. I pull my bag from my shoulder and quickly dig through it, finding it on the first pass. That’s weird…
It vibrates again, this time with a voicemail notification. I groan, seeing three missed calls from Shiloh and one from my dad's phone number. My gut clenches painfully, but I shove the feeling down.. Forgetting everything else, I grab my shit and head out, rushing toward the elevator. This time it dings immediately, and I swear, it’s like the gods are shining down on me for once. Now, if only we can keep that up when it comes to traffic.
The doors slide open, and I rush in, only to stumble to a halt seconds before colliding with someone. My mouth drops open, ready to tell the man off for rudely standing right in front of the doorway, but my words die on my tongue as we lock eyes. In an instant, all of the air in the elevator gets sucked from the small box making my knees buckle.
His energy is so potent, so intense, that I’m unable to move. My brain misfires and then blanks out, going offline as I gape at him in shock. Everything around me disappears but him. For a moment in time, it feels as though I’m a bug caught in a spider’s sticky web, unable to flee or save myself. Except, instead of feeling like tiny, insignificant prey, I feel like the most delicious meal the starving predator has ever consumed.
He's consuming me like a motherfucking Death Eater right now. What in the fresh hell is this shit?
As though he knows exactly how much power he’s wielding over me, a complete stranger, he smirks in satisfaction.He likes his power. I suck in a sharp breath at the realization, and his smile widens as he crosses his arms over his chest. Still unable to move or speak, my eyes track the movement, watching as his strong biceps flex beneath his sweater. He chuckles, and the deep, dark sound intensifies the spell I’m under. I suck in a sharp, heaving breath that makes him laugh again. It’s a violent sound that goes straight to my clit.
Correction. He doesn’t justlikehis power. He fucking loves it.
The elevator crackles with a potent, heady concoction of feelings that I can’t quite put a name to, but it’s overwhelming in the best way. My skin is covered in goosebumps, my heart is pounding, and my palms are sweating. My body feels like a fuse box, ready to explode in the midst of a storm. I don’t know if I should run for my life or drop my eyes and submit.
He’s a predator. There is no doubt about it. I should be scared. I should be screaming or, at the very least, moving as far away from him as possible until I have the opportunity to flee. I shouldn’t be standing within reaching distance, watching with rapt attention as he decides what to do with me.
I’ve stood in the presence of murderers and criminals…true, honest-to-goodness villains…and I’veneverfelt this way before. My brows pinch together, and I forcibly shake my head, trying to gain some composure. I take a step back, needing the distance between us so I can think clearly. My back slams into the now-closed elevator doors, and the few feet I’d just gained suddenly feel like mere inches. Swallowing thickly as we stand in a silent stare-off, I use my newfound position to really take him in.
The man is tall, at least 6’2 or maybe a bit bigger. He’s not overly thin, nor is he bulky. His build is medium, but through his clothing, I can tell he’s fit. He’s wearing dark jeans that mold to his long legs like a glove. The collar and cuffs of a white button-down are peeking out from beneath his tight, black sweater. He has a brown leather computer bag slung across his chest that only adds to his overall nerdy vibe. My eyes rake up his body without thought, and it confuses me. I feel out of control, as though I can’t help but commit every ounce of him to memory, and I genuinely have no idea why.
Finally reaching his face, I barely stifle a gasp. His skin is pale, especially next to his black, shaggy hair that’s definitely in need of a trim. His full, pink lips are still turned upwards in a cocky smirk that for some unknown reason, has my heart thudding in my chest. He’s beautiful. Hands down, one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen. He’s average by all counts. No tattoos or piercings to add to the violent, dominant energy he emits. It’s like his appearance purposefully contradicts…him. I’m not sure what exactly it is about him that makes me think that, but at this moment, it doesn’t even matter.
Is it his strong jaw that looks as though it was chiseled from stone? His cheekbones are high, his bone structure is reminiscent of a Greek statue. His sharp nose has a tiny bump on it as though it was maybe broken and then repaired. His thick, black brows poke out from the tops of his rectangular glasses, which do absolutelynothingto hide his incredible eyes.
His eyes….
They’re so blue, they look clear like the ocean.
Such a paradox to my own black, beastly eyes,my mind unhelpfully supplies. What is happening to me? Why can’t I speak or form any coherent thoughts? I may hate people, but fuck, even I know how to fake it in the presence of a hot man…and holy shit…is he hot.
