Luca (I Love the Way You Lie #1) (2 page)

I shook my head several times like an idiot, but didn’t want to engage him with words if I could help it. I hoped he’d go back to wherever the fuck he came from.

“You don’t share in group. You don’t talk to anyone. And you won’t share what’s in that journal. I bet you’re writing about me!” He snickered, taking another long pull from his cancer stick. He had a way of pissing me off. He also had a very unique way of stroking my flames with his husky laugh.

“Diary. It’s a fucking diary. Not a journal.” I huffed. Christ. Why? Why? Why? He was maddening. “Aren’t you leaving this week? Isn’t that what you said?” I looked away. Not liking the way my heart reacted to the thought of him leaving. But he’s said he was leaving every week for the last two months.

You see, he was in for arson. He burned down his family home. Luckily, no one was killed. However, he was put in Pinewoods until the doctors felt he was cured or no longer a threat. If the click of his sterling silver lighter opening and closing was any indication, I’d say no! It intimated me. And he got off on that. My guess is that he was a born a pyro. The flicker in his eyes was very much one of a potential maniac. He was a goddamned fire-starter in more ways than one…

“Good. Get mad. At least you’re talking.” He smirked and then turned to leave with his usual detriment stride.

Finally having my daily fill of him, I called out, “If you tell me why you’re a pyro, I’ll show you my diary.”

His only response was to hold up his middle finger and flip me off as he walked out of my room. Fuck off, hot stuff. If he was going to fuck with me, I’d fuck with him. I knew how to shut down the conversation. Ask about his past…

My room consisted of pale grey concrete cinder block. Cold, institutional, and depressingly drab. My twin bed was topped with an ultra-firm mattress. A marble slab would be a step up. There was a replica Monet on the far wall. The colorful watercolors were an attempt to add comfort. Epic fail. Nothing about this place was warm or inviting. But, I guess it wasn’t supposed to be. I was attending a six-week elective mental health program. It was especially designed for young people who’ve experienced trauma, abuse, addiction, and mental afflictions. And or who were on the wrong path. We were expected to be in treatment, share in group, individual one-on-one therapy, and pick a worthy vocation for the future. This was all about trust, life-goals, and our future. Three of which I was struggling with. My room was on a co-ed floor with like-minded, mentally challenged individuals. We may not be here for exactly the same reasons; however, we all displayed some symptoms of mental illness. Whether drug induced, at the hands of someone else, or born with it. A kaleidoscope of fuckness personified. And, the mayor of fuck-crazy was right down the hall. The intensity of his dark, leering eyes gave me palpitations. My skin feathered in goose bumps. Good god, he was a beautiful nightmare whose daily ritual was to get a reaction from me. Sigh. On the bright side, the bed beside mine was vacant, which meant I didn’t have to deal with some annoying mental girl. For the time being, I was alone with my own psychosis. Thank you, god, for the smaller things.

My name is Allison. And this is my story. It’s not a pretty one. Then again, the most interesting ones aren’t…are they? This isn’t your usual love story. There are no blue skies, rainbows, or unicorns. Only him…my own personal fire-starter.

~~~

My counselor, Jean, had great words of encouragement for the day: “Regardless of what happens in the long run, Allison, remember that true happiness begins to arrive only when you stop complaining about your problems and you start being grateful for all the problems you don’t have.” My brain was screaming—leftist. Typical leftist bullshit. Puh-lease…

“Ah huh,” was my only retort as I stared out the window. I normally said nil during our private sessions. In group, I said less. I watched the hands of her wall-clock as if they were my savior, Jesus Christ. They were.

She started clearing her desk as she continued her psychiatrist babble. “In life, patience is not about waiting; it’s the ability to keep a good attitude while working hard on your dreams. Sweetie, there was a time you worked hard. I saw your transcripts.” She pushed her eyeglasses down her nose at me, making sure I heard her words. “And while am at it…don’t you own anything that isn’t black? You’re such a beautiful girl,” she asked for the umpteenth time.

“Nope,” I answered with the same monotone voice I always did.

Feigning boredom was a talent of mine. And I did it well. I loved that I was the one who had been violated and everyone wants
me
to change, become their version of okay. Well, I’m not okay. Leave me the fuck alone. I’ll dress however the fuck makes me happy. Period. Wearing dark cloths makes me feel better—concealed. I wore my clothes like a veil of shame. My body. My decision…this time. And I liked that. I didn’t want to be noticed. Besides, the darkness chose me. I didn’t choose it. I had no choice, but to embrace it. Now, I sit perfectly in the comfortably numb category…

I stood abruptly. “May I be excused?” I didn’t wait for her answer as I continued out the door.

Yeah, I still had some manners. No choice in that, either—parents. I wanted to get back to the safety net of my room and my music. The alternative music I listened to was a far cry from the classical music I was trained for. But fuck that shit. I needed to be mental with metal for a good long while.

I squeezed my ear-buds in while tuning into my favorite song. A chill rolled up my spine and I knew he was near without seeing him. I gnawed my lip hard to thwart myself from turning—searching. I didn’t want to seem desperate. And yet…it was all I felt. My emotions were on overload. My skin prickled and my body awakened. I was caught in a vortex of contradictory emotions. I didn’t want to feel what I was feeling. It made me ashamed…sick even. I was an abuse survivor. I had no business feeling what I felt. However, my body told me differently. I ran my hand along the dove grey walls, digging my nails in as I strolled down the hall. I was hoping it would send an aggressive signal. At the very least, he’d think I was fucked in the head. Maybe he’d be deterred from challenging me.

The sunset banked through the scalloped window at the far end of the hallway. I stifled a breath when I saw a hooded shadow standing as still as a statue. The fiery red cherry of his cigarette casted a glow, giving him the hue of a dark angel. He stood statuesque…his lungs the only organ straining in the darkness. His breaths pulled seductively between my legs. My thighs unconscionably squeezed as I kept a foot down the hall.

A growl escaped me unwillingly as I approached. He was infringing, and that pissed me off to no end. I wanted to scratch his eyes out for being such an asshole. But, I also wanted to follow that up with a not so gentle squeeze of his cock while burying my tongue in his throat. See? I was a fucking mess. Duplicitous was my body’s middle name. And I was seething mad.

I’ve never felt control of my body. Especially, around men. I always had a feeling of looking in from the outside. I felt ugly. I didn’t want anyone to see the real me, and yet all I put out there was ugly to cover up the hate. The reeking stink of discord. I decided to move past him as if he were an aberration. So, I continued with my nails digging into the walls, eyes down, and feet forward.

A rugged black boot appeared in front of mine, blocking my way. I moved to my right to move around him. He stepped to his left, once again blocking me from moving past. My ire was rising to freak-out levels.

“What the fuck is your problem, stalker?” I seethed. My eyes slowly met his black orbs. His face was devoid of any emotion. Impassive. “Well?” I waved my hands in his face. All I got was a crooked smile that highlighted his perfect dimple.

His tongue darted out to lick his plump bottom lip. I sucked in a breath, holding it. It was the smallest gesture. However, the impact was spine tingling and I felt it clear to my toes. My body flushed feverishly. My body’s betrayal was a bitch, and he fucking got off on ruffling my feathers.

He chuckled as he stepped aside. Fucker. I moved past, forcing myself to walk at an unfettered pace. I don’t know why it was paramount to me to show him how unaffected I was. But, it was. I’ve always felt on the edge of anger. More so after the assault. Anger was easy. People were least likely to confront people who exuded crazy. I wish Luca got the hint. However, my attitude toward him only enticed him more. I needed to rethink my strategy where he was concerned.

As my door came into view…I wanted to look back. I could feel his eyes still on me. I stepped through and closed the door with a slam. My heart hammered in my chest.

I slid down the door, grabbing my face in my hands. Ugh. That boy frustrated me…made me weak in the knees. I didn’t do weak. Wouldn’t do weak. What could I do? Think. Think… My trusty diary was at my side. My desire to journal these feelings was deep. But, I’d have to admit some uncomfortable truths. He affected me. He made me feel things I was ashamed of. How could a victim of sexual assault feel attraction without feeling shame? My body was betraying my mind. I’ve had enough betrayal in my life thus far when my neighbor…my brother’s best friend…assaulted me. He told me if I ever told, many friendships would be affected. He was my brother’s best friend since they were toddlers. Our parents were close friends. We spent holidays together. If I uttered a word, that would all go up in smoke.

One day, he invited me over to help him with his hockey equipment. I always volunteered—anything to be closer to him or have alone time. As I matured, I thought he’d see me in an equal light. Possibly as a girlfriend? Of course, it would be awkward at first. My brother would be pissed. But, my hope was that it would blow over. That never came to be…I was used and discarded without even a thought. He dressed and left for his hockey game after I was taken against my will.

However, that wasn’t even the worst of it. My shame ran deeper…the type of shame that didn’t spiral down the drain. I was fucked up. I couldn’t imagine uttering the words aloud. I was a deplorable human being and I chose to suffer in silence. Steeped in depression, my life was no longer my own. Darkness pulled me under—willingly. I deserved every bit of that soul-wrenching pain.

I was told therapy would be my salvation. However, I knew differently. In my lifetime, salvation wouldn’t be at arm’s length. It would be my distant cousin. Forever out of reach.

Tears flowed freely. Beyond closed doors, I allowed myself to feel—if only fleeting. My hands wiped my face clean…my breathing returned to a normal pace…my legs felt stable enough to stand. I blew out my shame and inhaled confidence. False confidence. But no one had to know that. Most people wanted to be in the sun…I did at one time in my life. But I’d rather bask in the moon’s light for it shines down on me in my darkest hour…

My first memories of her were ones of her thrashing, tied down to a stretcher. Long mahogany hair matted to her clammy, porcelain skin. High cheekbones framed her cherub face, pink in anger. But, regardless of her unfortunate state of affairs, my interest piqued along with the twitch in my pants when her golden-brown eyes locked onto mine for a split second—a timeless expanse of space and time in which I tried to convey a sense of calm and comfort.

I shook a cigarette loose, lighting it. Why did I even give a fuck about her? People came and went all day long. However short my court mandated time was here…I was always looking for a distraction from my impulse, but none of which scratched the surface of my impenetrable armor. Her eyes begged my attention unknowingly. Her temper spoke to her passion. Now, I needed to get to my uncle’s office to read her files.

The inmates, as I call them, didn’t know of my familial tie to the director of this hospital. My family came from money. Fuck, lots of it. As the black sheep of my family, I agreed to seek treatment to sort my crazy pyro shit out. Well, that or be stripped of all my present and future wealth. Even I knew better than to spit in the face of my legacy. What I needed was to channel my rage, my burning need to see things burn to the ground—turning them to dust. The feeling I got from it was like none other. I sought the powerful release that came after.