Dust

D
ust

ISBN: 978-1-941467-26-8

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Copyright 2016 Mandy Harbin

Edited by Lacey Thacker

Cover Art by Letitia Hasser | RBA Designs

This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any existing means without written permission from Mandy Harbin, M.W. Muse, Penning Princess Publishing, or Mandolin Park, LLC.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

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T
here was blood
.

Not the slick feel or the metallic smell of it, but I was seeing red. It wasn't the first time I'd been plagued with rage, but it had never hurt like this. I was furious beyond the point of sanity. The pain was crushing, all consuming, and all my screwed-up self wanted to do was bask in it. Allow it to fuel my anger.

I could hear Liv talking to me, but her words did not register. Part of me wanted to blackout again, seek the comfort of complete darkness I'd been enveloped in moments before, right after learning the horrible truth. Even then, it was as if I'd been trying to swim out of the deepest part of the ocean, but somewhere inside me, I'd known if I woke up I would wish I had drowned within its depths instead. The darkness hadn't lasted long enough.

My heart was breaking for her. I swore I'd never let a woman own me, but somehow she'd weaseled her way in. Now, I just wanted to die for her, make this pain go away. "How could you do this?" I breathed.

"I just wanted to be loved."

The grief in that voice wouldn't be accepted. It surged my anger instead, and I fisted my hands.

"Please," Liv pleaded softly. I shut my eyes, blocking out the desire to go to her.

"You don't deserve love," I seethed. Not from me. Never.

"Easy, Kill."

"Don't call me that!" The nickname implied the closeness we'd shared. One we'd never have again. "I don't know you. I never knew you. You are nothing to me. Nothing!" No, there hadn't been blood. But there would be. I pushed the closest shelving unit down and watched it crash to the concrete floor in a pile of dust. I didn't want any obstacles. Death would be swift.

"Killian!" Liv screamed. "Don't. You're better than this."

She didn't know me at all. My rage would not be denied, could not be controlled, and I embraced that, relished in it.

And as I lunged to seek my revenge for this devastating pain, I knew right then there would be no more denying the monster I always knew I truly was.

T
he campus was huge
, but no matter how large LSU was, it still made me feel claustrophobic. I hadn't been back to Louisiana since my parents divorced when I was ten. Everything changed that year. It'd been eleven years, three months, and nine days since my world turned on its axis. Before that day, I was happy, normal even. My father's little angel and my mother's baby girl. I'd had a life here once. Not in this parish, but close enough.

Too close.

But that was a lifetime ago. I wasn't the same girl. I would never be her again. I changed that year, and in more than just name. The cheerful girl I had been died, and the cynical reincarnation of her was born.

"Good thing Kayla lost her scholarship, huh?"

I glanced at my new roommate without saying anything as I continued to unpack my few belongings. As my stellar luck would have it, I'd be bunking with a dimwitted cheerleader. Didn't those kinds of girls live in sorority houses or Barbie mansions or something? Why the hell was she living on campus anyway?

"Oh, I guess that sounded rude. I just mean dorm rooms go fast at the beginning of the year, and second semester is just starting. You're lucky to get a room." That was one way to look at it, I guessed. "I'm Jewel, by the way."

Of course she was. "Liv," was all I said as an introduction. She wasn't getting anymore. I didn't want to share a room with anybody. It was too small for one person, much less two. But the fact that I was bunking with a chick whose bubbly personality seemed as sparkly as her name just felt too much like a cosmic joke.

"Well, Liv, nice to meet you. Let me know if you need anything. Our squad is helping with a fundraiser Friday night for hurricane relief, so I won't be in much this week. Got tons of stuff to do."

I nodded, then zipped my suitcase and shoved it under my bed. Jewel Barbie bounced out of the room without another word.

For the life of me, I still didn't understand why my mom insisted I transfer here. Sure, they had a good creative writing department, but I was only a year and a half away from graduating as an English major in Arkansas. If I was going to go through the trouble of switching schools, I'd rather have focused on a top ten university. Not that I could get into one, but at least I'd feel like the effort was worth the trouble. Unfortunately, I couldn't come up with a valid argument not to do as my mother had asked. I wasn't one to have friends, so I couldn't plead impending loneliness, and the school I was attending back home didn't have a creative writing program—hence the English major. Adding to her argument, Louisiana was a neighboring state, so I was within driving distance if I wanted to come home on weekends. Of course, she'd ignored the proverbial pink elephant regarding this state, and I'd let her. Over the years I'd learned to pick my battles. If I'd put up a fight about making the move, my mom would've gotten depressed and started talking about how short life was and how important it was to follow my dreams. If eight years of therapy taught me anything, it was that it was best to just appease my mother.

So here I was. New school. Old state...just not old enough to squelch the past.

I grabbed my backpack off the bed and headed to my eleven o'clock. The only class I had today was art. I hated art. I didn't even appreciate it for its beauty. To me it was just a bunch of lines or blots or shades that someone put together in hopes of someone else appreciating. As if I would listen to some art-world authority telling me what was worthy of the distinction
fine
art and what was just a piece of shit. Grumpy Cat? That was art.

But I needed this class. It wasn't part of my creative writing course load, but if I was going to follow my dream, I needed to understand the basics behind drawing. Not too many people understood my career goals. That was fine. I didn't care. My mom supported my plan. At first, she'd considered it unhealthy, but I was pretty sure my therapist in high school had steered her thinking away from that angle.

She shouldn't have. My mom had been right. It was totally unhealthy, but it was my way to deal. Eventually, my mom embraced any ambition I possessed as proof of me embracing life. She leaned a little too much toward the melodramatic, but considering what we'd gone through all those years ago, I figured it was
her
way to deal.

After trudging through the grounds, rolling my eyes at posters promoting a slew of parties, and finally finding the right building, I entered a few minutes late and immediately wished I'd just skipped the class today. The room was much larger than my dorm room, but it felt infinitely smaller. The walls were covered in artwork and people were scattered about either sitting at easels decimating canvases with their shapes or lines or whatever...or they were sitting in front of spinning clay. But most were staring at me.

I hated attention. The few people who really knew me understood why. Those who didn't would question why I'd dye my hair or dress the way I did if I didn't want attention. They didn't understand, and I didn't give a shit. I didn't owe them any explanation.

"May I help you?" the older lady at the side of the room asked. She was standing besides someone's work, probably classifying it in the shit category by the way the freckled-faced guy was pouting at his non-masterpiece.

"Olivia Musgrave. I'm in this class." I could smile, but the way the woman grabbed the neckline of her ruffled blouse as she asked, I was worried any sudden movement would scare her—including facial muscles.

"Oh, yes. Please take a seat at any available spot. I'll be right with you."

I looked around. Now everyone had stopped their brush strokes and pencil strokes to stare. I had an insane urge to fall on my back and do the backstroke, but I was sure the joke would be missed. Besides, it would just continue to draw attention to me, and I wanted to be left alone. It was a very rare occasion when I got the urge to do anything besides just be, so I guess it was good the thought had even crossed my mind. Hell, if I did do it, my mom would probably call it a breakthrough while my new classmates would wonder if I'd missed my dose of crazy pills this morning.

Drugs—prescription or otherwise—didn't work for me. At least not for my mood. I'd know. But for my other condition? Yeah, I needed
that
medication whenever I screwed up, no matter how much I resisted it. I didn't deserve its relief. If I was careless enough to suffer, I deserved to endure my punishment. My lot.

I took a few steps and found a couple of empty seats. Two. The way the instructor had phrased it, I'd get my pick of several. Nope. At least they weren't in the front of the room. As I headed toward the back, several artist-wannabes continued to stare, so I turned my attention to my feet. The people in here could be making faces at me and I wouldn't know. Or care. No one caught my attention anymore. I was dead inside, and I liked it that way. I didn't deserve for it to be any other.

When I reached the back of the room, the two empty seats were beside each other. I took the one closest to the corner and turned around to face the front of the room. There was one person to my right who'd taken the corner spot, the position farthest from everybody else. I glanced, but my gaze didn't linger, as I dropped my backpack. It was either a guy or a girl with short black hair. From the build, it was probably a guy, and he had his face buried in his work. It seemed he was the only one who hadn't gaped at me at some point, which only made me feel better about choosing the empty seat next to him. Not that his lack of attention had swayed my decision. No, the other seat had someone in front of it and another person beside it, so this seat was just the lesser of the two evils.

"Hello, Olivia." I shifted to look at the instructor who'd suddenly appeared. I didn't panic, but I wanted to. I hated when people sneaked up on me. "I'm Dr. Sutherland. Sorry I didn't assist you right away. I don't like stopping in the middle of instructions." I just looked at her, waiting. "Um, I'm sure you know this is an independent study class. There are students at various levels in here. You're in a two-hundred level course, but there are some seniors in this class seeking four-hundred level credit working on senior projects. Don't worry if you're not working on the same thing your neighbor is."

My
neighbor
had his head buried in a canvas. He could've been stuffing junk food down his throat or coke up his nose for all I knew.

"Here's the syllabus for your specific course. The first assignment is drawing a hand. Let me know if you have any questions. I'll come as soon as I get to a stopping point with whomever I'm assisting at the time."

I nodded, and she walked away. I pulled out my sketchpad and set it on the easel. I thumbed through the textbook and found the image I had to draw. Too bad I couldn't just slap my hand on the paper and trace it. I sighed as I started drawing my own crappy shapes or lines or whatever in hopes that the end result would be somewhat similar to the assigned photo.
It's just one art class. I can do this.

"Why pink?" a deep voice asked. I turned to the side. Yep, it was definitely a guy. Gray eyes peered out at me over the side of his easel.

I looked down at the charcoal pencil in my hand, even though I knew that wasn't what he was talking about. I held it up and showed it to him with a raised eyebrow.

"Your hair," he said, and if I wasn't mistaken, he sounded exasperated. Why would he get irritated with me so soon? Usually people didn't get fed up until at least the third or fourth attempt at trivial conversation.

I glared at him. It was none of his business. I could tell him that, but that would mean I'd care enough to voice it, which I didn't.

"Why not
just
pink then? It's black and blonde and pink."

"You're not blind," I said with feigned shock, and he smirked as if he'd won some major victory by getting me to talk to him.

"Be kinda hard to paint if I were." He looked back down and started ignoring me again. After a few minutes, he hadn't said anything else. I was relieved he stopped, but also pissed he dismissed me so quickly. Not that I was so brooding that I had to have the last word. Normally, I didn't care who spoke last as long as it was the quickest path to leaving me alone, but it seemed as if he stopped the moment he got me to actually say something. Whatever.

I turned my attention to drawing the hand. After several minutes it started to look like one. An old gnarled one, but at least it somewhat resembled what I'd set out to create. I tilted my head and stifled a wince. Yeah, it was hand all right, if a hideous, abstract hand was the goal. God, I was so screwed. I expressed myself with words, not drawings.

"Do you wear black all year? It's spring, you know," he said. I looked up, but he didn't. He continued painting. "I'm surprised you're not in skinny jeans and carrying a skateboard. If you're going for emo, then you should invest in the right clothes and accessories."

I glared at the back of his canvas. "Why do you care?"

He looked around the side of his painting as he leaned back to look at me. It was the first full look I got of him, and it just pissed me off even more. He looked like an athlete. Great. First I have to share a room with a cheerleader, and now I have to sit next to a jock. If he wasn't such a dick and I wasn't emotionally dead, I'd find him attractive. "I don't. Just wondering why you do."

"Who says I care?" Why was I talking to him anyway? I focused on my horrid rendition of fingers and skin as a distraction from the irritant beside me.

"Then why do it?"

"Because I want to." I refused to look at him.

"Why?"

"Are you two?" I snapped, shooting my gaze to him once again.

He chuckled, and I felt my face getting warm. Embarrassed? No way. I couldn't remember the last time I'd blushed about anything. "And twenty."

"Good for you," I mumbled as I tried to focus on my artwork instead of the jerk in the coveted corner spot. I ought to erase some of the fingers and leave the middle one just for him.

"Where are you from?"

"Earth."

"I see you're a smartass, Olivia."

"Oooh, not blind
and
smart. And it's
Liv
."

"Well, Liv, where on Earth are you from?"

I slammed my pencil down and took a deep breath before looking at him. "God, why couldn't you be sitting in the corner all by yourself because you're some social reject?"

"I'm afraid you won that role, darlin'."

The breath left my lungs as my heart began to pound erratically. The walls were closing in on me, the room getting smaller by the second. My legs began to shake and I knew I had to get out of there. He didn't do anything wrong, but somehow he'd done everything
not
right. I sucked in a breath. "Don't call me that." I whispered because that was as loud as I could manage. I grabbed my backpack and stumbled out of the room before he could say anything else and before the room crushed me where I sat.

I made it down the hall and out the door into the blaring sun. As soon as I hit the grass, I dropped my bag and slapped my hands onto my knees, trying to take deep, calming breaths as my therapist used to tell me to do when a panic attack hit. I hadn't had one in years though. Not since before I stopped going to therapy right after high school. And now I couldn't breathe. My lungs couldn't find any oxygen. If I didn't know I was reacting to something completely unrelated, I'd be worried I was going into anaphylactic shock.

It was a mistake to come here. I should have argued with my mother on this. I could've even gotten my father to take my side since he was almost as dysfunctional as I was. I didn't want to be back in Louisiana, so close to the Gulf. So close to my past. I needed more time to heal. My mother didn't know that though. Besides the sass and the clothes, I was normal. On the outside. She needed to believe that so she could get on with her life. I knew the truth though. I would never be okay.

Eleven years, three months, and nine days was not enough time for me to get over the death of that ten-year-old girl I was.