Chapter Seven:
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(Bo's POV)
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The trick is to breathe.
Enobaria's voice keeps repeating her words to me. Over and over again, I even begin to say them aloud as my hands press against the window frame. Pain coming over me in waves until there is no relief. There is only pain and anger. Anger and pain. Back and forth, one fights for control until there is nothing.
Only hunger.
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(Lauren's POV)
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Within each of us there lives a hero and a villain. A saint and a sinner. A martyr and a liar. Each desperately fighting for control. Each entity ravenous for control. At times one wins out of necessity and at other times one wins because you forget there is any other way to be. And at times one wins simply because you have a talent for being something; for being the villain, the liar or maybe even the hero. It does not necessarily define who you are. Sometimes you eventually remember who you truly are underneath it all.
And sometimes there is no coming back.
My eyes come to open, unable to force them shut any longer as my mind had run away on a tangent, unable to be silenced. Endless possibilities debated until the sound of my inner voice drove me to the edge of madness. Staring up at the ceiling I come to the realization that I had forgotten to shut the blinds as I watch several streaks of lightening stretch across the white void.
Rolling onto my side, instinctively my eyes find the clock; 4:45 a.m. I suppose I was wrong; I did manage to drift off for a good forty-five minutes somewhere in between my madness. Tossing the sheet from my body, I sit upright. A dull ache weighing over my body which I cannot quite explain, however apart from my drab, whirl wind of philosophical thoughts—my mind is only functioning at fifty percent. And that I find to be an overly generous assumption.
Readying to force myself from the meek comfort of my bed, my heart begins to speed instinctively. "Bo?" My eyebrow raised as I come to find her lingering in the darkest corner of my room, just beside the window. An internal warning within myself forcing my body to tense, one thing as certain as it was when I left her last night; something is off. "Is Kenzi okay?"
"You think Kenz is the only reason I'd come for you?" Her stare dead, looking through me rather than at me.
"To be precise, you have broken into my bedroom. However, yes, in this context I would venture the assumption that something being wrong with Kenzi would be the singular logical reason you would risk doing so. At least at this very moment."
"Does it make you feel good, to sound soooo superior?"
"Excuse me?" I ask, sliding from the bed. My sense of worry for her wellbeing slipping slowly behind caution as for the first time since meeting her self-preservation begins to win out.
"The way you use your big words in your long sentences just flashing that ivy league education that is already painfully obvious."
"Bo, what has happened?"
"Can't I just want to see you Lauren?"
"I repeat, you have broken into my bedroom. A bedroom which resides within Cunningham's home. Do you understand what you are risking at this very moment?" I take a step backward. "Besides, when I left you, you were with Dyson."
"Figured that out," There is an edge to her words, to her tone that causes her voice to sound unfamiliar. "that he was there, huh?"
"And it did not require my ivy league education either."
"You're mad?"
"Currently I find myself a lot of things Bo, mad is not particularly one of them."
Her lips begin to curve into a smirk I have never seen on her, although is all too familiar. "Neither is scared."
"Do you want me to be scared Bo?" I question, noticing her eyes beginning to lighten. There is a subtle shine now. Her normal warm, dark chocolate eyes becoming a vibrant shade of blue. "Is that why you are here? To make me scared?"
"I'd seriously appreciate if you'd answer like a normal person. Don't try your little shrink, answer a question with a question shit on me."
"Did something happen with Dyson?"
"A lot happened with Dyson." She coldly lets out a laugh. "You don't want to hear that." I am so distracted by her words, the coldness in her tone that I had failed to notice how she has been inching up, closing the distance between us. "Or do you?"
"Bo." I am not sure what I was attempting to convey, however whatever it was appears to have failed as she closes the distance entirely. Stoic and lost she stands toe to toe with me now. "Just tell me what you want."
"So is that how this works? I just need to tell you what I want?" Her hand raises, ghosting over my cheek.
"Bo-."
"Stop!" Her voice raises. "Stop saying my name like that."
"Lower your voice." I snap, eyes shifting from her to the door.
After several moments of silence, I turn back to face her. Our eyes meeting, locking with one another. In a way, it has become our thing. A longing stare. Words unspoken yet something conveyed with a glance. Although now there is something only predatory and cold remaining. Her eyes finish their transition, a bright blue, nearly translucent and if there was anything other than emptiness behind them, I would be able to appreciate the beauty within. However, there is no time. She leans in forceful, and without a thought my hand comes across her face.
"I am not a whore, and I am not Dyson. My legs do not open whenever you wish for it."
Again, she leans in further, although not with the same intent. "Do you know how easily I could hurt you Lauren? How easily I could take what I want? I could take anything I want from whoever I want, whenever I want."
"Yes." I nod, entirely aware of the blatant truth in part of her statement, however also distracted by the somewhat manic grandiosity of it as well. "Although, you will not."
"You don't know me Lauren, not as well as you think you do."
"I think you do not know yourself as well as you think you do, Bo."
She holds my stare, the emptiness behind her eyes gradually filled with an anger. The predatory nature radiating off of her dissipating and although she is not anywhere near the girl I have become acquainted with, there is a faint recognition of self-control. Gradually she steps away from me, before turning away entirely without a word and sneaking back out of the window she had somehow managed to sneak in.
And sometimes you only need someone else to remind you.
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(Bo's POV)
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Sitting on the edge of the bed, taking in the perfect moment of peace that follows pure silence. My mind clearing from a fog I didn't realize I was in. My body calmer, the constant pain from my shoulder lessening. The throbbing in my head now a dull ache only begging for attention rather than screaming.
And then I hear him move.
The sense of peace vanishing along with the calm. My heart beginning to race as I feel uneasy. No, not uneasy—guilty. It's a weight I know well, I've become experienced with carrying it. Pushing myself from his bed, quickly I begin to find my pants, and button the shirt I had not bothered to take off.
"Do I even want to know what kind of trouble you got up to tonight?"
I hesitate, Flashes of the night coming back to me. "Nothing exciting."
It's a lie. Breaking into Cunningham's house and threatening Lauren—or whatever it actually was. Was it really a threat? Would I have actually done anything to her? Could I have hurt her? The woman who makes me step up to Cunningham for her? No, I don't think I could. Not really. Not me—but there's another me. The me that causes pieces of my night to blackout.
His hand rests on my shoulder, bringing me back to reality. "At least you're healing a lot faster."
"Yeah, thanks."
"Where did you go last night Bo?"
"Possessive much?" I ask, finishing buttoning my shirt, using it as an excuse to move away from his touch.
"Why can't you answer?"
"Jesus Dyson, leave it already."
"She's just leading ya on, she's never gonna love you."
"Who said anything about love?" I snort, shaking my head as I walk past him. "And you don't know that."
I don't know if the comment was more for my benefit or his. This voice in the back of my mind screaming over the pain that he's right. That whatever delusional obsession I have with this woman is one sided. It's one sided and crazy and certainly will not go anywhere now that I did what I did last night.
I can't even be sure what I did last night.
I remember going there. I remember her. I remember the intense…feelings I felt. I remember bits and pieces. A painting with missing colors. Or a book with missing pages, whatever the saying is. It's all jumbled. I'm all jumbled and Dyson being a jealous boyfriend all of a sudden isn't helping one bit.
"Bo, I meant what I said."
He stares me down, this look of anger. It doesn't seem as though he plans to say anything else and that's fine. I don't want to listen anymore. I slip into my shoes, and head toward the door. I don't even know what he is talking about. I don't remember much after I left Lauren. I know I jumped down from the roof, I know cause my ankle was messed up—still kinda is. Everything after that is blank. Making my way down the stairs, I feel the dizziness coming back over me. The sort of fog I remember slipping into last night before going to Lauren.
Why-why did I do that?
Why did I do this?
Why do I feel this way?
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(Lauren's POV)
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"Lauren."
The sound of his voice forces me to an abrupt halt. My hands buried deep within my pockets, pulling the jacket closer to my body as I turn around to face him. Smirk curving my lips as my eyes roll, of course in twenty-degree weather he would be walking around without a jacket. He comes to tower over me, looking down at me in more ways than one. Everything about the way his features fix to stare me down says he despises having to. Everything in the way he forces himself to say my name for Bo's sake screams how much he hates it.
"Why were you here?"
"I came to speak to Hale."
"Why?" He demands. "For your master."
"No." I admit rather boldly. Rather unconsciously. "I came for his help. I saw Bo this morning, she is not well."
"No, she isn't." He shakes his head, sternness in his features wavering. "I don't know what is wrong with her."
"Maybe you should remember is young. She is far from accustom to this life." I swallow back the words I intend to say and replace them with something less combative. "And she is certainly not accustom to killing."
"Unlike me?"
"Yes."
He snaps. "And unlike you."
"Yes." I repeat, with a nod. "May I leave?"
He nods, and I start to turn back to the cross walk only to have his voice stop me. "Did I do this?"
"I suppose that answers the question I have been debating all day." I nod more to myself than him. To my surprise when I look back up to meet his stare it is not gloating, I find, but remorse. "Her transition is in the final stages now."
"I know." Once again, he snaps, however I do not believe the anger in his voice is intended for me this time. "Mind your business slave, I will handle this."
He turns around, heading back toward Helix and although I have learned not to take much personal anymore, for some peculiar reason they always seem personal with him. Yet this time, I do not take his insult toward me personally at all. There is an unusual sense of compassion for his current predicament because I suppose in a peculiarly unique way I can relate.
I force myself to turn around and start back toward the manor. My mind entering a dangerous dance between worry for Bo and jealousy over the events in which had apparently transpired. I suppose I knew all along, from the very moment I left her apartment that something would happen. Seeing her in that disoriented state practically confirmed it. Although having him admit it to my face, with certainty carries a different weight.
A weight in which I am not emotionally or mentally prepared to address.
Arriving back at the manor I come to find Cunningham has once again disappeared the way he has for the past several days. Although I do not wish for his company in any way, I cannot help finding it peculiar he continues to vanish without a word. Until recently I found myself drug along to every event, meeting, killing and anything else he could compose.
Either he has something rather large in play that he cannot find himself bothered with me or he knows now I have been sneaking out to see Bo and he is allowing it, thinking it will benefit him somehow. After all, to him I am nothing more than a dog that has been broken, more than willing to return to him.
Tiring of waiting for his return I begin up the stairs, readying to turn in for the night, only to feel my phone vibrate. Stopping midway up the stairs, I look over the screen. A number I do not recognize, although it is clearly Dyson. It is short, the way he speaks to me.
My eyes narrow, reading the message over twice more.
I look down the stairs to the front door, debating if it is worth it. Debating if all of this is worth it. Should I really put myself in harm's way once again for her? Should I go running at his text message, with such little self-respect for myself? He was with her last night, obviously with her now, let him handle it.
Yet, despite all of my bolstering it does not take long for me to head back down the stairs and out the door. I take the longer way there, knowing Cunningham does not come down these streets. He hates wasting time. Once again, I find the club closed and abandoned. I suppose they do not actually need the money; however, it is rather peculiar how carelessly they have managed it recently.
Although I suppose there is a particular level of carelessness in how I have conducted myself.
Climbing the stairs, I hear yelling from within the apartment, Hale and Kenzi. There is an inkling of curiosity, however, I continue up the second, narrower set of stairs to the roof. Not entirely sure what I should expect to find, I push the door open cautiously.
Bo leans against the brick ledge, staring down at the sidewalk, Dyson hanging far enough back that it is evident their communication ceased some time ago. He unlike her turns to acknowledge me. With a nod, he silently excuses himself and I think that is the politest exchange we have ever had.
"You shouldn't have come Lauren." Her words a faint, broken whisper.
"I know." I admit with a sigh. "I was concerned."
"W-what I did." Her voice breaks, head hanging further. "I-I'm sorry."
"Bo, I am a slave to a people, a person who hate humans. What you did, the things you said this morning are insignificant."
She turns around, eyes swollen and red. "Is what I say to you that insignificant?" For the first time her voice does not break, there is conviction, and she is searching for an answer I do not quite think she deserves. "You should go, before you get in trouble." She snaps, obviously hurt as she turns her back to me once again.
"As you wish." I nod, readying to take my leave. "For a piece of mind, what caused this morning is more than likely because you are unaccustomed to not only feeding as much as you did, but with the potency that he possesses."
"It can't be." She lets out flatly, stopping me from turning the door handle.
"I'm sorry?"
"That can't be the reason." She glances over her shoulder. "I came to you, before I…" Trailing off her head hands once again.
"Oh." It is all I can manage to get out as I begin to reconfirm the situation in my head. Immature jealousy wavering as I hesitantly make my way beside her. Hands on the chilled brick, looking down over the ledge along with her. "Then it happened due to an intense biological need to feed and heal yourself."
"Is that supposed to make it better?" She glares at me from the side. "I had this under control. I had even managed to have Dyson leave last night. I just…I don't understand."
"Because you do not understand yourself."
"You don't understand what this…" She trails off, snapping at me as she steps back. Her hands angrily gestor to herself and although she is attempting to push me away. To scare me off with anger and a raised voice, she has never looked more vulnerable.
"Then tell me."
"Tell you what?'
"Help me understand." I turn, resting against the ledge as I fold my hands in front of myself. "Please, Bo…help me understand."
"Understand-" She is so angry, so frustrated that her voices breaks as tears fill her eyes. "Do you know what I have to do to feed and not kill anyone? Kenz has to stand by with a stun gun to make sure I stop. Do you know I've hurt her before by throwing her down when she's tried to stop me? Or I need Enobaria to pull me away when I've tried at the Dollhouse?"
"There is an art of control a succubi learns to master—in time. What you do? Depriving yourself to the verge of starvation before feeding is an undebatable factor in your lack of control. You need to maintain a healthy and steady feeding pattern, eventually it will regulate your ability to control your hunger and urges."
"You don't get it!"
I nod, calmly. "Okay."
"There's something wrong with me." She lets out after a moment of what I would assume is silent debate. "It's not, I don't hate what I am. I'm not some cliché. I—sometimes I get these urges. These feelings that I can't even begin to describe."
"Try." I gently coax, almost reaching out for her hand. "For me."
"It's like I'm on fire, burning from the inside out and everything hurts. I mean everything. I just want it to stop, I beg and plead for it to stop but it gets worse and I know this must sound crazy, but it's like there's this other voice in the back of my mind. It screams for—something. Something that isn't nice. Something that isn't me. At least I don't want it to be me. I…it's not supposed to be how it feels. Is it?"
"Not necessarily, no."
She nods, tears wheeling back up in her eyes. "Thank you."
A whimper escapes her best efforts as she nearly falls to her knees. In a serious of weird, weak maneuvers she is sitting on her butt, knees up to her chest and back to the ledge as she tries desperately not to break any further in front of me than she already has.
There is a voice in my mind screaming at me to walk away. There is a voice in my mind screaming every logical thing one should take into account into this particular situation. For starters everything and anything that encompasses Cunningham and the risks I continuously put myself in. Then of course there is the fact that she is so much younger, in more than one way and her tendency to teeter between Dyson and my attention only further highlights this. And then of course the fact that she is expressing explicitly there is something within herself that she cannot control.
These are all large warning signs that I should take into consideration and walk away because there is no situation in which the outcome of this could be anything near favorable. Yet, the sight of her sitting beside me, attempting not to fall apart pulls at me in ways I cannot quite describe, nor do I want to deal with yet. So instead, I take a seat beside her, back to the half wall, legs stretched out.
My eyes move over her face as she refuses to look at me before moving to the door. A part of myself expecting it to fly open, Cunningham coming to take me back to the manor and punish me. The thing is that even though I know that moment is inevitable, there is the tiniest feeling within myself that whispers ever so softly that she might be worth it.
"Do you know there is a difference between indebted and enslaved?" I ask, only glancing at her long enough to see a shake of her head. "Your friend at the Dollhouse is indebted, and yes your kind can be indebted and enslaved too. I in turn," My head falls slightly, right hand loosely wrapped around my left wrist. Thumb brushing over the raised skin underneath the thin fabric. "am enslaved."
"Lauren…"
"Indebted, if you are lucky you will survive long enough to fulfill your commitment. You will be freed, broken, and scared—just a shell of who you once were, however, free. Enslaved, there will be a day when the chain will come off and the master is not watching anymore, although it will not matter. You will not run; you will not even think about it." With a heavy sigh, I turn to meet her eyes. "We all have our crosses to bare Bo, some are harder than others, but they are meant to be carried, not crush us."
Her hand reaches out, gently resting on mine. It is not the gentleness that makes my heart ache, rather the innocence. "I'm sorry."
"Thank you." Is all I can manage as a response, slightly taken back.
After a long silence, a heavy sigh, she begins tentatively. "Every day I wonder if I'm a good person who sometimes does bad things or a bad person who sometimes does good things."
Gently I cannot keep from smiling. "I believe that is everyone Bo, or at least the majority."
"Even you?"
"Even me." I nod.
"I just, I feel so-like this girl that's just-just-"
"Lost?"
"Yeah."
"There are things you can do to help control yourself." My eyes unconsciously fall to our hands. "Things we can explore to help alleviate some of the discomfort."
"We?"
I look up, eyes meeting hers and I find myself somewhat sheepish at the slip. At the intensity of her stare that makes me foolishly think things are different than they are. Yet, in this moment there is only her and I and I do not fight the fantasy. Instead, I just give her a smile and relax against the brick.
She does not pull away her hand and neither do I. Eventually between the silence and lack of movement on either part becomes somewhat easily misconstrued as awkward she begins to pull her hand away. Rather than letting her I turn my hand along with hers, our fingers intertwining.
Somehow, she makes a comment and I follow it up and although I am not completely sure how we end up where we do, she begins to lean into me a little more, beginning the story of how she got her car. Which albeit while I find myself more wrapped up in her touch, I also find myself highly curious about because I could never come up with a good reason of how she came into possession of a classic Dodge Charger that appears pristine.
She begins explaining how after she had escaped from the Brotherhood she made it back to her house. That she lived isolated within the house for a week, waiting for the Brotherhood or police to show up, however, no one ever did. She explains in great detail how scared and alone she felt, how the phone would never seem to stop ringing with calls from her parents' work and friends and neighbors. That the doorbells would seemingly ring for hours on end, but she stayed hidden in her parents' bedroom.
What strikes me is the great detail she delivers within her story. She sometimes has a tendency to ramble, talk more than she needs to, however, she is never overly descriptive. Now, she describes everything and at first it distracts me ever so slightly, my mind trying to decipher the reason behind it. Until it dawns on me, the more detail she gives, the more she leans into me, the more her hand squeezes mine.
And then I realize she has never told this story before. She may have never even admitted some of these things she admits now to herself. It is at that point my arm wraps around her shoulder, holding her close and there is no other thought I can form other than I want to keep her safe.
She says she is not sure if it was at a week exactly or a little after but eventually she had nearly run through all of the food and necessities. She had no money and no family, no one to trust so she had run to her estranged brother. She had only met him a handful of times, as he was so much older than her, it was really like he did not exist at all. And he was exceptionally easy to forget.
It had taken her three days to find him, strung out in what she calls a crack house, but what she describes is actually an ISO house. Although that is neither here nor there. He was high, however, sober enough to recognize her and understand what she told him happened. She said she begged him, pleaded with him to return, to help her and he waved her off.
Once again in great detail she describes the fight that ensued. The insults hurled at one another and the eventual outcome. How he shoved her into the wall, walked off, done with her and the situation. Pushing herself up she was ready to walk away when she saw his coat laying on a mattress on the floor. She took the keys and what little money he had. She said she expected him to come for it, come for her although he never did.
"I consider it payment." She shrugs, voice soft as she holds up our hands a little, looking them over. "I was going to sell it, to Hale actually." She laughs. "The rest is history."
"You are certainly full of surprises."
"I like to keep things interesting." She smiles, attempting to smirk and regain some of that cocky charm she tends to exhibit.
That you certainly do.