Page 66 of Fallen: Darkness Ascending, Vol.1

NHIALII JADE

H igh-pitched sounds blare from the smoke detector, snapping me out of the trance I’d fallen under.

Steam emits from the pot on the stove, hissing where it collides with the burner.

A slew of curses escapes me as I scramble to grab the broom left in the corner.

Using the handle, I jam the bastard up into the shrieking disk until it mercifully shuts up and tiny bits of broken plastic fall to the floor.

My heart pounds heavily against my ribcage.

I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my body; I can hear it flooding my ears. It disorients me momentarily.

Soup boils over the edge of the pot, continuing to coat the counter in red splatters.

Barely able to think, I reach out to move it from the burner, shouting more profanities as the handles scald my hands.

“Fucking idiot!” I chastise. How could I be so foolish?

The pot holders are sitting right there.

I frantically turn on the faucet, only to have it gurgle and mock me with its sputtering drops of tepid water.

I hate this stupid fucking apartment. Small, cramped, slapped together with “landlord special” patches, and paint so thin it peels when you glance at it funny.

Two months' rent upfront and a severely overpriced, non-refundable pet deposit. All for what? Four squeaky floorboards, terrible water pressure, and a heater that kicks in only when it wants to. My misery aside, I wasn’t going to leave without Cheeto.

As if knowing my mind had shifted to him, he starts weaving between my legs, pressing his large ginger frame into my calves—the international cat sign for pet me, fragile human.

A minor kitchen disaster and a near emotional breakdown can hold off for a few moments while I give my favorite creature some love.

A weighted sigh leaves my lips as I scoop him up and press my face into his thick, warm fur.

“It’s just you and me now, tubs,” I mutter. “We’ll be okay, we always are.”

For a moment, I let my mind drift to the disgusting reason as to why we are left in this situation to begin with—a fucking man.

Five years of putting up with his dictatorial rules.

In the beginning, it was sunshine and happiness, but when the clouds came out to block the sun, I became the pawn meant only to bow and serve.

It wasn’t easy, yet somehow I managed to escape the harsh boot he repeatedly pressed down on my neck.

He was clever, too. Always careful where the damage landed.

No bruises on my face, nothing a coworker or friend might question.

Just pressure in places no one would see.

His words sharpened into weapons—threats coated in sugar, control disguised as love.

He knew how to cut without bleeding. How to erase my piece by piece while still smiling for the cameras.

Stunning bouquets followed, blossoming with false promises of it never happening again.

The worst scars he left behind never showed up on my skin.

They burrowed deep in my thoughts, in a way I flinch when the phone rings, in the silence I now mistake for safety.

Dagger-like claws dig into the flesh of my arms, letting me know my precious boy has had his fill of affection for the evening. Naturally, as soon as his paws hit the floor, he scurries right over to his food bowl. Oh, to have the spoiled life of a cat.

Returning to my soup, I inspect it to make sure tonight's dinner isn’t a complete disaster. Giving it a quick stir, I notice it’s still salvageable, thank goodness. A few vegetables stuck to the bottom, but it still smells divine, a dose of relief.

After a few more stirs, I set the spoon down on the counter and let the soup rest another moment.

Glancing toward the screen door, the cool breeze brushes my bare skin, carrying in the faintest scent of rain and the encroaching nights of fall.

A few seconds of comforting bliss, yet, something about it makes me pause.

The street outside is quiet, for once.

There is no shouting, no sirens, simply stillness. Close by, I can hear the faint sound of twigs snapping. My breath catches, though I know I’m alone. A strange little chill dances up my spine.

I try to steady myself—humming a song stuck in my head, stirring the soup, clinging to any small comfort—but the unease clings to me.

A pressure forms at the back of my neck, a sense of someone’s eyes dragging across every inch of skin.

I glance back at the window again, and nothing is there.

The gentle hue from the porch light gives way to long shadows across the grass, swaying gently in the breeze.

It’s okay, you’re okay, I tell myself, though words do little to ease this burden.

I cross the kitchen and tug the black curtain halfway over the screen door.

It isn’t enough to block the view entirely, just enough to tend to my paranoia while leaving an opening for the refreshing night breeze.

Yet, the anxiety curls tighter in my chest, a caressing whisper too quiet to hear.

Slicing sharply through the thickening tension in the room, a loud thud hits the floor behind me.

Screams burst from me as I spin toward the noise.

My heart pounds so frantically, I can taste its metallic beats in the back of my throat.

What I find behind me is the last thing I expected.

Cheeto chose this opportune moment to flip his food bowl upside down, sending it crashing across the kitchen floor.

The fat bugger has the nerve to blink up at me from the tile as if saying, what, then lets out the cutest meow that melts my heart.

“Fucking hell, Cheeto,” I chuckle, scratching a hand across his exposed belly. “You scared the crap out of me.”

He simply doesn’t care. His round face tilts up at me, all wide eyes and whiskers twitching with innocence, as if he didn’t just shave ten years off my life. That soft, dumb expression could disarm a war god.

I scoop his heavy behind up and carry him to the windowsill, petting his back a bit to settle him down.

“You’re on guard duty, Mister,” I say softly, trying to make a joke out of it while ignoring the goosebumps still prickling my arms. As I turn back around to the counter, I peek once more at the curtain covering the screen door.

It sways slightly in the breeze, barely noticeable, but enough to keep my heart crawling up my throat.

Returning to the stove, I fail miserably to steady my shaking hands as I pour the soup into a bowl.

Before the liquid even settles, a harsh, calloused hand clamps down over my mouth, smothering the scream inside my throat.

The bowl crashes to the floor, shattering on impact.

Glass shards ricochet in all directions, leaving tiny cuts across the tops of my feet.

Scalding broth coats the front of my thighs, blistering bare skin in streaks of angry red.

The pain is excruciating, I damn near see stars in my vision.

I struggle to get free, my movements thwarted when a cold blade presses against my throat.

Its sharpness bearing down so close I can feel the threat of the metal with each shallow breath.

Any shift, even the smallest, could be my end.

I try to slow my breathing, try not to move, but my desperation betrays me.

I can hardly feel it when a small line of warmth trails down my neck and between my breasts.

I scream inside my head that it’s only soup.

It has to be the soup. Soup, soup, soup, I repeat the mantra.

I can’t bring myself to face the reality of my neck bleeding under the knife of my intruder.

Sweat prickles across my temples. Small pathetic whimpers slip from my mouth as panic rises within me. My eyes dart wildly across my small counter, searching for something, anything to tilt the odds in my favor.

He notices. Of course, he notices.

His low, raspy voice cuts into the silence, a rotten growl drilling into my ears.

“Don’t bother fighting,” he sneers. “No one’s coming for you.”

My brain scurries through corridors of familiarity, searching for where I’ve heard that voice before, but I come up empty.

He swiftly removes his hand from my mouth and tightens his fingers into my hair, twisting the strands in a vice.

My head is yanked back so hard I hear the distinct sound of chunks violently ripped from my scalp.

A guttural cry bursts out of my throat from the intensity, as uncontrollable tears threaten to flow down my cheeks.

Abruptly, his mouth descends close to my upturned flesh.

His tongue—thick, wet, repulsive—drags up the side of my jaw to my ear, leaving me paralyzed in terror under his skull-crushing hold. Silent sobs tear through me.

There is a momentary lapse in sound before my intruder bursts out in maniacal laughter.

The sick fuck broke into my home, assaults me, and has the nerve to laugh.

I haven't seen his face yet. However, I can smell him. His breath is a horrendous blend of decay, wet and sour, with a hint of metal—the foul stench of sweat and mold seeps into my pores. I can’t tell how he is dressed, I can only feel the uncomfortable, cool liquid oozing through the small holes of my sweater.

I twist against him again, but his weight pins me. My strength means nothing.

“You’ve got nowhere to run, sweet rabbit. You’re mine now,” he taunts, “and no one’s going to waste a second saving a fragile, pathetic piece of flesh like you.”

Each word lands a hard blow, twisting around my spine and freezing me from the inside out. I’ve played this particularly twisted game before. I know what he wants. He wants to hear me scream, to beg, and to cry out for him to make the pain go away. He wants to watch me suffer slowly.

The devastating truth cuts deeper than his knife; no one can hear me. No one is coming.