Ruin (The Rhodes 1)

. . . . .

A pounding in my skull wakes me up. I groan as my hands fly to the side of my head in a fruitless attempt to stop the assault.

No covers. I sit up in bed and glance at my lap. Cotton underwear. I wince. Who undressed me, again?

I shake my head, which makes the headache worse. My hand moves to the night table.

Please let there be painkillers.

My arm is suspended mid-air when a shadow appears at the corner of the room. Before I can identify the shape, it dashes towards me. Its speed sends slicing razors to my heart.

God. Please no, no, no...

I propel my legs to move but they’re frozen as if shackled to the bed. The shadow hovers over me. I scream. No sound comes out.

“Aaron!” I feel my mouth forming his name, but there’s no sound. There’s nothing. The room is a bottomless black. There’s nothing. The face of the man over me is lines of grey. There’s nothing but disgusting cigar smell gagging my nostrils.

I scream again. This time, the sound is so loud, I jolt into a sitting position. My tortured breaths are the only sound in the room. Not my room. A black-and-grey-decorated room. My booming heart rate slows down a little when my brain catches up with reality.

It was only a nightmare. Only a nightmare.

But even that thought doesn’t contain the tears. They soak my cheeks, leaving hot lines in their wake. I wipe them with the back of my hand. Instead of my skin, a soft cloth, dangling from my hand, takes care of the matter.

I look down at myself and I’m glad to find my body clothed in cotton trousers and a T-shirt. I inhale its familiar cedar scent. A mysterious serenity washes over me.

Air comes into my lungs with steady speed. That’s all it takes for rotten memories to slam at my brain like a nuclear bomb. A man. Rancid cigar smell. Beating. Punching. Pain. Lots of pain. More pain. Then... nothing. Dead.

Am I dead?

Another distinct memory rushes in. Aaron. Blood. Lots of blood. The man’s blood.

I gasp. Oh. My. God.

Aaron killed him. And the worst part is that I thanked him for it.

Vomit fills my mouth, and I stumble out of bed. My aching body protests at the sudden movement. Jolt of pain shoot through my limbs. I almost fall down, but still continue my run to the door to my right. I fall to my knees before the toilet and empty the contents of my stomach in a few spurts.

My eyes drop to the shower. I have to lean on the wall to stand up.

I slide to the shower’s floor. The urgent itch to scrub my skin is greater than anything I’ve ever wanted in life.

I’m dirty. I feel so damn dirty. As if I was thrown into the mud for years.

With clumsy fingers, I remove my clothes. They rub on my wounds, but I don’t stop at the sparks of pain. I don’t stop when angry red marks appear against my skin. I don’t stop until I’m naked inside the glassy box.

When icy cold water comes out, I slump underneath it, welcoming the freezing temperature. Only it does little to extinguish the fire within me.

Not only Aaron is a murderer but I also thanked him for killing a man for me.

I. Thanked. Him.

This can’t be happening. This isn’t me. Even if that bastard hurt me, was death the appropriate punishment?

Yes. At that moment— and God help me, even now— I think the man deserved it. He deserved every single twist of Aaron’s knife.

Oh. God. I’m turning into a hideous monster. I was in contact with The Devil for so long that I picked up his habits.

Stop thinking. Stop thinking.