Page 2 of Fueled (Driven 2)
I wonder if there’s pain when you die.
Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman.
“I love you, Colty. Do this for Mommy and I’ll love you again, okay? A good little boy does anything for his mommy. Anything. Love means you do things like this. If you really love me and know that I love you, you’ll do this so that Mommy can feel better again. I love you. I know you’re hungry. So am I. I told him you wouldn’t fight this time because you love me.”
Her pleading voice rings in my ears. I know that no matter how hard I scream, she’ll never open the door to help, despite sitting on the other side of it. I know she can hear my cries—the pain, the terror, the loss of innocence—but the haze of her withdrawal is so strong she doesn’t care. She needs the drugs he’ll give her when he’s done with me. His payment. That’s all she cares about.
Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman. Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman. I repeat the names of the superheroes, my silent escape from this hell. From the fear that races through my veins, coats my skin with sweat, and fills the air with its unmistakable scent. I repeat the names again. Praying any of these four superheroes will show up and rescue me. To fight evil.
“Tell me,” he grunts. “Say it or it’ll hurt more until you do.”
I bite my lip and welcome the metallic taste of my blood as I try to prevent myself from crying out in fear and terror. From giving him what he wants, my screams for the help that I know will never come. He grips me hard. It hurts so bad. I give in and say what he wants to hear.
“I love you. I love you. I love you…” I repeat over and over, endlessly as his breath picks up from the excitement my words bring him. My fingernails dig into my clenched fists as his hands grope and grab their way down my torso. His rough fingers find the waistband of my threadbare underwear—one of the only pair I have—and I hear them rip under his excited and jerky movements. I suck in my breath, my body shaking violently, knowing what happens next. One hand cups my crotch, squeezing me too hard and hurting me, while I feel his other hand spreading me apart from behind.
Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman.
I can’t help it. I’m starving but…it just hurts too much. I buck against him. “No,” gurgles past my chapped lips as I fight hard to escape what happens next. I thrash violently, connecting with some part of him as I spring from the bed and escape momentarily. Fear consumes me, engulfs me as he rises off the stained mattress and comes at me, a determined grimace on his face and desire in his eyes.
I think I hear my name being called and confusion flickers through my overwhelmed brain. What is she doing here? She has to go. He’ll hurt her too. Oh fuck! Not Rylee too. My frantic thoughts scream for her to run. To get the hell out, but I can’t get the words out. Fear has locked them in my throat.
“Colton.”
The horror in my head slowly melds and seeps into the soft morning light of my bedroom. I’m not sure if I can believe my eyes. What is real? I’m thirty-two but I feel like I’m eight. The chilled morning air mingles with the sheen of sweat covering my naked body, but the cold I feel is so deep down in my soul I know that no amount of heat will warm me up. My whole body is taut with the impending assault that it takes a moment for me to believe that he’s not really here.
I shift my gaze, my pulse thundering through my veins, and lock eyes with Rylee. She is sitting up in my beast of a bed, pale blue sheets pooled around her bare waist and her lips swollen from sleep. I stare at her, hoping this is real but not sure if I believe it. “Oh fuck,” I exhale on a shaky breath, unclenching my hands and bringing them up to rub them over my face to try and wipe away the nightmare. The coarseness of my stubble on my hand is welcome. It tells me I really am here. That I’m an adult and he’s nowhere near.
That he can’t hurt me again.
“Fuuuccckkk!” I grit out again, trying to get a hold on the chaos in my head. I drop my hands down to my side. When Rylee moves, my vision comes back into focus. She very slowly reaches her hand up to rub the opposing shoulder, her face grimacing with pain, but her eyes are chock full of concern as they remain focused on me.
Did I hurt her? Fuckin’ Christ! I hurt her.
This can’t be real. My nerves are shot. My mind is racing. If this is real, and that’s really Rylee, then why do I still smell him? How come I can still feel the scrape of his beard against my neck? How come I can still hear his grunts of pleasure? Feel the pain?
“Rylee, I—”
I swear his taste is still in my mouth? Oh God.
My stomach revolts at the thought and the memory it conjures up. “Give me a fucking minute.” I can’t get to the bathroom fast enough. I need to rid the taste in my mouth.
I barely make it to the toilet, stumbling and falling to my knees as I empty the nonexistent contents of my stomach into the bowl. My body shakes violently as I do what I can to expunge every trace of him from my body even if those traces are only in my mind. I slide down to lean back against the tiled wainscot wall, the cool of the marble welcome against my heated skin. My hand trembles as I wipe my mouth with the back of it. I lean my head back, closing my eyes, and try to shove the memories back into hiding to no avail.
Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman.
What the hell happened? I haven’t had that dream in over fifteen years. Why now? Why did—oh fuck! Oh fuck! Rylee. Rylee saw that. Rylee was witness to the nightmare that I’ve never confessed to. The nightmare full of things that absolutely no one knows about. Did I say anything? Did she hear something? No, no, no! She can’t find out.
She can’t be here.
Shame washes through me and lodges in my throat, forcing me to breathe deep to prevent from getting sick again. If she knows the things I did—the things he made me do, the things I did without a struggle—then she’ll know what kind of person I am. She’ll know how horrible and dirty and unworthy I am. Why loving somebody, accepting love from somebody is not possible for me. Ever.
The deep-seated fear that lives just under the surface inside of me—over someone finding out the truth—bubbles up, sputters over the edge.
Oh fuck, not again. My stomach riots violently, and when I’m finished dry heaving, I flush the toilet and force myself up. I stumble to the sink and with shaking hands squeeze a heaping glob of toothpaste on my toothbrush and scrub my mouth aggressively. I close my eyes, willing the feelings away while trying to remember the feel of Rylee’s hands?instead of any of the numerous women I’ve used unabashedly over the years to try and smother the horror in my mind—to take the memory away.
To use pleasure to bury the pain.
“Fuck!” It doesn’t work so I scrub my teeth until I can taste the coppery hint of blood from my gums. I drop my toothbrush with a clatter on the counter and cup some of the water in my hands to splash onto my face. I focus on Rylee’s feet through the mirror’s reflection as she enters the bathroom. I take a deep breath. I can’t let her see me like this. She’s too smart—has too much experience with this kind of shit—and I’m not ready for the skeletons in my closet to be exposed and gone through with a fine-tooth comb.
