Playlist –
"Red Star" – Elm Lake
"Striving" – Trevor Kowalski
"We Think the Same" – Gold in June
"And We Walk After" – Trevor Kowalski
Trigger Warning: This chapter has some disturbing material involving attempted non-con.
6
"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear" – C.S. Lewis
"I know you're there … I can hear you breathing."
The words were chilling, and I reached up to cover my mouth, afraid that the smallest amount of noise would reveal my hiding spot. The roses could only shield me for so long. Soon, the men would find me, and if I couldn't fight back, I hoped that within my mind, I could be spirited away. As always, I would find a way to disassociate and think only of the flowers.
The flowers … and Edward … the handsome stranger I saved who somehow held a dear place in my heart.
For a moment, I almost wanted to cry out something taunting. Maybe then, they would realize the agency I had. Or, at least, the agency I believed I had. Instead of opening my mouth, however, almost afraid of what might come out, I clenched one of the flowers in front of me, gripping with enough force to cause some of the petals to crumble freely into my sweaty palm.
As I peered down at them, I half-expected them to sprout faces, becoming cartoonish as they bloomed to offer up their help. The situation felt outlandish enough to warrant these kinds of delusions. I released my grip of the rose and peered down to find many of its petals now crumpled. I watched, almost waiting for it to become animated.
When cartoon eyes didn't appear, proving that these flowers had indeed grown in reality and not some fantasy world, I let go of a shuddering breath. As the footsteps grew closer and the voices became even more taunting, I continued to watch the flower, searching for a bit of advice.
What was I expecting the garden to say to me? Keep fighting! Never give up! A chorus of floral voices wouldn't greet me. I wouldn't walk away from tonight a princess one step closer to a happy ending.
A ragged breath passed over me, causing me to gaze up to find one of the men meeting my gaze. Stubble covered his structureless chin and age spots covered the layers of fat that had developed around his jaw. His nose protruded in a way that suggested that it had been broken once or twice before. This wasn't the sort of kind old man one would find on a porch with chewing tobacco between his coffee-stained teeth. This was the sort of old man who had been rotten his whole life. Age hadn't changed him. If anything, it had hardened the person he had always been.
Unlike the flowers, he didn't smell sweet. His breath was putrid—cigarettes and liquor mixed with whatever unsavory thing he had consumed earlier—and it tickled my nose, warming my cool skin. I held my breath, trying not to smell his scent nor breathe in his air. He seemed to notice this maneuver and frowned, having the nerve to seem slighted by my small action.
His friend joined him, peering down at me too with a grin that I didn't want to think about the meaning behind. I didn't need to ask them what they had planned. That much was obvious. The desire to dominate was written on their features like a campfire cautionary tale.
Slowly, I reached into my purse and fumbled around for my keys. I didn't have a knife on me. My pocketknife, which I typically carried for those "just in case" sort of situations, was on my bedside nightstand back at the motel. A curse escaped my lips before my fingers finally found the keys in my bag, and I paused. With my hand still in my purse, I clenched the set of keys against my palm and closed my fist, letting each one of the keys, three in total, slip between the cracks of my fingers.
Although the keys weren't sharp, they were the best thing I could manage. They could act like the claws I wished I had. If things escalated here and the time was right, I would pull my hand from my bag and fight in the best way I knew how.
Would I make it off of this rooftop? Would tonight mark the end of the road?
My eyes began to burn before tears blurred my vision. A laugh escaped one of the men's lips, causing one of the tears to fall from my eye before sliding down my left cheek.
"Aw, sweetheart, don't cry. Not yet. We're not here to hurt you, after all."
"We're just here to play with you," the other gleefully chimed in.
I should stop crying. I should pick myself up off the ground. If I seem pathetic now, what would that mean for me?
Despite knowing what I should do, I couldn't move. My legs were stiff and didn't want to follow my mind's order. So, as one of the men reached down to palm my breast, I sat paralyzed. I closed my eyes as his fingers slipped into my shirt.
Fight! Get up and fight back! my mind screamed at me. If only my body would listen.
If only my body ever listened. Why did I become paralyzed whenever it mattered most? In the past, I had never fought back. Instead, I acted like a stranger in my own skin. I watched horrific things as if they weren't happening to my body, but instead to the body of a stranger. I would feel out of my own body, taking up space in the air as I acted passively, taking every ounce of the pain.
Tonight, that had to end. I couldn't continue forward like this anymore. Not if I wanted to survive.
Almost out of my own head, I managed to pull my hand from my bag and grunted as my fist collided with my molester's face. He groaned as soon as the keys made contact with his skin. To my surprise, blood formed around the keys, and as I pulled my fist back, that blood coursed down his face in a wet stream.
"You fucking bitch!" he yelped before pulling back his own fist to threaten me.
Filled with adrenaline and the strong will to survive the night, I was on my feet before he could beat down on me. I rose to the challenge, bringing my fist up to collide with his face again. I punched where I knew it would hurt—where cuts were open and where his skin was irritated—as his friend watched me in a drunken state of shock. My actions hadn't sobered him … yet.
Soon, I hoped, they would know how it felt to be a victim. There was no way of knowing whether I was their first victim, but I hoped to God I would be their last. Would pain be a good enough lesson? It was all I could offer them, after all.
My bleeding molester stepped back, staggering as he brought his clenched hands up to shield his face. As he moved backward, he moved toward a wall of concrete leading to a door for the staircase that led down to the apartments. Just as I was about to punch him again, hoping to hit him against the wall, he tripped as he was backing up, sending himself spiraling back.
He hit the wall behind him with a wet thud I knew I would hear in my nightmares for years to come. The contact sounded like a tender fruit being smashed against pavement, splattering everywhere before covering the ground with its juices. As he slid down the wall to a sitting position, blood from the back of his head left a trailed stain.
"You dumb whore," his friend drunkenly muttered.
I heard the man's footsteps behind me, moving drunkenly toward me. So close to the edge now, I feared if he got close enough, he would try to push me off for injuring his friend. I was a nobody here, after all. Would anyone even notice if I passed away? They would surely notice if my body hit the pavement below …
He followed me up here to rape me, didn't he? Not murder me … He wouldn't be bold enough to try something like that. Would he?
I gasped as he came at me swinging. His aim was poor, but in his rage, it seemed like he was trying to move me toward the edge of the building. A cry escaped me as he knocked the keys from my hand, and my stomach twisted as I watched them fly over the edge. After a few seconds, they clamored against the pavement below before any sound from them ceased.
If I were to fall, how would I sound? Would I too reach the ground in mere seconds?
The man then grabbed my shoulders, letting his nails dig into the flesh of my shoulders. Beneath the fabric of my uniform top, I could feel my skin break. Within seconds, the fabric became wet, causing me to sway on my feet.
I had never been one to handle blood well. Honestly, it was a shock that I hadn't already passed out. Only the need for survival kept me moving. Still, I couldn't overlook the way my knees wobbled with every step I took. There were seconds that it truly seemed like the world was swaying—like the Earth was turning on its axis. As my head became loopier, I found myself spitting at him. The spit landed on his cheek, and he pulled one of his hands back.
His open palm collided with my right cheek, and instantaneously, I tasted blood on my tongue. It filled my mouth, and spiteful, I spit again, almost smiling as my blood stained his bloated cheek. If only he found things so humorous. Instead of returning my smile or matching the rue that quickly filled my heart, he shoved me back and watched as I landed on the ground.
On my back, dazed and disorientated in a way that made me feel almost drunk too, I peered up at the stars. They were bright tonight. There wasn't enough light in this town to distract from their shine. They looked like bullet holes breaking through the darkness to show us a luminosity. Maybe the darkness was only a shield from the true light that encased us.
A smile tugged on my lips again as more tears escaped my eyes. How could anyone smile at a time like this? Then, I felt a splash of water hit my cheek. And another. And then another. After a few seconds, I realized it was raining. The night sky began to bathe me as I listened to the sounds of the man above me unbuttoning his pants and pulling down his zipper.
I should get up. I should move. Defend myself before it was too late.
However, it already felt too late. The past had fractured me beyond repair. Maybe I just needed a moment like this to realize that. So, what was one more person? Could one more painful incident truly ruin my psyche more than it already was?
Out of nowhere, the stars seemed to form something familiar. Edward Cullen had possessed my mind so much, I was now seeing him in the stars. I could almost laugh at the absurdity.
Fight! his expression screamed at me. You saved me … now save yourself!
Why was it so easy for me to save a man who was basically a stranger? Yet, saving myself felt so difficult. Nearly impossible. Why was it so easy to exhaust my efforts on other people but so difficult to put the same amount of effort into myself? Wasn't I worthy? Shouldn't I survive too?
Before the man could move on top of me, I was on my feet once more. Now, a new determination surged through me as my mind became lucid. A switch inside of me had been flipped. With Edward Cullen clear in my vision, almost as if the man himself were standing beside me, I began to fight back.
The man was stronger than me. Faster even despite the way drinking had disabled him. He loomed over my petite frame as he knocked into me with his feet and fists again and again. I punched just as much, hitting as hard as my body could. Soon, the vision of Edward was gone, and I thought solely of myself.
I needed to be the one I loved most in this world. I needed to fight for myself. I needed to die for myself. Hell, I needed to live for myself too. That was something I should have been doing eagerly all along.
Blood filled my mouth. Blurriness restrained my vision. My limbs were growing tired, and my knuckles were scraped and bloodied. The man, to my surprise, didn't seem tired nor affected. Despite his age, he wasn't tired and moved with an agility that only came with true anger.
As we fought, I was too invested to realize how close we had moved to the edge of the roof. We were far from the gardens now, knocking each other around while surrounded with the same dreary beiges and grays that covered the rest of the small town.
Should I make a run for it? Would he follow me?
Before I could think about turning around to break free, he reached out and grabbed my head with both of his hands and pulled me close. It seemed he too realized how close we were to the edge of the roof. Terror overwhelmed me, causing my limbs to sway, as a thought screamed inside of me, vibrating against my skull.
Was he really planning to push me off? If he can't rape me, will he kill me instead?
I reached out too and grabbed his face as well. My thumbs moved as if they were acting on their own, traveling to his dark, wide-open eyes. Too filled with anger to realize what I was doing—too afraid to realize what I was planning—he couldn't stop me before my thumbs pressed into his eyes. I couldn't look at the destruction my thumbs caused. However, I couldn't avoid the sounds his eyes made once they were punctured by my nails nor the feeling of wetness that covered my fingers.
This was a moment I unfortunately knew I would never forget. If I survived tonight, all of this would live in my nightmares. The terror would follow me for some time.
A scream escaped me then, barely sounding like me. It was the cry of a survivor. A sound that seemed necessary to expel. As I ruined his eyes, probably blinding him forever, he reached out and tried to do the same. Another scream passed through my lips then. Again, not a cry of terror but a promise of vengeance. If I were to see myself now, I was sure I wouldn't recognize this woman fighting for her life.
At some point beneath the stars, I had been born again.
The man joined me in screaming, but unlike my cries, his sounded terrified. A loud scream escaped him as he finally let go of my head and backed away from me, choosing now to run instead of trying to injure me too. As he stepped back, he stumbled. His legs took him back a few steps, bringing him nearer to the ledge. Still filled with terror, my limbs shook.
Almost as if the events of the evening were suddenly transpiring in slow motion, I watched, paralyzed by terror, as he took another step back and stumbled again. This time, he stumbled into the ledge. Unable to see, his hands were reaching to feel what was left of his eyes. Now, I couldn't help but see exactly what I had done. The wounds were deep and unforgettable.
Blood covered his face, and as he cried now, he sounded oddly childish in a way that made me want to reach out and care for him. I took a step forward, reaching out for him to pull him toward me and away from the ledge. Now, fighting seemed like the last thing on his mind. Although because of the gore, I couldn't entirely tell, but it seemed like he was crying.
"Mom," he muttered as he grasped at the air in front of him. "Mom, please …"
Another stumble sent him over the ledge before I could reach out and stop it. In my mind, I finished his final sentence: "Mom, please help me. Please save me." I shouldn't feel sorry for him. This was a man who attacked me. A man who must have spent his life raping and abusing women, and now he was tumbling toward a violent end.
However, as I came to the ledge and watched him fall, sorrow filled me. Even if it was senseless, I cried for him as he hit the concrete below. I didn't cry for what he was—what he died being—but instead, for what he could have been. What any man like him could have been if they hadn't made a choice to be so evil and abusive. My tears couldn't be helped—he was still human, after all.
Although now, he was fractured and bloodied. On the ground, broken and nearly lifeless, he looked at the stars as I had done not too long ago. What did he see up there? Did he see his mother? Did he see his past? His present? Images of the future that will never be?
As terrifying as the image of him was, I couldn't look away. This would follow me for a long time. Wherever I would go, I doubted I would be capable of escaping it.
****************************Sea foam and Sea Witches****************************************
"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear …"
Although I had forgotten where I had heard these words spoken, they rang in my mind as I sat on a curb wrapped in a blanket to protect me from the chill of the night. Blood stained the pavement a few yards in front of me, and despite how desperately I tried not to look, my eyes continued to travel toward the spot where that man had died.
Police surrounded me now. Three cop cars parked near the scene with an ambulance parked at the corner. It was obvious that this event was the most the town had ever seen. The quiet, middle-of-nowhere place this was hadn't had its share of drama. A death like this was enough to rock it to its core.
Only when the police tried to question me, did I realize that I could no longer speak. I formed the words in my mind—the sentences that would help me explain myself—but as I opened my mouth, only breath came out. Physically, I knew I could talk. At least, I thought I could. Nothing had happened to damage my vocal cords.
The EMTs had checked me out, bandaged me up, and asked if I wanted to stay at a hospital for surveillance overnight. I opened my mouth to say, "No, I just want to go to sleep back at the motel," but no words were spoken. So, instead, I shook my head, trying desperately not to cry.
I had cried enough for one evening. At least, my body felt that way. No matter how sad I was, tears would no longer form. I was all cried out.
"She must be traumatized," I listened to a police officer mutter. "Why don't we send her on her way for now? Question her later …"
"The man must have attacked her," another police officer said. "Look at her face. Look at his …"
Half-asleep, I listened to the officers chat for a while before they came to the decision to let me go for the night. Maybe later they would question me, and hopefully, I would be able to speak again by then. I was too exhausted to worry about what the scene might look like or what would happen to me after tonight. I fantasized about the stiff, motel pillow that was waiting for me.
"Listen, ma'am. You're free to go. When you're ready, come down to the station and talk to us." The officer then reached inside of his notepad and pulled out a card with his information. "Call me when you can think of something to tell us."
Was this standard procedure? As I took the card with a blank, exhausted expression I found myself wondering if this was my sign to carry on to the next town. I couldn't draw attention to myself like this. I had to keep running—even if that meant moving toward the end of the Earth.
"Do you need help getting home?" the officer asked, probably wondering how a woman so thoroughly traumatized could stand upright.
I shook my head before peering around for my keys. They were still resting on the ground not too far from the bloodstain. The body had already been removed from the scene after a thorough investigation and before anyone could reach for my keys to put them in a little plastic bag as they had done with everything else, I snatched them off of the pavement. Before anyone could stop me or utter anything else, I took off walking, letting go of the blanket that an officer had wrapped around my shoulders and letting it fall onto the pavement.
Rain began to fall again, but this time gently, as if it were marking the end of a traumatic night. I imagined the water washing away the stains the blood had caused but didn't turn around to confirm whether or not my imagination rang true. I continued forward, moving with tired, staggered steps, toward the parking lot near the diner.
The car I had purchased only a week ago greeted me like an old friend. It was red, run-down, and a total gas-guzzler, but it was mine. Right now, that was more comforting than words could ever describe. As soon as I was safely inside of it, I fell to pieces.
I was wrong before. I wasn't all cried out. Tears flowed as I turned the key in the ignition, bringing the car to life with a dull roar. Somehow, I made it back to my motel room. Thankfully, there hadn't been cars on the road because if there had been heavy traffic, I would have crashed.
Still sobbing, restless while being so incredibly tired, I entered my motel room and locked the door behind me before falling to my knees on the stiff carpet. Now that I was alone, I decided to try to speak again. Maybe it was the pressure of being near other people which had made me momentarily mute.
My mouth opened, and I had the full intention of speaking, however, I couldn't utter a word. The sounds I wanted to make rested instead on the tip of my tongue, refusing to jump off into the air.
Earlier, when I supposed in my terror that I couldn't become anymore wrecked than I already was, I was wrong. I hadn't reached rock bottom yet. As of right now, I was still falling.
Falling without any view of the bottom.
A/N: I love posting this story every day and getting to read your comments! So far, I know this story has a LOT of angst but I promise that it's worth the pay off. As you can see (if the title didn't give you a hint), this story is inspired by "The Little Mermaid." I wanted to make an all-human version of the story and so far, it's been pretty difficult to write at times because of the angst. However … I LOVE a good angst fic. Probably like 90% of what I read, regardless of the fandom, is angst fic. There's just something so satisfying about reading something sad, I guess. Are you all the same way?
I really hope I get to see some of you at this year's TFMU! Honestly, I haven't packed yet. I've been sooooooo lazy about getting ready because I just want to write in my free time instead. If anyone of you who are reading this fic are going, please comment and let me know!
Until next update … Love you all!