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I left the class with an entirely new lexicon of terminology and even some new skills, but the fact remained: I still sucked at storytelling.
The only real benefit was that my professor led a module that sort of changed my life. There had been a debate about the importance of side characters and why writers should always treat them like main characters.
“Because that’s who we are, depending on what story a person is reading. You’re someone else’s side character, but you’re your own hero.”
I’d felt like a side character for so long by that point, it almost made me cry because it was a reminder that my existence—my reality—was important. Even if I would never be more than an afterthought to my father, or to my cousins, or to the people who worked for them, I was still the heroine of my own book.
Provided I wasn’t TSTL. Because I was starting to wonder if maybe Iamtoo stupid to live as I hop off the balcony two weeks after my almost-assault and the subsequent rescue by the one-armed stranger and his terrifying friend.
Still, I’m not going to be cowed. I’m not going to let some frat-boy asshole with roofies in his pocket terrify me into another bubble. I fought too long and too hard for even the smallest scraps of independence. I need to know that I could face whatever is out there in the world and that I could also save myself.
I don’t need some hero on a white steed. Would it be nice? Sure. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be swept off their feet and taken to some castle and loved for the rest of their life. But I don’t want to be saved. I don’t need to be.
And the first steps to accepting that about myself is peering around the corner of the building and watching the inept guards order from the taco truck a few hundred feet away from my front door. To be fair, they still have no idea what happened to me while I was out that night, but you’d think my father would have hired better men if he actually wanted to prevent me from leaving.
But I’m free now. They have no idea I’m out, and the world is my oyster…or whatever.
At least, the night is, anyway.
I take the familiar path down to the string of bars, the crowds a little thicker this time, and I’m definitely a little more hypervigilant. I have no idea what the terrifying redhead did to Mike, but I hadn’t heard about a missing student or someone maimed, so I figure he probably just put the fear of God into him and let him go.
I can’t say I believe that would be enough to stop a guy like Mike from trying again, but hopefully, he’d leave me alone if he ever saw me again. I feel some measure of guilt for not reporting it, though. It was more likely no one would believe me, but on the off chance someone did, it would prevent him from being able to do it again.
But I don’t want to think about what will happen if my father finds out. Any hope of freedom ever again would be ripped away from me. I’d kiss the last semester of college goodbye and any hope for grad school.
Instead of being stuck under his thumb, I’d be forced under his boot, and that would kill me.
Dramatic? Maybe, but it is what it is because of the man my father is: ruthless, soulless, hungry.
The only real hope for me is flying under the radar long enough he just forgets I’m around. And God, that does hurt. I like to tell myself that I don’t give a shit about him or his acceptance, but I can’t erase that small girl from my past who had once been so loved—then suddenly became worthless in his eyes the moment my mother and sister were lowered into the ground.
Loss is supposed to bring people together, not fracture them into tiny pieces.
But I can’t wallow now. Now is the time that I reclaim my independence and erase that last prickle of fear about walking into a club by myself.
Taking a breath, I start toward a place with a Mardi Gras theme that has huge slushie machines behind the bar when I feel a prickle against the back of my neck. Like I said, I was taught from a very young age to be aware of my surroundings, and that night a few weeks ago was the first time my instincts failed me.
In the first few days after my near miss, every time I closed my eyes, I could see the dark smirk on the one-armed man’s face, and if I let myself linger in the memory, I see his friend. The redhead’s eyes probably scared me the most. They were icy and sparked with something dangerous—like he would take pleasure in hurting someone.
Maybe me.
And I can’t really deny that thought appeals to me in some way because some of my darkest fantasies involve a little bondage and a red ass, but something tells me it’s deeper than that for him. Of course, I only saw both of them for a second, but as I walk through the crowd, I can’t help but look for them.
They seemed to know me at the time, and maybe it’s true, but I want to believe I would have noticed before. I can feel eyes on me now, though, but no one looks suspicious. I approach the bar, but I panic before getting into the line and keep walking as the sensation at the back of my neck increases.
I pick up the pace, and suddenly—without even realizing I’m doing it—I duck into an alley as a huge group of sorority girls wearing some sort of sashes and screaming like they’re at a bachelorette party passes by. It’s the perfect cover as I press myself to the dingy brick wall and attempt to peer around one of the green dumpsters.
It smells like literal ass and vomit, but I feel protected by the shadows as I try to regain my bearings. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe this was a mistake.
Maybe—
Before I can finish my thought, there are hands on me. I open my mouth to scream, but that’s just what my assailant wants because he laughs as he shoves a cloth over my face. I don’t recognize the scent, but it’s caustic and burns as I try to hold my breath, but the person caught me mid-scream, and my lungs are already burning.
I try to take the smallest breath, but the second I do, the world swims. It’s like the dentist’s office but a thousand times worse, and my limbs start to go heavy. Just before my knees buckle and I lose it, suddenly, they’re gone.
The ground comes rushing at me, and my body is like wet spaghetti as I crumple down in a heap. My cheek scrapes across the filthy asphalt as I attempt to turn my head, but my eyes are too blurry to make out much more than two figures in a tussle.
I can hear it, though—the fighting. There’s only one voice, and it’s the same as the person who had laughed in my ear before. He sounds amused, but it only lasts a second before there’s a sudden series of pops.
