Blood to Dust

“My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.”

Since I have no passions, I pray that one day, this’ll make sense to me.

So far, passion failed me. The only thing I ever did fervently was killing the man who broke my Mama’s arms in a drunken fit to prevent him from hurting her again.

For now, though, I’ll make do with this quote. I like the jagged pain that escorts being marked. I like the white noise of the machine, and decide that by the time I get out of here, I’ll hide most of myself with bad ink.

Well, half of me, anyway. The other half I’ll keep clean and pure. Who knows? Maybe parts of me are still redeemable.

I wait impatiently for the night, knowing that I’ve made real progress with Nate.

But when the crickets start to chirp, my heart sinks.

Tonight is different than any other night.

I hear a commotion upstairs, followed by strange noises. Feet that are not Nate’s army boots nor Irvin’s Crocs. (I figured Ink is Irvin—who else could it be?)

I hear cheap heels clicking like the safety of a gun, and sneakers and boots dancing together. I hear music cranking up to full-blast. Chatter. Voices clashing like swords in my ears. Laughter. I hear women shrieking and giggling and awwing and ahhing. Men swearing, spitting and drinking. There’s a party upstairs, while I’m stuck here, rotting on my own stupid plans to break free. I’m terrifyingly upset with Nate, even though we’re not friends. Even though I’m nothing but his victim and, if things go according to my plan, he’ll soon be nothing of mine.

I confided in him, told him everything I’ve been through, and this is what he does?

A jolt of hatred slices through my gut. I despise every single woman who is partying up there, and I don’t even know them. The idea of Nate nuzzling, kissing, straddling—even choking—someone else makes me want to scream. I’m petrified and possessive of him at the same time. Why?

Jesus, what’s happening to me? I should be shouting from the top of my lungs, hoping someone would notice. But I can’t bring myself to do it. The illogical part of me tells me to wait. Maybe he’ll come for me. Maybe I can still make my way out of this place with him in tow.

Nate.

He hasn’t come down to check on me tonight. Haven’t had my meal yet. My shower time. My Nate time. One party and he forgets all about me?

Men. They should never be trusted.

I munch on stale chips, lying on my blanket as anger brews inside me. Tonight was not supposed to go down this way. He was supposed to come over, have dinner with me and crack completely.

I throw the bag of chips on the floor and scream into the darkness, the music swallowing the noise.

Iggy Pop is begging “I Wanna Be Your Dog” upstairs. Downstairs, I feel like a caged up pet. I knew there was going to be a downside to hearing everything through these paper walls, down to the persistent humming of their old fridge.

The music is so loud, I don’t even notice when in the midst of the wild party, the door cracks open. I jump to my feet when I see the light pouring from the inside the house into the basement. Maybe the person who opened the door is a stranger looking for a case of beer and I can ambush them. Alas, I’m greeted with the Guy Fawkes mask, and Nate is standing there, a white and dirty muscle shirt clinging to his body like a slutty fangirl. His black, ripped jeans ride low, offering a glimpse of his stupid V, his full sleeve of monsters spitting fire crawling up his muscled arm. He is holding an open bottle of beer and a plastic plate with junk food piled high. Pizza, coleslaw and greasy fries. I turn around and toss my hair.

“Oh. You.”

“Yeah, me.” He sounds playful, jovial and tanked. He’s been drinking. And by the slur I’ve already picked up, a lot more than one should have. “Who were you expecting? Donald Trump?”

“Honestly? I was wishing for a fucking cop.” I still don’t look at him, for a reason beyond my grasp. It’s not a good time to be sulking. He’s mumbling incoherently, drunk to oblivion and in all probability, breaking some pretty tough parole rules. The party, the alcohol and the stinking weed that’s on his clothes. This is when I should be making him break even more rules. Work harder to dig my way into his heart, not push him away until he’s on the other side of the planet.

Seduce. Take. Destroy. Treat men how they treat you, Prescott.

“Brought you food and booze,” he offers, his muscular arm dangles the beer bottle. I don’t budge from my place at the corner of the room, still moping like a two-year-old who just found out that the world doesn’t spin around her.