Page 16 of Masked Instincts

LUNA

I went to class after the run-in with the man I could have sworn I knew. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. He seemed so familiar, and there was a moment that I thought it was Jax. He had the same aura, but it’s not as if I could see his face that night of the party. I sure as hell couldn’t see his face hidden behind the hood or mask outside of the library.

But his eyes were green, so green that they looked fake.

I’m probably just crazy. Out of my mind.

I’ve convinced myself that I am with everything going on. With the way I let myself go at the party. My life seems to have turned upside down. I can feel my grades slipping. Myself slipping. But now is my time to shine and get back up on my horse. In class, we got an assignment. A research essay on something traumatic someone has gone through, broadcasted their story and how they overcame whatever battle they faced.

I know just the thing to write about.

Chase and I are sitting on my couch. It’s been a day since I saw him, and he was kicked out of the library for being too loud. We found it best to come here in case he wanted to let loose on me again. He hasn’t. He’s been silent since he entered my apartment.

“What are you doing your essay on?” I ask.

“I’m not sure yet. I haven’t found something I like enough, you?” And so he speaks.

“I might have an idea, but you’ll see,” I respond.

As time drives by, Chase becomes frustrated with his research. His fingers clack against his keyboard as he types and Google searches. Fingers flick textbook pages. He’s struggling with writing, but my shaky hands glide across my paper. A pen flowing smoothly. The words on the pages are sharp with jagged edges from my shaking hands, but what I’m writing breaks my heart as I relive through memories that once tore me apart. It was a time in my life that I didn’t quite understand until I was old enough to know what was wrong.

Chase continues to fight with his essay for nearly two hours. In the time it takes him to find an outline, I’m finishing the last words of mine.

Once upon a true time, there was a girl who lived in a run-down neighborhood. Houses that had chipped paint and long, dead grass covering their yards. Window shutters that barely hung on. She ran outside most days, searching for friends or anyone to play with, but it was a lonely neighborhood when it came to kids. Adults lounged on porches, always looking asleep as music blasted through speakers. When she’d sneak back into the house, some nights, she got caught and would be reprimanded with a belt, a lit cigarette, a hand, or even a foot. Different objects were used to harm this child for not listening. For not coming home when the street lights went on. For not listening when she didn’t eat the rest of her stale cereal because her parents barely remembered to buy food. Neglect lived in the house. She felt alone and scared and was always confused about why her parents, the ones who were supposed to love her, were hurting her. When she cried and pleaded for it to end, it never did.

Until one day, a good neighbor who lived in an awful neighborhood overheard too much. Overheard the screams, the shouting, the banging and breaking, they called the police. The little girl thought she was going to be saved from the pain, the heartbreak, the trauma, but there was nothing to be done. Her parents made it seem like it was a big misunderstanding. That her parents were fighting and someone slipped down the stairs. But that isn’t what happened. Her mommy was pushed by her daddy. She was confused as to why he was hurting her. She’d never seen it before. Mommy and Daddy usually hurt the little girl together, but she never expected the harm to be turned to Mommy.

Despite the pain they’ve caused her, she loved them. She loved them so much that she’d draw family photos for them, but they’d sigh in disgust before using the paper as fire food. Sometimes, her parents would act so crazy, as if they weren’t in their right minds, but she never understood. She thought they were sick and that they needed a doctor, but no doctor ever came. No one came to help until the good neighbor called the police again and again. Eventually a pattern too intriguing to resist began, and the police kept showing up. In uniform and not, until a lovely lady came to their door. She introduced herself as Amanda Walker and said to the little girl who answered the door, “I’m here to help. Are your parents home?” The little girl shook her head because her parents were gone. This small, seven-year-old girl was left alone to fend for herself without knowing how to care for herself. Amanda asked if she could come inside, and the little girl nodded her head up and down. She didn’t know the danger of letting a stranger inside. Amanda walked around slowly, looking at every inch of the house. She grabbed things as she walked around. Needle-like objects, small bags with white powder in them. The little girl tried to go for it, but Amanda stopped her. Amanda told her it was terrible for her and that it was not safe.

Why would her parents have it in the house if it isn’t safe? She always wondered why she wasn’t safe. Two friendly and pretty officers came by that same day when her parents got home. They took them away in silver circles, something with a chain on it. She was so confused, and it wasn’t until years later that she learned what all of this meant. That her parents, indeed, were too sick to love her right, that they just needed help. When the little girl turned sixteen, her parents tried to come around. They looked better, healthier, but she was emancipated now. She understood better what they did to her as a child, and she couldn’t find forgiveness in her heart. She thanked Amanda silently every single day. Wondering where she may have ended up if it weren’t for her. If it wasn’t for that friendly neighbor who cared enough to keep calling. After graduating high school, she went to college to get a degree to help others. And now she’s writing this story. Her name is Luna Winters.

Chase stares at me when he reaches the end of my essay, eyes filled with unshed tears. “Luna, you never told me about this,” he murmurs.

“It’s not something that I talk about,” I say. I don’t talk because it hurts, but also because what is there to tell? My parents aren’t in my life. It’s a broken bridge that's too far past rebuilding. There’s nothing to say.

“And now you’re writing about it? People are going to see this, Lun. You know he will pick the best assignments and read them out. This will surely be one of them,” Chase reminds me.

“I know,” I mumble. “It didn’t seem right to dig into someone else’s life when I can dig up my own.”

“I think I might understand you better now.”

“What do you mean?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

“You are always so kind and patient with people. Your drive to help other people is unfathomable. I never expected this to be why,” he shrugs his shoulders. “Do you want children?” He asks unexpectedly.

“One day. I’ve always feared it, though,” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I thought that if I had a child, they’d have some fucked up childhood like me.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” Chase reaches his hand out to mine and envelopes it beneath his. The touch is warm and caring. This is the most vulnerable I have felt in years. I feel more vulnerable in the safety of my apartment— which, in hindsight, isn’t really that safe if people are breaking in— than I did on the ground of the woods. Being exposed and raw sexually is far less scary than being exposed and raw emotionally.

I turn my attention away to stare out the window. Rain taps against the glass in heavy drops, and droplets drip down the pane. Staring further, near the sidewalk across the way, I see a man with a hood over his head. The same body and form as the man in the library. The one who reminded me of Jax.

Slightly beneath the hood, I can see his face is covered by skeleton face paint. The man from the classroom.

Can it be that all of these men are the same person? I shake my head theoretically because there is no way.

Three different men. It has to be.

But something deep in my gut tells me that they’re not different, and maybe that’s why the unease is slowly slipping away.