ᴇQᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴅᴇʀᴀɴɢᴇᴅ

4

"Miss me, sweetheart?"

The words slither from his lips, smooth as silk, yet tainted with venom. A handsome angel draped in the guise of a devil.

James Claherty.

The bad omen that stained my past. The man who introduced me to a world of euphoria laced with poison. The one who whispered sweet lies about how the drugs would make everything feel better. The man who passed me around like a shared cigarette to his friends. The one who twisted my mind until I mistook manipulation for love.

For a time, I believed I had Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe I did. Maybe it wasn't love at all just infatuation with the thought of escaping. He gave me an exit from my personal hell: away from the grasp of my perverted uncle, away from my mother who was too lost in her addiction to care.

But what I hadn't foreseen was that the pain I was running from would simply trade faces. External torment was replaced by an internal agony that gnawed at my soul.

He used me. I used him.

A fair trade, I told myself.

He gave me food, shelter.

I gave him my body. Simple.

But it stopped being simple the night he let his friends take turns with me. When I was left raw—skin torn, thighs stained with blood, the acrid scent of sweat and semen clinging to me. When metal belt buckles lashed against my back, bruising my ribs, branding my skin. I left then. But leaving didn't mean I was free.

They say even the devil was once an angel.

My pulse hammers as I stare into his dark brown eyes. There's something sinister about them—something that still has the power to grip me, as if he's wrapped an invisible leash around my throat, always tugging me back.

I don't love him. No, I despise him. I loathe every breath he takes. And yet, his presence coils around me, suffocating and intoxicating.

When fear coils in my gut, when my mind teeters on the edge of losing control, she wakes up.

"She" comes out to play.

"Can't speak, darling?" he purrs, his fingers reaching out, brushing a stray curl away from my face. He leans in, his breath ghosting against my neck, a predator savoring the moment before the kill.

"Des, who's at the door?" Tia's voice snaps through the air like a whip.

I blink. Reality slams into me, and I shove him back. He stumbles slightly, his jaw tightening, eyes darkening with something dangerous. Then, in an instant, his hand is around my throat. His fingers curl, pressing into my skin like a vice, and he squeezes—slow, deliberate. His grip is punishing, his thumb and index finger sinking in with the precision of a snake injecting venom into its prey.

I should be afraid.

I should fight back.

Instead, a sick heat pools in my stomach.

Call me broken. Call me twisted. But he made me this way. He cracked me open, hollowed me out, and built me into something he could control.

"Answer her... lie," he whispers, his lips grazing my ear. His grip loosens, just slightly.

My voice comes out hoarse. "It's just some guy asking for directions. He's lost."

"Alright," Tia calls back. "I'll see you in class tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I reply, slipping my hand into his as I step outside.

I don't want to go.

Don't go.