Strike (Sphere of Irony 2)

Adam turns and storms off, leaving me shocked and gaping, my arms still reaching out towards where he was standing. I drop them to my sides and fall down back into a chair.

Not much gets Adam going like that. We haven’t had a proper row in a long time. I have no clue who he was talking to on the phone or what happened. I do know that it’s pointless to wonder. Adam won’t tell me until he’s good and ready. If I’m the expert in burying my emotions and locking them up tight, Adam is the expert at putting on a happy face and going through the motions.

For something to affect him this deeply, to have him lose it like that, hell… he’ll be drinking himself back into oblivion in no time. Just like me, he’s learned that the mask only stays in place for just so long. When it cracks and your true self is revealed, the result isn’t always pretty.

I lean over and pinch the bridge of my nose, a pounding headache coming on. Bloody hell. Between Lila’s shit and Adam’s drinking, I’m going to have my hands full.

I slump back, feeling ages older than my nearly twenty-one years. Maybe Adam is right. Maybe we’ll both be miserable forever. Maybe dealing with Lila’s obsession and Adam’s addiction is penance for being such a violent, unfeeling bastard all my life.

Fuck knows I deserve whatever suffering is thrown at me, if for no other reason than breaking Kate’s heart.

Kate

“Kate? I’m home!” I hear Abby enter the flat, the noise of her luggage rolling across the hardwood floor. “Kate? You here?”

I can’t bring myself to answer. I’ve hardly moved in the two weeks since… since… A whimper escapes my throat. The panicked feelings I’ve been having spread out from the pit of my stomach, worming their way into my limbs. I breathe slowly, in and out, focusing on holding myself together like I read on the Internet.

Using the Internet as a psychologist when I have a flatmate who has a degree in psychology . That’s what I’ve resorted to.

A knock on my bedroom door startles me. “Kate?” It swings open a crack, revealing my flatmate. “There you are.” She gets a good look at me and her brow crumples. “Why’s it dark in here? You’re still in bed. Are you sick?”

“No.” My voice is raspy, tired sounding. “Just having a lie-in, that’s all.”

Abby stares at me, the psychologist in her trying to piece together the picture she’s seeing. I pull the duvet up higher, trying to hide my swollen, red face. “Are you sure? Do you want to talk?”

I shiver. The last thing I want to do is discuss that night with my psychologist flatmate. She’ll have me in therapy in no time, reliving it over and over until I’m empowered or some bloody crap. All I want to do is forget. The Internet doesn’t ask questions.

“No. I’m fine, really.”

She presses me again. I know if I can’t get it together she’ll be dissecting every little thing I do in that analytical brain of hers.

“I-I…” I burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Kate, what’s going on?” The bed dips down where Abby has sat next to me.

Still, all I can do is snuffle into the duvet, soaking it with tears.

“Hey,” Abby rubs a kind hand over my back, speaking in calm, soothing tones. “Kate. Tell me what happened while I was gone. You know I won’t judge you. Does it have to do with Dax?”

I shudder, inhaling a snotty, loud breath. “No. Not Dax.”

“All right ,” she murmurs, her hand still making small circles on my back. “Then who?”

“I don’t want to say,” I admit. Knowing Abby, she’s march right over to the frat house and knock on the door, demanding to speak to Wes.

“That’s fine. So what did he do? I’ve never seen you this upset.” Abby hands me a box of tissues off of my desk.

“Thanks.” I mop up the mess of tears and snot, my sobs weakening to a silent clench in my heart. Steeling myself, I tell Abby about the party, how I drank too much, how I let Wes bring me home, and what he did.

Abby takes my hand, squeezing it tight. “I hope to god you reported it,” she says icily.

“I didn’t want to.” I fiddle with the used tissue. “But I did.”

“What did the police say?”

I shrug. “I had already cleaned up. He didn’t actually, you know,” my face burns with shame, “put it in me. There was no evidence. They spoke to him and that was it.”

“I hate this,” Abby whispers.