The First Rule | ✓

chapter sixteen

          ISLA'S EYES OPEN IN AN INSTANT. Well, that's how it feels to her. She feels almost like she has closed her eyes for a second, and reopened them as if she were in a dream. However, if she were dreaming, her eyes would have seen her starry ceiling and she would have been safe and sound in her bedroom; but instead, she awakes to red walls and she is utterly alone, unlike what feels like a minute ago.

She thinks maybe she has blacked out in the room and slipped into a horrible dream; considering how blurry and dream-like her vision was. It still is, her eyes droopy and unable to remain open, and if it weren't for the dim lighting and dark colors her eyes would burn at the strength of light. The first thing she does is move her fingers, and not even bother picking up her pounding head, and she can feel the smoothness of the red booth.

Her mouth faintly tastes of blood, and she runs her tongue on the inside of her cheek, realizing she had bitten it when he had slapped her. Which meant one thing: she had not been dreaming. Everything had been real, but she can't figure out what everything was. What had he done to her?

With a low whimper by the sudden realization, Isla tries to get up and is only greeted by four red walls spinning around and a torturous headache. She is awfully dizzy, everything around her spiraling out of control and out of her grasp, and her eyes are searching for her purse. For a moment, to stop the dizziness, she stops moving and breathes in and eventually out.

She closes her eyes, but all she can picture is Felix on top of her, Felix and his dark eyes, Felix and his lips that have bruised hers, Felix and his mouth spitting at her to shut up. She grasps the edge of the table in front of her, her world only swirling more and more around her, her eyes closing tighter as she pictures Felix spinning her around, Felix handing her a glass of Martini that was extra fizzy, Felix delivering a private toast.

To us.

Felix and his rough hands, rough lips, and rough exterior.

No, no, no, no, the word is replaying itself in her head.

I don't want this, I don't want this, she couldn't say it then but she can scream it now, but at who? She is left alone behind a closed door and the distant, low hum of bass that is coming out of the speakers.

Finally, she opens her eyes, and sees her legs sprawled out before her; but that's not the worst part. Her dress is rolled up all the way to her stomach, the zip behind is opened, making it slightly fall off of her. Her underwear is off, and there's blood. There's blood everywhere and she gasps at the sight of it. It's on the inside of her thighs, even on the material of the booth. Her hand reaches her mouth and she cries into it, and she can't stare at it anymore. She needs to go. She needs to leave.