Page 40 of Creeping Lily

BENTLEY

T hey say monsters come in all shapes and sizes.

No-one can know what a true monster is unless they find themselves in one of two circumstances.

They are either faced by one, or they are one.

I’ve seen first-hand what a monster can do, because I’ve been one.

The worst kind. And I’ve faced my own monster - the demon that lays within me.

She called for Lincoln first. Then she called for me. And when I heard her distant scream, I bolted through the house and made my way out to the garden. Her door was open, and her screams had subsided, turning to whimpers as she gazed at nothing in particular on the far wall.

She was shattered and broken, a tainted version of what she had once been.

“Fucking monsters,” I roared, as I hauled one of them off her. He didn’t have time to tuck his dick back in his pants as I kicked him from the room. My fury was enough to send the others scuttling as I screamed at them to get out. They couldn’t get away quick enough as I descended on them.

Lily was crying as I approached, battered and bruised by the intrusion.

My skin hummed with anger as I looked at her, violated in the most despicable of ways.

She was broken, and it was all my doing.

It was all because of the stupid monsters I let out of the dog kennel when I wasn’t paying attention.

Regret washed over me as I took in her body, the way she was hanging, lax and defeated.

I lifted her from the table and cradled her in my arms, her vacant eyes staring back at me.

“Bent…”

“I’m so sorry, Lily,” I murmured into her hair. “So so sorry.” I didn’t know how sorry I was until I realized just how broken she was. They killed something inside her that night, and I would’ve given anything to reignite that spark that went out in her.

I buried my face in her hair, inhaling her scent, bringing her back to life.

I moved to the couch, holding her in my lap.

I swiped a finger at her tears, told her softly to stop crying.

I comforted her, trying to put back all her broken pieces.

She held on to me for dear life, as though letting go meant letting go of life itself.

I tried to repair her. I whispered in her ear that everything was going to be alright, telling her that I had her, how beautiful she was.

I did all the things I thought would make things better for her, alleviate her pain and heartache.

I kissed her tears away and told her how pretty she was.

How grown up she had become. I held her and I cherished her, rocking her back and forth.

Then I set her down against the couch, lifted her dress and entered her slowly.

I didn’t realize what I was doing until I was hovering over Lily, her body trembling beneath mine.

At first I thought she was reaching for me, but then I felt it—the frail press of her palms against my chest. Not pulling me closer.

Pushing. Soft, uncertain, her strength a dying ember.

She was so weak, her movements stuttered and clumsy, but the intent was there. She was trying to resist me.

Her head turned aside, lips parting not in moans but in broken gasps, as though every breath was caught between refusal and collapse. Her nails barely grazed my skin, not clawing to hold me, but to keep me at a distance, to create a space she couldn’t win back.

And still—I moved. I pushed into her, again and again, possessed by something that drowned out reason, by the lie that this was closeness instead of devastation.

Her shallow breaths hitched into sharp intakes, not pleasure but strain, and I roared against her shoulder, deaf to the truth of her silence.

When it was over, I stayed inside her, clinging to the fantasy that we had shared something. But then I felt them—her hot tears sliding against my neck. They burned more than any wound I’d ever taken, staining me with a grief I had created, branding me with her pain.

“Please…go,” she whispered.

“Lily…”

She shook her head and told me to leave. She was crying again, her crestfallen face breaking my heart. I moved my arm from beneath her head and straightened, watching her as I tucked my shirt into my pants.

“Lily,” I tried again.

“Go.” She ordered me to leave.

I turned and walked away, knowing there was no repairing the damage done here tonight. I couldn’t erase the fact that Lily was violated in the worst way possible. And I compounded that pain by taking away the last remaining fragments of her soul.

I felt nothing but shame as I left the house and headed to my room.

I didn’t bother to pack a bag. I swiped my keys and wallet off the console and headed toward my car.

But something in me held me back. She might not have been willing to let me in, but she needed care.

I couldn’t leave her like that. I couldn’t leave her without the care and attention she needed. So I did the only thing I knew to do.

I called my mother, already on her way home from the airport with my father.

And I told her what she needed to know; that tonight, Lily was violated by three of my friends, and she didn’t want me anywhere near her.

I told her I was leaving so I didn’t cause her any further trauma, and that I thought she should call the doctor.

I didn’t tell her that I raped Lily. No matter that I was only trying to put her back together again; to undo the damage that had been done to her tonight.

I didn’t tell her all these things, and I didn’t think it would make a difference if she knew, anyway.

Except possibly to kill her slowly for becoming the monster I’d become.

My mind turned to Lincoln. My baby brother Lincoln.

He’d always been a little in love with Lily, from ever since we were young.

And as we grew older and she flowered into the young lady she’d become; I could see him yearning more and more after her.

Lincoln was in love with Lily, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself.

And when he found out what happened, I had not a shred of doubt inside of me that he was going to fucking kill me then tear me to shreds.

That night, I left the house. And I never went back. I couldn’t face Lily. I couldn’t undo what I had done. And I couldn’t forgive myself for being such a coward when what she really needed that night was a hero.