Page 29 of Broken by my Bully

Way too fucking close.

But I’m all out of options.

I’malwaysout of fucking options.

Haven

Bullying. Philosophy. Psychology. Innocently objectifying a much older man.

That’s what I expected when I walked into Professor Rooke’s class this morning. Professor Rooke was asking for it, what with his rolled-up sleeves and just-tight-enough chinos. Not my fault he dresses like a young silver fox looking for a mate.

However, Kai ignored me like I was wearing an invisibility cloak ever since he came back from the cafeteria sans coffee, and maybe I was staring too hard at the professor’s forearms because he donned his tweed jacket minutes after class started, ending all objectifying. Innocent and otherwise.

Instead, Professor Rooke subjected us to over half an hour of morbid, violent, and now, downright pornographic paintings and photos.

Things were already getting uncomfortable when he started off the lesson talking about the Tuskegee Syphilis Study.

I wanted a hot shower and a good scrub after that.

Now I need a cold one.

I really, really hope I’m not the only person struggling to keep a straight face.

“Is that a blush I see, Miss Parker?”

I hear Melissa swallowing next to me.

Thank God, it’s not just me.

“Dante and Virgil in Hell,” Rooke announces, sweeping an arm to a larger-than-life projection of the Neoclassical painting. “These two aren’t just rough housing.”

One has red hair, the other, brown. That’s about all I have to tell them apart, because they’re both naked.

The detail is…ahem…exquisite.

“The counterfeiter and the impersonator, locked in mortal combat. But no one dies in Hell, do they?”

I sit up straighter, and then immediately try to relax my spine. It refuses, of course. Guess they wouldn’t be called triggers if you could just ignore them, right?

Professor Rooke scans the class before glancing back at the painting. “Look at the care Bouguereau put into capturing every tensed muscle. The fingers dragging through the skin. The painfully twisted arm. Exaggerating every detail. As if to make sure we, the viewer, wouldn’t overlook a thing.”

He goes over to his coffee cup and takes a long sip.

“I know it’s hard to look away from the main anti-heroes, but have any of you noticed this pair?” He points at the two figures standing just behind the struggling men. They’re fully clothed, huddled in close together like they’re conspiring.

“Just observers, right? And why wouldn’t Hell have a few walking tours scheduled every century or so?” This gets a few chuckles, but Rooke doesn’t even notice. He’s picked out his prey, and he’s honing in on them.

“Do they look ready to jump in and separate the two, Mr. Larkin?”

“No?” Larkin says in a wobbly voice.

“No,” Rooke repeats, then turns to the rest of us, flickinga hand. “Of course not. Why would they? They’re already dead. What harm could they possibly inflict on each other but pain?” He rolls his hand at the wrist. “Pain. And pain. And more pain. Unto eternity.”

He walks over to the blackboard and starts scrawling something in chalk, like he’s lost interest in his own lecture.

“Assignment,” he booms as he tosses the chalk into the slot at the bottom of the blackboard.

Good God.