Page 56 of Distorted Obsession (The Distorted Trilogy #1)
eva
“Can someone tell me what the saying ‘we’re all African under our skin’ means, and how the African Diaspora shifted from a global perspective to one more localized to North and South America and the Caribbean?” Professor Morris requests, standing behind the podium.
Someone begins to speak in my History of the African Diaspora class—mentions of the transatlantic slave trade bounce around the room as students rattle off their answers, but I’m too distracted to even pretend to join in on the discussion.
My mind is on the party. I’ve been replaying that night over and over like a skipping record. Goosebumps prickle my skin, traveling up my arm and down my spine.
Did I really have a foursome in the middle of a party?
It feels like a dream sequence of my greatest fantasy. The way Cooper was thrusting inside of Liam was more than enough to send my libido through the roof.
A thought niggles at the back of my mind, riding me until I’m forced to grapple with it. “When did all of them meet?” I mumble.
I’ve never seen them together before the party.
How did they get close enough to want to do a group scene?
Why was Mason trying to slip me a pill?
Did any of my friends see?
I have so many questions, and there’s no one around I can ask.
“Hey,” a soft voice says, and I blink up to meet the hazel-brown eyes. “Class is over.”
My gaze flits around the room at that revelation. What felt like only a few seconds was actually twenty-ish minutes.
“Thanks,” I reply, gathering my belongings. I stand and then exit the lecture hall.
Parting through the sea of students in the hallway, I absentmindedly step out into the cool air. Now that it’s November, the temperature is far more forgiving.
“There she is,” I hear someone mutter.
Peering over my shoulder, I try to understand what the fuss is, but I’m only met with gawking and pointing as people whisper.
Are they looking at me?
My mind immediately goes to the scene that night, assuming that what the four of us did is making its rounds.
But why would anyone care?
No longer interested in the dog and pony show, I shrug and continue my trek toward the gym.
We have a game this week, and I want to practice my jump serve.
So, I can’t be bothered with investigating what everyone’s focused on.
And if it is about what we did at the party—so what?
It was basically an orgy in there that night.
Strolling past another crowd, I reach for my AirPods.
“She got into a big argument with Candace.”
I momentarily freeze in place. Curiosity about who that cunty-troll got into it with wins. She’s not the most pleasant on the best of days, so it’s not surprising that she got into a fight with someone else.
“Yeah. They’ve had more than a few terrible interactions,” another person stage whispers.
“What if she killed her for revenge?”
Killed?
Whirling around, I blink as if the motion would answer all of my questions. “S-s-someone die-died?” I stutter, bewildered by the idea that someone was murdered on school grounds.
“Of course you don’t know. You were too busy banging in the middle of the floor,” some dude chastises, incredulously, causing my hackles to rise.
Narrowing my eyes to slits, I hiss, “What does who I fuck have to do with someone dying?”
His eyebrows arch in surprise at my acidic response. He probably anticipated the docile Eva, but after about a month with Colt and Coop, fissures in my self-imposed prison have turned to cracks.
“Now, who died?” I challenge, growing impatient with their continual staring without answering me.
A throat clears, and I turn toward the sound. A tall brunette with a pixie-cut bob states, “Candace.”
Those seven letters. That one word. My stomach roils, and I swallow the bile pushing to escape my throat.
“C-C-C-Candace?” I squeak and she nods.
How could it be her?
The words from early slam into my chest like a sledgehammer.
“She got into a big argument with Candace.”
Realization dawns on me, and the questions swirl like a tilt-a-wheel, threatening my very existence.
How did she die?
Why did she die?
“Please, no. I can’t do this again,” I mumble—guilt clawing at my chest like a scarlet letter, invisibly branding me.
More questions bombard me.
Is she dead because of me?
Who could hate her enough to end her life?
“No. How can this be?” I whisper inaudibly.
“Yeah. They’ve had more than a few terrible interactions.”
Accusatory gazes flit across my field of view. No one speaks, but they don’t have to. It’s written on every face. Guilty!
“What if she killed her for revenge?”
“No… no… no… no… no,” I stammer on the verge of blacking out. Spots dance in my vision as I fight for air.
I can’t kill someone else—this can’t be because of me!
Candace is dead, and in my gut, I know it has something to do with me.
Replaying our fights, from the first day of school until Homecoming night, I see it all in high definition. Her warnings about the twins. Her vitriolic hate of me because of Fah. Each and every interaction flashes before me.
Unable to bear it any longer, I do what I do best— run .
I don’t look back.
I don’t stop when my name’s called.
I don’t even catch my breath until I’m locked in my room.
Scrambling to the drawer, I pull out the rectangular box I haven’t felt the need to use in weeks. The metal glints in the sunlight that beams through my window like a spotlight landing on an escaped prisoner, but I don’t care about being caught.
I roll the waistband of my pants down, exposing my hip. My hand moves without provocation, my fingers tracing along the abundance of silvery scars.
My phone rings, and I ignore it. The call barely ends when it rings again. But there’s no one who can stop this freight train barreling off the track.
Holding the razor, I lower it to the flesh of my hip. This time it’ll be a new line—a rebuke that marks my blackened soul.
Some memories fade, but I’ll never forget what each and every cut in my skin represents— penance and restitution.
The tip of the blade pricks my skin. A small trickle of blood appears, teasing me, almost begging for me to continue, when “Fallen Angel” by Three Days Grace fills the room.
My breath hitches. The haze slows, providing me a moment of clarity.
Colt and Coop.
Scrambling, I reach for my cell phone and hit answer.
“Hello,” I choke out.
Silence hangs in the air, but I don’t dare pull the phone from my ears, too scared I’ll miss the life raft I so desperately need.
My lips part, preparing to speak again when one of them says, “Cut it the fuck out.”
I barely register the shock on my face before the line goes dead.