Blood Doll

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 16 (v.1)

Submitted: July 26, 2012

Reads: 100

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Submitted: July 26, 2012

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Hardly uncharacteristic of a Monday, the school day proceeds with relative boredom. Ang seeks me out in the morning, demanding that I find her before I get on the bus. At lunch, Peach and I exchange opinions of whether Echo and the Bunnymen could be considered Gothic Rock or not and which article of clothing in our wardrobe is our favorite. As the last bell drones to release us from school, the realization that Wade has kept away from me for three days now lifts my spirits almost twofold.

The latter is only deemed untrue when I exit class, make to ascend the steps.

Vice-like, a hand encircles my wrist, begins to tow me back down the hall, against the flow of students. When I spin to face my captor, I notice many wary eyes curiously attached to us. They do no more than pass by, up the stairs. This is nothing new; Wade often terrorizes the Goth Girl.

Baring painted black nails against an athletic, muscled grip proves pointless. “Wade! Let me go!” My yell reverberates through the emptying hall, but enough people have gathered to the base of the stairwell, and their combined racket drowns my cry.

Wade’s popularity enables him to do everything short of raping me, as the school populace is on his side. Not one person breaks from the gathering to help me in any way as Wade propels me into the men’s bathroom, flips the deadbolt. Fortunately, for him, the room is vacant.

Being dragged into another room, especially one with a lock, is a new addition to these instances. Normally, I am merely bullied before the eyes of the student body. This is unpredictable.

My wrist is released when I cannot possibly make it to the door, as a well-toned teenager stands between it and me. Trembles wrack my nerves; my voice reflects this only slightly as I say, “Can you make this quick? I’m going to miss my bus.”

Ears seemingly tuned to a completely different station, Wade advances on me, forcing me until my back presses where the concrete wall and one blue stall meet. Though I mean to scream, the sound catches in my throat.

Struggling against his strength earns me nothing; his fingers pry my top up. Brow furrowed, his eyes absorb the blindingly pale skin, the wide, darkened scabs hewed to it. Only when a palm is jammed into his chest does he take a miniscule step back. “What the hell?” I demand, concealing my stomach once more.

“Do you cut?” His abrupt words filling the room after utter silence encourage me to flinch.

“Why do you care? For years, you’ve made it a point to harass me. I don’t even understand why I’m complying with this nonsense.”

“This is different. Where else do you do it?” In his persistence, he grasps my arms, but they slide through his hands as I jerk away.

“I don’t–God, are you drugs or something?” Déjà vu rises to prominence, but I am too preoccupied to take much notice. Worry has crept into his features; something I am unable to comprehend appears to have taken hold of him. “What is going on?”

Though he spins around, fingers raking through his sandy hair in concentration, I make no move for the door. “God damnit,” he spits. “I’m such an idiot.”

By some unseen will, I manage to keep from cringing when he turns to me again. Tone much softer than before, he asks, “What are they from, then? They definitely aren’t accidents.”

“That’s not something I’m going to tell you,” I growl. “You’re freaking out on me.”

Hands mimicking my own clenched ones, his eyes burn holes into mine obstinately. “You tell me where those came from; I’ll tell you why I’m freaking out. Deal?”

“Not a chance. Vice versa, maybe.” Knowing that this unreason harbors an explanation has roused my ever-present curiosity. How can it not?

“Y’know, I’m an idiot. Just, never mind. Forget it. Go about your business and leave me alone.” He turns for the door, flips the lock back, is gone in a moment. Fumes pulse from my flesh, and I simmer silently where I am, staring at where the jerk had been.

The hall is officially empty when I storm out of the opposite sex’s bathroom. In fact, the school itself echoes in forlornness. My striped Mary Janes slow progress, but in a handful of seconds Wade’s blue-clad back flashes out of the front doors. Doubling my pace, I manage to catch him as he heads into the parking lot.

“Don’t just leave me like that,” I seethe, falling in step behind him.

“Fuck off, freak.” This jab goes unheeded. In fact, when his low riding, sleek, smoky-hued piece of aluminum comes into view, I somehow manage to slip past Wade, block the driver’s door with my body.

“Not on your life, plastic-perfection,” I spit back. He makes for the door handle, is cut off when I move to cover it. “I think I deserve an explanation.”

Every ounce of fury, of control I believed I had vanquishes itself as Wade leans into me, pressing me between him and his car. His arms he props against the car on either side of me. Our bodies are flush. Hands clenched, eyes wide, I inspect him. Warm breath tickles my face, but I dare not move.

“Tell me,” Wade begins, measured, low, silkily threatening, “exactly how you deserve an explanation.”

Silence prevails. My mouth dries unhelpfully. Heavy, frantic beats fills my veins. Mustering a miniscule fragment of courage, I murmur, “Dragging me into a guy’s bathroom and locking the door, trying to take my shirt off, yelling at me…enough of an explanation?”

Again, we stare at each other.

“Let me see them again,” Wade negotiates. “The…” A vague gesture is made towards my stomach. Though I protest, he overwrites with, “Show me, I’ll spill, then you spill.”

Strangely, no future regrets pop to mind as I shrug, lift my shirt. Immediately, Wade’s nose scrunches at the three deep, wide slits. Or, possibly because of the blinding white skin where he is accustomed to the orange and tan normalcy of cheerleaders and preps.

“They’re so ugly,” he finally states. At this, my shirt is dropped. It seems a relief to conceal them from him. A small pang touches my chest at his words. Until now, the realization that I have grown almost fond of my cuts had yet to occur. Plus, they are reminders of Mason being…real. More than a mere figment of my imagination. This sports-addict will inevitably allow this knowledge to skid past his brain should I inform him of my feelings.

“Your turn,” I instead remind him.

Moments pass. Hesitation forms to Wade’s face. He bites his bottom lip. Affiliating with an odd person has finally registered within him. Likely, he wonders what his friends would think did they see us together, Wade not terrorizing me.

“Where’s your ride?” he asks eventually.

“Long gone, by now,” I assume. He has not backed away; his breath is calm, even, a foil to mine. “I’m not quite popular enough for bus drivers to hold up whole buses for me.”

Rolling his murky brown eyes, he sighs. “Get in.”

Curiosity killed the cat, but seems to have no effect on either of us. Actually, in my position, the question of whether said cat was black or not is more important than my situation.


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