Blindly Forgotten

Behind the Lotus 9

BEHIND THE LOTUS 

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9

I sat in the tub, staring at my knees before I gripped the razor in my hand.  

There were four scars on my wrist, just four. That doesn't sound like a cutter. Because I'm not, I never was.  

But I was cut. . .  

My left wrist, under the purple, gold and silver lotus blossom tattoo are four deep and rigid scars. Raised and black, they are the only proof of my one and only boyfriend and the effect my voice took on his mind.  

I was careless. I spoke too often, even when I knew the tone wasn't present, there was a little brush in the back of his mind. One day, I guess he snapped.  

He left me for dead, after slitting my wrist. The four scars crossed over each other. In a star like pattern but without the fifth and final cut, I'll never know if that was what he was going for.  

The petals and golden stems in the center dusted over the raised bumps, but I could see them. And what worried me, was if Aden would know what they were if he ever felt them.  

I slowly ran the razor over my legs, becoming hypnotized by the sound of the blade on skin.  

"Kenna!" A voice boomed. I jumped, the razor sliding sideways, and separating my ivory flesh before the soapy bubbles became red and dented with fat blood drops.  

I cursed looking away from the fascinating drops. "What?" 

"There is a baritone voice at the door."  

Baritone? The boss? 

I jumped out of the tub, and grabbed my jeans and tanktop, sliding into my undergarments and then my clothes before jumping into my shoes and pulling my damp and curling hair to the side. I checked the fogged up mirror before I pulled the drain. I looked down and saw to my discomfort a thin line staining the side of my faded blue jeans. Damn.  

I jumped when I opened the door and came face to face with my gorgeous house guest. His shades were in place, but I knew the color behind the black glass.  

But I didn't care for the scowl on his face either. 

I reached to door as I heard another thump against the wood. 

"Open this damn door, or I'll break it down!"  

I opened it calmly, facing a rather upset middle aged man in a black suit with rainbow suspenders. Was that a rub on tattoo of a mustache? I studied it before deciding it indeed was a rub on tattoo mustache on his upper lip. I held in my laughter like a pro.  

"Yes, Mr. Dillon?" 

"Why are you not preping for your show? You always prep for your shows!" I rolled my eyes before leaning against the door frame.  

"My set time isn't until eight tonight. It is barely noon now." I told him calmly.  

"ZJ preps all day, before the club opens even!"  

"Zenidra Julian is a Spanish speaking rapper using English words in her songs. It takes a lot of vocal exercise to get those notes right in unfamiliar words. I don't blame her for the extra practise. She sounds amazing so she is doing something right." I narrowed my eyes at his glazed expression before his hands reached out and grabbed me. His hands locked my arms in place, and before I could even process the attack, he had me pinned to the ground, and his fly was down.  

I realized something right then.  

A) I forgot to focus my voice.  

B) Mr. Dillon had been working out.  

C) I wasn't strong enough to take him down.  

As he ripped my jeans away from me, I screamed. His hand covered my mouth, his elbow and weight pressing on my chest and diaphragm, and I couldn't breathe past his hand.  

I struggled until the black dots and ringing in my head made it impossible to see or focus.  

The feeling of numb acceptance flooded my limbs.  

Seriously? Raped by my boss. Fuck my life!