Page 4 of Trapped With You

These days, I barely recognized myself. I’d forgotten what living meant. I was simply surviving, going through the motions with an autopilot-like quality and no zeal.

I learned the hard way that sometimes it only took one prominent moment to forever alter you. That so-called moment fundamentally changed something inside me—like a final cog clicking into place—and there was no going back.

I was nineteen years old, but some days I felt beyond thatnumber.

My cell phone vibrated on the bathroom counter and I was pulled out of my train wreck musings. Taking a washcloth, I patted my face and hands before grabbing it.

It was a text message from one of my best friends.

Are you coming tonight? —Shaun

My rational side screamed that I shouldn’t go when I had other issues to resolve, other demons to fight, other feelings to numb.

Yet my fingers had a mind of their own as they typed a reply.

I’ll be there. —Cade

The boys from the team are meeting in St. Victoria’s woods. Pre-gaming before Initiation Night begins. —Shaun

Sounds good. I’ll text you when I arrive. —Cade

Shaun sent a thumbs-up emoji.

Tonight was Initiation Night at St. Victoria high school. A twisted tradition that took place on the third Friday night of every October to induct new students on the hockey and cheerleading team.

I graduated high school a few months ago and was now attending Vesta University since September. However, first year alumni were always invited every single year for one last competition.

To be completely transparent, I didn’t give a rat’s ass about this tradition. If you asked me, it was just an excuse for trust fund teenagers to do something else besides attend a boozefest and pop pills.

The only reason I agreed to participate tonight was because I knewshewould be there.

South Side’s very own princess.

The bane of my existence.

My unhealthy little obsession.

And my fucking ex-girlfriend.

We were no longer together for reasons I refused to acknowledge.

But I was obviously a masochist who still tortured himself with thoughts of her.

Ella Ximena Cordova was the kind of beautiful that transcended time. Never in my life had I seen such a stunning individual. Everything about her had me in a chokehold. Her spellbinding eyes, her playful smile, her flawless skin, so soft and sensitive under my touch, and her energy—kind and so fiery, it warmed you like the heat of a hundred suns.

The memories of her haunted me until I felt half moon mad with anger and longing, tossing, and turning in my bed at night. Wanting her. Hating her. Loving her. Wishing I’d never laid eyes on her.

I tried for three months to rip apart my fixation with her like a limb in dire need of amputation. It was impossible. I couldn’t eradicate her from my mind, my body, or my goddamned soul.

Her ghost was here to stay.

And I’d gladly give it a place in my bruised heart.

Stepping out of my en suite with a towel wrapped around my waist, I trudged out into my room, another towel hanging around my neck. I used it to rub the wetness out of my hair and pat the tattooed skin of my chest, now freshly healed after four weeks.

Tattoos were sacred to me. They were etched on my right arm and my torso, a web of defining memories serving as a reminder of the things that shaped me into the person I was today.

I also learned during the past summer that tattoos were the perfect coping mechanism to drown out your thoughts. When I sat in the chair and heard the gun’s buzzing and felt the grind of the needle against my skin, my mind paused.