xXx Skylar Carson xXx

Homicide had ruined everything, and it hurt me more than it made me angry. Before Punk had taken me under his wing, for lack of a better word, I had felt like death would be a better option than being stuck here. I had been strong, it was true; I'd been a smartass, and I had paid the price for that. Samoa Joe had beaten the shit out of me, and Homicide had gotten away with raping me. And now, Punk wasn't talking to me at all. He had told me that we didn't even need to see each other.

He wasn't giving me a chance to explain what he had seen. After he'd walked in, Homicide had thought it was positively funny. He'd thought it was amusing that he was causing a rift between myself and Punk. In fact, he almost seemed proud of that fact. He'd told me that in this house, men didn't get attached to 'their' women. I was just a prize to be won, he'd told me, and he would be damned if he let Punk get to me.

He might seem like a stupid jackass, but he was a lot smarter than people took him for. He knew what he was doing, and he was doing it well. He'd successfully managed to drive a wedge between me and Punk, and now, he was already starting to find ways to get in between Samoa Joe and me, even though there was nothing there with Samoa Joe. He wanted me to himself, and it seemed he was going to win.

"He won't want you if he knows you're used," he had told me before forcing me to let him perform oral on me. As of yet, the only thing he'd made me do to him was give him a few hand jobs. He'd tried to blackmail me into more, but I refused. I told him that I didn't care what he did anymore, and that was the truth. I really didn't.

He had already taken the only thing I'd had left in this house. He'd taken Punk. And now, I didn't have anything left. I had no dignity. I had no rights. I didn't even have my temper and my attitude anymore. All of it had been taken away from me, and I hated it. Anything would be better than being stuck here. I hated my father more than I had ever thought it was possible to hate someone else. He had sold me into a life full of pain, and all because of a few unpaid debts.

I hadn't left the bedroom in a day or two. I'd lost track, and no one had come looking for me yet. Homicide was out on a job with Samoa Joe, and that left me alone in the house. Punk had no desire to see me, and Cabana was too busy having sex with Kelly. I was left to my own devices, and I saw no reason to leave. I didn't even feel like eating, I realized, though I knew that I had to. The pains in my stomach were getting far too painful to ignore anymore, and if I went any longer without eating, I was probably going to pass out or something. And that wasn't a situation I wanted to find myself in.

The walk to the kitchen took a little longer than it normally might have. I stopped and looked at the bathroom that Punk had intruded on so many times while I'd been in the shower, and I felt a small ache in my chest. After a few minutes standing there looking like I was lost, I continued further on down the hall before stopping at the movie room. That room was particularly hard for me to even think about.

That had been the first place that I'd come to the conclusion that Punk was more than the monster everyone made him out to be. That had been the place where he'd shown that he had emotions other than just wanting money and sex and a nice place to live. He'd shown me who he could be if he opened himself up; if he let himself care.

The kitchen itself had a mix of good and bad memories, mostly bad. It had been the place that Samoa Joe had been so angry with me that he'd beaten me and then threatened to kill me. It had been the place where Homicide had made a few passes at me, and it was the place that I'd seen Punk fooling around with Traci before we'd gotten involved. But it was also the place that Punk had stood up for me; where I had stood up for him. It was where I had seen Homicide get a black eye, and it was where I'd had a few good discussions with Rocky and Cabana. When I walked in and saw Punk sitting there, I couldn't help but feel my heart drop to the pit of my stomach. He was the last person I had expected to see in here. He looked up when he saw me and just rolled his eyes before going back to eating the enchilada that he had in front of him, not saying a word.

I had never felt this awkward in my life. I had never felt so utterly lost at what to do; never felt so alone. I just wanted all of it to end. I reached my hand up to brush a stray tear out of my eyes before he could see it, and then walked over to the fridge to rummage and see what I could find. I saw nothing that looked appetizing and I couldn't help but wonder where Punk had gotten the enchilada from before his gruff voice filled the room, nearly making me jump because I was so surprised that he was actually acknowledging that I was in the room.

"There's some enchiladas in the warming drawer by the oven," he told me slowly. I turned around to look at him, and his eyes were back on his food, a fork full of the Mexican dish in his mouth.

I wanted to ask him why he'd told me where they were, or how he had even known I was looking for real food to eat instead of just a snack or something. I didn't voice my questions, however, figuring that he'd just make me feel worse when he didn't answer me. I nodded and murmured a quick 'thank you' before grabbing an oven mitt to pull the tray out of the warming drawer.

I dished myself up a plate and just as I was turning around to walk over to the table in the dining room, I stopped when I saw Punk standing not even a foot away from me. He had a guarded look in his eyes again, and I had no idea what he was going to say or even if he was going to say anything at all. He wasn't an open book like I was. He kept himself closed off and reserved, and I never knew what to expect. That may have been why I had become attracted to him in the first place, I thought to myself, but it was sure as hell annoying now.

"What happened to you?"

His voice was quiet, and I could tell that he was still keeping himself extremely guarded. He wasn't going to let me see how he was feeling; what was going through his mind. I sighed and reached up to push a hand through my hair, not knowing what he meant. His words were so cryptic to me, and I didn't want to play a mind game right now. All I wanted was to have things go back to the way they had been before Homicide fucked everything up, but I knew there was a slim to none chance of that ever happening.

"What do you mean?" I asked him, crossing my arms over my chest after I'd set the plate of enchiladas I'd gotten for myself back down on the counter. I didn't want to accidentally drop them on him, because that would only give him another reason to be angry with me.

"Your fire, your attitude," he muttered, raising a hand to touch my face. Before he did, however, I saw something different flash in his eyes, and he dropped his hand before he could make contact. I expected him to turn and walk away right then and there, but yet again, he surprised me by staying there. "What happened to it?"

I didn't know how to answer him. I didn't know how he'd respond to anything I had to say anymore, and I didn't want him to feel let down again. I just grabbed my enchiladas and bypassed him, not looking into his eyes as I made my way towards the dining room to eat. He didn't follow me, and I almost felt a little hurt that he hadn't pursued an answer to his question.

He had asked me what had happened to my fire, and the plain truth was that I was afraid it had been extinguished. And at this point, I didn't know if it would ever be relit.