Page 5

Veronica

T he dark is alive.

It is breathing, pressing against Veronica’s skin, curling deep into her lungs like smoke.

Her heartbeat slams against her ribs, uneven, frantic, while she gropes blindly for the door. And as she claws, scratches, and pounds at the coarse, broken wood, her fingers shake, her knuckles breaking open. But she can’t even feel the pain. Only the fear. The fear of being locked alone in the dark.

“Please.” Her voice is hoarse and cracked from screaming. “Please, I’m in here. Let me out, please.”

Nothing. No one hears her.

The closet becomes smaller and smaller, suffocating, the air growing thicker and more stale. Each breath becomes a struggle, while the darkness wrapped around her throat tightens.

Hunger pangs causes her to whimper as she huddles in the small room’s corner, hand on her aching stomach.

She closes her eyes, but it doesn’t make any difference. The darkness is ever present.

She is just beginning to drift off to sleep when the sound of footsteps and rustling near the door startles her.

She jumps, her body slamming against the door, her knuckles rapping frantically.

“I’m in here!” she screams. “Please let me out!”

The footsteps suddenly stop, the silence heavier than it was before. Then she hears it, loud and boisterous—laughter. It’s high-pitched…cruel.

She stumbles back, her hand cupping her mouth as loud sobs echo past her lips. Her body presses against the wall, her shoulders shaking as their laughter scratches against her skull.

The air is almost out. The walls are closing in. And the laughter continues to echo inside her head.

Then a loud blaring noise resonates in the room, before a force lifts her up, hauling her across the room, clawing a sharp shrill from her throat.

Then her eyes snap open.

She is sitting up on her bed, body tangled in sweat-damped sheets.

Her pulse pounds against her throat as she looks around, her fingers curled into the sheet. For a moment, the darkness still presses against her skin. The phantom sensation of being trapped inside there—the abandoned locker room back at Paul Sabatier Elementary, the student’s laughter echoing in her head.

The alarm that must have snoozed earlier shrieks beside her again. Her head snaps to it. 7:00.

She sighs, her hand lifting to press against her chest.

I am not in that closet. Never will I be there again. I am here, in my room.

She repeats the mantra in her head, over and over again, until the panic fades away like smoke at the whisper of wind.

Kicking the cover off her body, she rises to her feet and crosses over to the door. Her fingers curl around the handle as she twists the lock and pulls the door open.

She steps into the hallway and glances briefly at the living room. No one is there. But she can hear shuffling and murmuring in Marlene’s room.

She walks over to the shared bathroom. About to sit, she notices that the toilet was used and not flushed. It is a disgusting sight, quite unusual of Marlene to use a toilet and not clean after herself. Did she forget? Was she in a hurry?

Dismissing her thoughts, she flushes the toilet, waiting for the water to wash away any sign of Marlene’s presence.

In exactly fifteen minutes, she is done brushing and showering. Shiro will honk his horn outside her house in under fifteen minutes. She needs to hurry.

Crossing back to her room, she quickly fixes on her uniform and her makeup—mostly concealer. She started using them when Marlene always left a mark or two on her face. Wearing heavy makeup has become a habit for her, regardless of whether her scars are visible or not.

Checking her phone, she realizes there is still time to make a peanut butter sandwich before Shiro arrives. So, tossing everything school-related into her backpack, she slings it over her shoulder and hurries to the kitchen.

The bread is already on the table. The peanut butter right beside it. Shuffling through the cutlery holder for the butter knife, she pulls one out quickly and dashes back to the counter.

The knife glides over the bread, smooth and effortless. But she stiffens, suddenly too aware of her surroundings when she hears the creak of Marlene’s door, then footsteps down the hallway.

The sharp scent of Marlene’s perfume fills the air before she even makes an appearance in the kitchen, her heels tapping with precise, clipped movement.

“While you are at it, make one for me.” Her voice is harsh and unkind.

Veronica doesn’t gaze up at her. She merely hums a reply as she places her bread on a saucer and grabs another slice of bread.

“Stop acting like a zombie and hurry up, will you?” Marlene’s tone sharpens, piercing the air.

“Sorry,” Veronica murmurs, her fingers trembling as she glides the knife unevenly over the bread. Done, she hands it to Marlene, still not glancing at her.

Her shoulders relax as soon as Marlene exits the kitchen, the groan of the front door echoing as she leaves the house.

Alone again, Veronica is about to heave a sigh when she hears the creak of Marlene’s door again. Her body stiffens, back arching. Someone else is in the house. And that someone is definitely the reason the toilet was messy earlier.

Maybe Marlene got a new boyfriend.

Then she perceives it—a familiar masculine scent and the heavy sound of boots echoing down the hall.

It’s not a new boyfriend. An old one has come back.

The scent in the atmosphere shifts, replacing Marlene’s floral one with something darker, laced with the stench of smoke.

The person finally steps into the kitchen. Veronica’s eyes meet his hard gray ones. And just like that. It all comes back.

The memory she suppressed two weeks ago.

Ian Petrakis isn’t the reason she relapsed and cut herself.

It’s like a whirlwind. A rewinded tape. Flashes scattered, disjointed.

…It’s the middle of the night. The kitchen tiles are cold against her feet. Her stomach is aching from hunger. But her back aches worse from Marlene’s horse whip.

She reaches for the bread on the counter. She just wants something simple, something to get her through the night. Then she hears the creak of Marlene’s door, a heavy footfall down the hall.

She knows who it is before she turns. She has always tried her best to avoid him. He isn’t exactly Marlene’s boyfriend. He always comes and goes. He will disappear for months, then reappear like a ghost that refused to stay buried.

He steps closer to Veronica. Too close for comfort.

“You’re up late,” he says, his voice smooth. Too smooth. They are not friends. So his friendly tone is creepy and unsettling.

But Veronica nods anyway. She doesn’t want to be verbal with him. She doesn’t want to talk to him. They are not friends. And his behavior is questionable.

“Not gonna say hi, huh?” Veronica’s skin crawls as his cigarette and alcohol breath tickles her ear.

Hastily, she grabs her bread, abandons the peanut butter, and leaves. The journey to her room is quick and cautious.

But when she tries to shut the door, a hand shoots out, slamming the door open.

“What the hell?” Veronica’s voice trembles, and she stumbles back. She tries to run, but his weight crashes into her from behind. And just like that, his hands are everywhere.

She tries to scream, but his large palms are over her mouth. The stench of cologne and cigarette choking her.

She fights. But he is stronger. Too strong.

Her ribs still ache from Marlene’s beating. So when he shoves her on the bed and presses his weight on her, she can’t move.

And then comes the part that made her suppress the memory. The part where a sound of pleasure breaks through her choking sobs, barely audible, but she hears it. And he hears it too. And that makes him feel powerful, satisfied, in control. A new purpose flickers in his chest. A purpose she wishes he doesn’t fulfill, but the bastard does. She orgasms when she shouldn’t feel anything. When she should be numb. When she should have rather died fighting him off…

“Morning.” The voice sneaks into her haunting thoughts, snapping her back to reality.

A choked gasp tears through her lips. Her fingers curl around the edge of the counter, the kitchen shifting between that night and now.

“You okay?” She jolts when she feels him behind her. Her breath comes too fast, too shallow, cold sweat coating her face as the butter knife clatters to the counter.

She doesn’t turn around. He is directly behind her, his breath tickling the back of her head. But she can’t turn. She doesn’t want to risk looking at him. She can’t look at him.

“You’re really not much of a talker, huh?” From the corner of her eyes, she sees his hand rest on the counter, and she feels it, his erection pressing against her lower back. “Or do you only talk when there’s a cock inside you?”

Veronica swallows bile, the bread in her hand feeling like lead.

Her eyes snap shut, tears falling as his disgusting fingers brush against her cheekbone, making her skin crawl. “Well, I do know one thing. And that is, you are just a pretentious little slut, squeezing my cock one second and cutting your wrist the next, like you didn’t enjoy it more than I did.”

A sob breaks out of Veronica’s lips, her fingers dragging against the wooden counter, chest heaving as more tears track down her cheeks.

“You’re nothing special,” he spits, his nails digging into her jaw. “You think you are, but there is really nothing remarkable about you. Not even your beauty or your body. Nothing at all. You’re just a stupid girl who will only ever be good for a quick fuck, a piece of shit that will still let me bend her over this counter and fuck her real good, you know why?” He jams his hip violently into her, knocking Veronica’s hip against the edge of the counter, a sharp pain shooting up her body. “Cause she’s nothing but a cheap whore.”

Then she feels it just as he lifts his body off her, something warm and slimy landing on her cheekbone.

He spat on her.

Her sobs grow louder, slicing through the heavy sound of his boot across the tiled floor as he heads for the coffee maker.

The whirring of the coffee maker echoes in the kitchen, but it isn’t effective enough to silence his voice that continues to ring in her head, slithering over her skin, rooting itself deep into the darkest chamber of her mind.

She feels dirty, disgusting… cursed. Marlene was right.

“Quit acting like you didn’t enjoy it.” His words from that night sneaks into her thought, seeping into her bones like a sickness she can’t shake off. “We can do it again so you can remember how hard you came all over my cock.”

Her stomach twists. A sharp, violent churn that makes her body feel foreign, wrong .

The bread is long discarded as she staggers out of the kitchen, her vision a blur of tears, her hands trembling so bad she can barely reach for the door. But she can hear it, the sound of steel against ceramic as he whisks the coffee in his cup.

Reaching her room, she slams the door shut, locking it. Her back hit the wood, and she slides down, knees curling to her chest. The room suddenly feels too big. And she feels smaller and smaller.

The silence is too suffocating, too loud, so the memories come back. Not in fragments at all. Not in vague flickering flashes. It’s a full, vivid reel playing behind her closed eyes.

And it comes to stay.

His weight presses her down. Then the stench of cigarette and sweat. Her muscles lock, her throat sealed, and her body betrays her.

No, no, no.

Her breath hitches, sharp, uneven. And her fingers claw at her chest as if she can tear out whatever filth he left inside her.

She doesn’t realize she has pushed up her arm warmers again until her nails begin to dig into her scar, the recent one that became two weeks old today. But the pain barely registers because nothing can hurt more than these memories haunting her.

A loud blare of a horn thunders from behind her window.

“Shiro,” she whispers, leaping off the floor and dashing to the window. There is her best friend, Shiro Tanaka, the luxurious Range Rover Sport his Mom got for him on his seventeenth birthday parked on her lawn, an unknown pop song blasting from the speaker.

“No, no,” she leans off the window, her hand furiously wiping at her tears, and layer by layer, her concealer begins to come off.

But she doesn’t want Shiro to see her like this. She doesn’t want him to ask questions. Because the answer to this question is one she must carry to her grave.

Running to her dresser, she pulls up her tiny makeup box and begins the same pattern. Three different layers of concealer and a blush that comes in a silky feel and glittery look.

The horn comes again. If the third one goes off, he will come inside. He will see that guy whose name she still doesn’t even know, perched on the kitchen stool. He will ask if that is Marlene’s infamous boyfriend. And she might let her mask slip. She might get emotional. She might tell him what happened.

And he might be disgusted by her, just as she is by herself. He might think she is cursed, too. Shiro is all she has. She can’t afford to lose him.

So when she dashes out of the building with her backpack strapped to her shoulder, she hopes her mask worked.

“What took you so long?” Shiro asks suspiciously as she slides into the passenger side of the car.

“Woke up late.” She tries to avoid his eyes by pretending to be working her seatbelt.

“Your eyes are red?” His fingers curl under her chin, turning her face to his. A frown causes his eyebrows to pinch, a flash of worry in his eyes.

“Mascara.” She doesn’t even have to think too hard. It’s like her brain is already used to this. The word was just there, hanging on the tip of her tongue, ready to be echoed.

“Mascara?” He raises a brow, his hand dropping from her chin.

“Gosh, that shit hurts like hell.” She keeps up the act, sucking in air sharply through her teeth so he can feel the weight of how much the mascara really hurts.

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, starting the car.

Veronica releases a sigh of relief. Shiro doesn’t notice. He doesn’t notice the sadness in her eyes. He doesn’t notice the tremble in her fingers. He doesn’t hear the echo of the shattered piece of her heart in her voice.

He doesn’t know anything. Or maybe she just unlocked a new level. Maybe she has become good at masking it all.