Now that my story’s done, here’s a collection of all the content related to my whump series, Playing With Fire.
James, Mac, and Ivy are a bomb squad, doing their best to stick together and protect each other in the wake of a gang who will stop at nothing to get to them.
Running themes include: team whump, lady whump, whump aftermath, forced to watch, manhandling, cigarette burns, restraints, angst, interrogation, hidden injuries, injury reveal.
Holy shit, omg thank you thank you thank you. This has been such a problem, I’m so sorry. I’ve been too frustrated to fix the links because they all broke a week after I fixed them last time. Having these all within reach is huge, I really appreciate it. It’ll make it so much easier to fix them. Thank you!! And seriously, I’m sorry!
Whump scenes from the perspective of a transcription of a CCTV recording. Leafing through the papers that make up the report, more than half of it is censored. The things that aren't censored are already bad enough. There’s no tone to the writing. Just facts, timestamps. Someone walks in. Then just ██████████, for a horrifying amount of time.
Finally, there’s actual text again. Whumpee begs for death. Flip another page. It’s just ██████ again, till the very end of the report.
This raffle has been a long time coming as a late celebration of 500 followers and general gift to the whump community.
What's being raffled?
A waist-up greyscale sketch commission of a single character.
Any character, any pose, any whump.
Rules:
To enter, please reblog this post. That's all!
You don't have to be following me to enter (but I mean you could be that would be very cool of you.)
The raffle will end on March 20th, and one winner will be drawn via a random name picker. The draw will happen around 4pm GMT (10am CST).
I will DM / send an ask to the winner to let them know they've won. They then have 24 hours to confirm, or I'll pick a new name.
[Optional] Add in your reblog tags which character you would want drawn in a precarious situation :V
Thank you to everyone out there for sticking with me (and my un-knowable, unstable schedule of posting things) I read every comment and every tag, and I'm very grateful to everyone who enjoys my blog in the open or in the shadows.
Good luck to everyone who enters! 🦎
Are you planning to revisit the motel au? You’re so talented! I want to find out what happens next, if Mac and James find out what happened. 🥺
Love your worldbuilding and writing
Oh thank you so much 🥺❤️
I do plan on it! Ive just had some stuff going on and it's made writing challenging, but all my unfinished stories are still bumping around up there! Sorry for the wait! It'll sadly probably still be a while before I'm back in gear.
I can say that in the draft I've chipped away at, Shane gives Mac a call while he does horrible things to Ivy. No one is happy with this. Except Shane I guess lol
Thank you to @sableflynn for letting me use Volkan and Felicia in this piece! You light my fire, baby!!
CW: Dissociation, Vague Non-Con Type Mention, Beating, Broken Bones
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Felicia had disappeared again.
It was happening more than usual. Ivy asked her about it once, where she went when her face went vacant and the sparkle in her eyes shut off, “Just inside myself, I guess,” Felicia shrugged, “Just away.”
That had happened to Ivy before, when Volkan beat her worse than she knew she could endure. Every nerve was firing and frayed, her bones broken so badly her legs took on a brand new shape, her eyes nearly sealed shut with bruising, lungs punctured so she gasped and choked on her own blood, her right arm left uninjured so he could enjoy the way she tried to resist him climbing atop her. She’d felt herself shrink then, fading behind her eyes, turning into something small and naked, burrowing deeper and deeper into herself where he couldn’t touch her. Even when Felicia put her hands on her and magic surged through her, knitting her wounds closed and twisting bone back in place, Ivy hadn’t resurfaced for hours. She’d found herself in a guest bedroom, bite marks on her shoulders, a strange man snoring beside her, her wrists uncuffed, no will in her to strangle him or fish through his belongings for something sharp. She’d just gone back to sleep, grateful for the rest.
It had really frightened her. The lost time and the loss of herself. It went against who Ivy was supposed to be. Ivy wondered if Felicia felt the same way when she disappeared, but Ivy didn’t know who Felicia was meant to be, all she knew was who Felicia was when she was there.
Felicia had a quiet kind of strength. A firm set mouth when she was concentrating and the steady hands of a healer, eyes burning with determination whenever Ivy’s started to die, a small whisper of a voice in the quiet drowning darkness whenever Volkan mercifully left them together, hope pounding in her heart so hard Ivy swore sometimes she could hear it. Sometimes, they were alone together long enough they felt like real girl-friends, joking at Volkan’s expense while he was out of the house until they were grabbing their sides in stitches, sharing salacious stories of sex and college, things Ivy had stolen when she was a teen, secrets Felicia had only ever told her girlfriend Elyse, Ivy gently brushing tangles from Felicia’s hair and weaving braids to keep it neat, if just for a little while.
That Felicia was what Ivy lived for. And when she was gone, Ivy ached. It was lonely standing beside someone empty. And Felicia had been gone since yesterday. She’d smile and nod, replying convincingly enough when Ivy had a moment alone with her, but her eyes were hauntingly dim, and Ivy knew better than to press it. Drawing attention to it would only be blood in the water for Volkan, who loved to pry until they reacted just how he liked – breaking them down to husks and then jabbing at them until they bit back just so he could restart the cycle.
Now, Volkan struck Felicia so suddenly and so hard that Ivy actually gasped. She pretended not to notice the way his eyes flickered over her, a rush at her shock, her rare instant of vulnerability. His gaze burned a welcome hole in her back as she played her part, willingly and honestly, reaching for Felicia’s hand to steady her as Felicia wobbled on one knee.
Ivy brushed strands of hair from Felicia’s face, a red mark already flaring on her cheekbone where his knuckles caught her, eyes unfocused and eerily dry of tears. Ivy gave her a look, something she hoped would connect with the Felicia buried deep inside, and helped her to her feet.
Then, when Felicia was steady, fingertips absently tracing her bruising – maybe broken – cheekbone, Ivy turned on her heel and spat. It struck him on the chest, wetting his white button-up, and Ivy already knew he didn’t care. He’d have her blood up to his elbows by the time he was done with her, whether she behaved or not. He smiled at her, that infuriating, hungry, charmed smile. Fighting all of her instincts before she lost her nerve, Ivy grabbed at his tie with her right hand and pulled, swinging at his chin with her left. It connected with a satisfying crack, but she could feel from the buzzing in her knuckles that it hadn’t been enough. It never would have been. And now he would hurt her, as he had hurt her yesterday, as he likely would tomorrow, as he would again and again until he was tired of this game they played and finally let her die.
She stepped back, shaking so hard she vibrated where she stood, teeth chattering with rage and hate and fear. Every atom was telling her to flee, but Felicia was rocking on her feet, staring at the floor with glassy eyes, so Ivy bunched her fists and blinked back tears and waited for it to start.
Volkan took his time appraising her, saying nothing, letting her terror marinade until he shifted and she flinched.
The first hit always surprised her, despite how many she’d endured at his hands, it always threw her. But a crack to the head was like nothing else, the floor and ceiling switching places, ears ringing and metal in her mouth while she blinked, dazed and lost until he had her pinned by the throat and took his time with her. He had a way of waiting until her consciousness came back before he pushed her further, and Ivy was willing to play her part and scramble in his grip.
She clawed at his hand around her throat, lashing out with her legs, bare feet bouncing off his shins until he pinned her under his weight and took her wrist easily in his grip, twisting slowly, agonizingly slowly until she screamed just how he wanted, long and desperate, actually managing to say “please,” before he snapped it.
She sobbed then. His weight shifted and he was over her, his shoe colliding hard with her ribs, sending her rolling, gasping silently, wrist alight with white fire, her vision blurring much too soon. When she found her breath, she didn’t want it, her ribs made sharp, stabbing into her, her mouth getting wet and slippery with blood.
“I hate you,” she gurgled out for no reason in particular, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth down her chin, landing hot along her collarbone.
He loomed over her with an expression that could have been pity or amusement before snaking a hand in her hair and wrenching her up to a strained sitting position, stabilizing herself with her intact hand, trying not to wince at the pull in her neck, the shifting of her ribs.
Felicia was somewhere in her peripheral vision, a wash of pale cream and burnt orange, a blur of light brown speckles whenever she shifted in the light. Ivy fought the urge to cast her a glance, to search for her expression, to see if this brief reprieve was enough to bring her friend back, because god it was so lonely doing this without her.
Then Volkan swung another fist at her face and she stopped caring about anything beyond breathing. He’d hit her and he’d wait. He’d break her ankle and let her scream. He pressed his shoe into her wounds, slowly and forcefully until she was delirious with pain, coughing and choking hard on her blood, sick with the metal taste, trying to turn over for just one gulp of clean air, trapped in the prison of her own body, wet with sweat and blood, clothing ripped where he wanted it, roaming hands exploring wounds, a knife slowly nestling itself in her thigh until she was sure she was going to black out and maybe never wake–
“Felicia.”
He said it almost warmly, somewhere far away, and Ivy waited that familiar eternity until Felicia appeared over her in a blur, her cold, soft hands finding her shoulders, and the hard hum of magic starting through her.
They both shuddered as one, Ivy’s wounds knitting themselves closed, her bones snapping into place and fusing back together, the wound in her thigh burning and tightening as the muscle reincorporated itself, and Felicia suffered the phantom pain as if her own body had endured each and every hit.
Then her hands were gone. Ivy only caught a glimpse of her face, her expression still vacant, her friend hardly there.
Then, Volkan started again.
It might have been days spent there on the floor, her will weakening as Volkan broke her body in new, exciting ways. Sometimes he only used his hands, sometimes it was just the knife, he shot her twice in a row when she started losing her spark, and Felicia returned each time, hovering over her with healing hands, her face slowly growing more desperate, tears starting in her eyes, her friend waking to a nightmare.
Ivy could hardly care by then, even healed, her body was shuddering violently, she was weak and disappearing, going away somewhere inside herself, somewhere it was safer to shut her eyes and sob. If he did it again, there might be nothing left of her. But he did anyway, almost kindly, snapping each of her fingers like they were pencils, savoring the way they cracked and the way Ivy whined like a kicked dog until he was done with her.
“Leave her,” Volkan said when he left Ivy there, Felicia automatically stepping forward.
“Don’t you think that’s enough?” Felicia snapped.
Ivy sat cross-legged, blinking at her misshapen fingers, hissing through her teeth, wanting to lay down and die, wishing Felicia would shut up, wishing Felicia would keep talking and take this horrible attention somewhere else.
“It is enough,” Volkan agreed, and Ivy wanted to sob with relief, but she had no tears left, no joy either. There was nothing in her anymore. Maybe there never would be again.
Then he spun and struck Felicia. This time, Felicia was the one who gasped, and Ivy stared at the floor, eyes unfocused, listening down a tunnel while a sweet girl with long red hair and spattered freckles cried out and shrieked, taking her turn against the monster Ivy had tried desperately to save her from, if only for today.
what’s the point of giving your character severe trauma if it doesn’t make them an asshole to work with. not in a cute way. they should be a fucking cunt. they have to make problems on purpose. they have to lash out at their friends without even being provoked, just because they’re having a bad day and they want to hurt someone to cope with it. on purpose. they have to want to hurt someone on purpose. they can regret it later, but they can’t just say something mean on accident, it has to be calculated and cruel and so, so intentional.
Whumper who knows whumpee likes to smoke, so after beating the shit out of them, tied to a chair with head hanging forward, they mockinly put a cigarette between their parted lips and light it up. Bonus if whumpee's reaction is to glare before spitting it in whumper's direction, hoping the burning end reaches them.
contents: literally just so much explicit and gratuitous torture and noncon. enjoy!
Read on Ao3
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Felicia hit the hard cement of the basement floor as she had countless times before, and yet like she never had before. She was bruised and bloody, her shoulder screamed where she had been shot, and deep inside her, something long dormant now burned brightly.
Volkan was also different. His single eye no longer held that deep, personal hatred he’d thrown at her in the woods, but neither did it shine with his usual frivolous amusement. His boundless rage was now concentrated to a fine point, focused and honed and deadly.
She staggered to her feet, but before she could fully rise he kicked her onto her back. She sprawled out, and he slammed his boot onto her shoulder where he’d shot her. He stomped again. Something in her cracked.
It was a dance they’d performed countless times before. Already, the fire in her was fading, smothered by pain and blood loss, but no—she grit her teeth and held on. She was going to lose, but that didn’t mean she had to make it easy for him.
When he snarled a hand in her hair to drag her across the room, she dug useless nails into his skin. He ripped the sleep dress from her body with a single tear, and she lashed naked legs at him as if she could stop him. He threw her onto a metal table like she weighed nothing, and all her wild lashing was nothing as he strapped down her arms and legs.
She was secured, arms pinned, hips at the edge of the table, legs spread, because he was so fucking predictable.
Volkan ran his hands along her bloody body, drawing out the lightest healing from her. It was just enough to prevent her from bleeding out, not enough to truly ease the pain. He’d gotten very good at that level of granular healing.
He considered her, half his face cloaked in blood and shadows, and his silence unnerved her. He hadn’t spoken a single word since bringing her to the basement, where the silence echoed louder than her screams.
Then he stepped behind her and out of her line of vision. She stretched her neck back as much as she could, but restrained as she was, she couldn’t get an angle to see him. She could hear his heavy footsteps, and then the harsh sound of metal on cement: he was dragging something across the floor. Her heart rate tripled.
He returned and stood between her spread legs. The sound of his belt unbuckling was almost a relief, because it was something she understood, something she expected from him. He could rape her a dozen times over, and she would close her mind and bear it.
He thrust into her without ceremony. She was as dry as she’d ever been, tense from pain, and he tore through her like paper. She gasped despite herself as he forced his way deeper, her burning insides contrasting with the unyielding cold of the metal table against her back. Each thrust rocked her, jolting her injuries, splitting her body.
And yet he barely seemed to be taking any pleasure from it. She knew what his pleasure looked like, the endless ways he’d chased it with her suffering, and the way he fucked her now wasn’t about his pleasure at all. It was his attempt to reassert his dominance over her, because in all this time, rape was the only way he knew to take control of a situation. It was pathetic, and he was pathetic, and she was in agony but she didn’t care.
He finished in her with the slightest exhale and pulled out before she could blink, walking again to the blind spot behind her. Again, the heavy sound of metal behind her, and the dread building within her. She breathed heavily, angling again to try to see him, the movement sending a fresh jolt of pain from where he’d fucked her.
When he returned, his eye still held that sharp, focused anger. When his hands touched her body, they were laced with magic, and the air buzzed with it a split second before pain shot through her.
Each touch sent white-hot magic through her like bolts of lightning. He touched her stomach, and her body seized with the electric agony. Her shoulder, her hip, her thigh. With each jolt, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, her body paralyzed as the current of pure magic ran through her. Then he targeted her most sensitive areas, her nipples, between her legs, because he was a fucking pervert. She couldn’t hold back the scream that broke through as he sent a burst of burning magic through her clit.
She trembled, a thin sheen of sweat covering her body. He had paused at last, but she knew the anticipation would make the next touch sharper than ever. She sucked in a gulp of air, wanting to spit words at him, but it was useless. What would a fuck you, you piece of shit do except highlight her own helplessness? He was pissed, and he wasn’t talking, but she knew him. This was foreplay to him. Whatever was coming next would be much, much worse.
He touched her again and she flinched, but it wasn’t the magic-laced touch of before. Almost tenderly, he wiped down the skin of her shoulder—not the one he’d shot, the other one, where a lifetime ago he’d given her a cigarette burn. The scar of it lingered as a faint white circle, an inverse freckle.
He spoke at last. “Are you familiar with the symbol for failed healing magic?”
She was. It was standardized across all hospitals and clinics, a symbol all aspiring healers learned on their first day in healer’s college. A deceptively simple series of lines and loops, found stamped in medical files to represent failure. An attempt at healing that didn’t take. An injury that was too grave. A healer that wasn’t good enough.
Not trusting her voice, she jerked a nod.
Seemingly satisfied by that, Volkan nodded in return. He reached behind her, and at first her mind couldn’t piece together what she was seeing: the swirled symbol, glowing white-hot. A branding iron.
The heat of it, inches from her, triggered a primal terror. She pressed her body away, chains and metal table digging into her skin. “Volkan—”
“It’ll be worse if you move.” Something of a smile started to creep back into his face—despite everything, he was enjoying her pain, her fear. He loved that he could still get to her.
His free hand pressed into her sternum, holding her in place, and brought the iron down to her bare flesh.
The minute it touched her skin, her vision went white. The burn was worse than any magic he’d used, worse than the cigarette he’d burned her with, worse than anything, and she couldn’t stop her body’s instinctive attempts to twist away from the heat. Even over her screams, she swore she could hear her own flesh sizzling. The meat of her shoulder was melting away, leaving bone, leaving nothing.
He ripped the brand away at last and a bit of flesh went with it; she was on the cusp of hyperventilating. Grabbing her head, he forced her to look at her shoulder, at the mark he’d left. She struggled, and then everything slammed into focus: angry burning skin, hot and red and charred and oozing and agonizing.
He traced a nail along the edge of the burn, and her scream became a sob. “Stop—”
“I haven’t started.”
He released the bindings holding her down and slid her body to the floor. She couldn’t even bring herself to all fours. Everything she’d had in her had left when he ripped the brand from her flesh.
She barely managed to lift her head as he stalked around her and lashed a vicious kick to her ribs, and again, and again. She coughed, gasped, struggled to breathe. In the haze of her vision, he was a blurred mountain looming over her.
Then the bracelets at her wrists hummed with fresh magic, and she flinched against the imminent pain before chains connected to her shackles, dragging her to kneeling, to her feet, to her tiptoes. Stretched and swaying, she couldn’t quite get a solid foothold; when he crowded into her naked body, hands stroking her hips, her attempted kick was weightless.
“If you’re very lucky,” he said, “I will kill you in the next twenty-four hours.”
The terror of his words was there, tight in her chest, threatening to break free—but there was something more beneath the surface. She didn’t want to die, and she had never been as vulnerable as she was in this moment, but neither had she ever been as honest as she was now. She’d drawn something out of him that she’d never seen before, a twisted honesty in turn, and she no longer needed to scrape and appease and make herself small for him.
With nothing else to say, she spat in his face.
He didn’t blink at that, holding her gaze, his own inscrutable, one eye a bloody crater.
The basement door opened.
His expression didn’t change on the surface, but she knew him, and she saw the shifting of miniscule muscles like the shadow of a storm. Behind him, a staff member approached with the air of a man on the gallows. Volkan didn’t turn from Felicia.
“Volkan…” The man placed a cautious hand on Volkan’s arm. He barely went up to Volkan’s shoulders.
“I trust this is incredibly important.” Volkan removed his hands from her at last, and turned to face the man.
“I’m so sorry for interrupting, but…” The man’s voice lowered, and Felicia strained to hear but couldn’t pick up any words.
Volkan’s reaction, however, was unmistakable. His expression changed at last, slowly growing into the smile he’d been missing all night, the smile that chilled her worse than any hate-filled glare.
“Thank you,” Volkan said with genuine warmth, placing a genial hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’ll see to it at once.” His smile broadened as he motioned towards Felicia, pushing the other man in her direction. “Feel free to spend some time with her,” he continued, “and let the others know that she’s available as well. Open for both staff and guest use.”
And without another word, Volkan was gone, leaving Felicia alone with this strange new man. Relief at her presumably-delayed execution curdled with a low-burning dread at what news could’ve brought such a sudden change in Volkan’s demeanor.
The man was nondescript, one of the dozen or so workers in the estate who facilitated Volkan’s rape and torture, and he eyed her now as if he didn’t dare believe his luck. His gaze roamed over her naked body, and then he placed a hand on her breast and she shut her eyes to the inevitable.
“I’m not a sadist, you know,” he said.
Fuck. Not only was he going to rape her, he was going to make her listen to his half-hearted justifications and apologies while he did it. She couldn’t stop him from doing anything he wanted, but she didn’t have to respond, so she kept her eyes and mouth shut. He walked around behind her, and when he trailed a touch over her sensitive nipples, she flinched despite herself. His hushed intake of air at that told her he’d misinterpreted her body’s reaction.
“I’m really not,” he continued, now behind her. “I don’t want to hurt you at all. This doesn’t have to hurt.” The clink of a belt buckle, cold hands on her bare hips. “But I can’t very well turn down a gift from him, can I?”
She didn’t dignify that with a response. The man made a token effort, fingers dancing over her clit, before presumably deciding it wasn’t worth the work to worry about her pleasure. Then the fingers were replaced with his cock, and his hands were on her hips again, and he pulled her back onto him.
The barest arousal he’d managed to wring from her was hardly enough to lubricate his way as he forced himself deeper into her. She grit her teeth against it, already sore from Volkan, now alight with fresh pain. He fucked her with short, rocking thrusts, breathing heavily as if it were some great exertion.
The rape was mundane, after everything Volkan had put her through. If she focused her attention on the sickly sensation of this stranger sliding in and out of her, if she leaned into the slight burn of the everyday pain it brought, she could almost forget the horror of the branding that still pulsed through her like a heartbeat. She could almost forget that Volkan had declared her open for both staff and guest use.
The man finished quickly—or he didn’t drag it out, the way Volkan always did—and then walked back around to her front without another word. She was bare and burning and cold where he’d filled her a second ago, and when he cupped her cheek with a thumb tracing her lips, she shivered. He kissed her almost chastely, and then he was gone before her brain could even come up with the idea to bite him.
He was the first of many to visit her in the basement. Felicia had always had a vague sense that there were others living in the mansion—she knew better than to think Volkan was doing his own cooking and cleaning—but it dizzied her, the number of unfamiliar faces, figures indistinguishable except in their desire to hurt her. They came alone or in pairs, clutching half-drunk beers, slapping her or kissing her, blowing off steam. One made a punching bag of her body. Another took her slowly, fingers working expertly between her legs and coaxing a bitter orgasm from her.
Somehow she ended up on the ground, the world spinning around her, throat still sore from the last visitor. The chains held her still, jangling rudely with each shuddering breath she took, and the brand on her shoulder was a burning stake holding her in place. She sank as low as the chains allowed, pressing her forehead to the cool cement and letting her eyes drift shut.
Then the basement door slammed open, and she heard familiar voices.
She squeezed her eyes tighter, willing them to leave, refusing to acknowledge them even as her muscles tensed in subconscious terror. The voices mingled, three of them, and none of them was Volkan but they all tugged at her memory, dragging her somewhere she didn’t want to go—
“She’s a mess.”
“I like her better this way.”
She’d made them drinks, and they’d used the bottle—and when she could no longer deny it, she opened her eyes and took in the three figures looming over her. Miles, Scott, Victor. The night she’d been forced to entertain them was a lifetime ago, yet the dread of it returned in an instant.
What more could they do to her? She’d been raped, beaten, branded, and anything they added to that would be a drop in the ocean.
But Felicia had yet to find a limit to the cruelty of Volkan and his lackeys.
They circled her, taking in her battered form, the bruises blooming on her skin, the come drying in her hair, the brand spreading tendrils of fire within her. One of the figures crouched beside her—Miles, she could make out the faux-warmth in his eyes and the hunger beneath it.
“If you all lift her up,” he said mildly, “I can get under her.”
She shut her eyes again, tilting her head away from him. “Go away,” she croaked. They ignored her.
“I don’t want her mouth again.” Scott, petulant. “I had that last time.”
“We have all night.” Victor was behind her, already sliding hands down her body to adjust her position. “You don’t have to limit yourself to one hole.”
She was shaking her head, no, but Victor was lifting her up and Miles slid under her, cock already out and hard. He took her hips and guided her onto him as if she were made of glass. She barely felt him inside her. Numb, she let her eyes drift shut again.
A sharp slap to the face, and her eyes flew open. Scott loomed over her, cock in hand. “I want to see her choke on me,” he growled, slapping her again.
From behind her, Victor said, “She’ll bite you off.”
She would. Scott must’ve seen it in her eyes, because when he grasped her jaw with a rough hand and forced her mouth open, it wasn’t his cock but a gag he shoved in her mouth. She bit down anyway, but he was already buckling it around her skull, and the cruel prongs stretched her jaw painfully.
He guided himself into her mouth, and she jerked back instinctively. The motion of it ground her body into Miles, piercing her from below; he let out a breath at that, and she forced herself to hold still, but Scott thrust deeper into her throat, and behind her Victor was pressing against her ass with a practiced efficiency.
She couldn’t breathe. The assault was too much, from all directions, filling her below, above, behind. Victor thrust forward and fully sheathed himself in her ass, and she screamed; the vibrations massaged the cock in her throat, and Scott jerked her forward until her nose pressed into his abdomen; she writhed against him, and Miles gripped her from below and angled his hips and between the three of them she’d never been so full, every molecule of her being suffocating.
They didn’t quite move in tandem, but there was a rhythm to their motions that never fully gave her relief. Miles couldn’t do much from his position, but between him and Victor she was sure she was splitting open. Scott was fucking her face like it was another cunt, his furious pounding leaving her the barest space to catch a breath before it was knocked out of her again from behind. Her vision blurred with tears, and maybe it was better that she didn’t have to see their shitty faces, but it only added to the disorientation.
They fucked her for what could have been hours, or days. Miles finished first, flooding her with a sickly warmth and wriggling out from under her to lean against the wall and sip his drink. Victor finished a minute later with a grip on her hips hard enough to leave bruises. When he pulled out, Scott did as well, sliding from her mouth with a string of saliva. His cock, still erect, bobbed as he walked around her, and across the room Victor was examining the tools lining the wall.
Her jaw ached from the punishing gag, and then as if he’d read her thoughts, Miles was there, drink in hand. He gave a small smile and brushed sweaty bangs back from her face, then tipped his drink into her open mouth.
“This will help,” he murmured, pressing on her forehead and tilting her head back so she was forced to swallow or choke. The burn of the liquor inflamed all her other injuries, heightened the sensation, and with her jaw held open she couldn’t bite down the sob that broke through. Miles softened and reached around her to undo the buckle of the gag. With it loosened, she could finally close her mouth, ignoring the condescending pat on the cheek from Miles as he stepped away—
And fresh pain exploded in her core as Scott thrust into her from behind, hammering into her ass like an instrument of war. She cried out, each movement sending daggers of pain through her body. Where Miles had stepped aside, she could just make out Victor raising a whip. She took in a quick breath, and he brought it down across her breasts.
The pain of it lanced across her, her muscles seizing, and Scott answering her tightness by redoubling his thrusts. The second lash from Victor hit her nipple, drawing blood; the third hit her fresh brand and she screamed.
If she could have passed out, she would have, but some primal part of her brain clung to consciousness. The lights of the room alternated overly bright and dim as her vision wavered. Each strike from the whip was answered with Scott sheathing himself to the hilt inside her. Miles stood to the side, presumably content to palm himself and enjoy the show; Victor wielded the whip like a maestro, each lash precisely placed to torment; Scott ground himself into her and then growled, “Give me that—” and Victor must have known what he wanted, because he didn’t hand over the whip but instead strode over to them and forced the handle of the whip into her cunt and her vision went black.
They took her for several rounds, rotating in and out, switching positions, pulling tools and toys from the wall to use on her sore and shaking body. She hung limply from the chains, jerking whenever they fucked her or hit her or electrocuted her. Even as they finished with her, leaving her in a crumpled heap on the ground, it took several minutes for her body to realize she was alone, for her muscles to stop tensing in anticipation of the next strike.
No one else came down for hours, perhaps. Felicia lay where they’d left her; she had long since given up on trying to find a position to alleviate her suffering. With her cheek resting on the cement, her line of vision spread across the ground, where she could just make out the smears of her own blood in the dim light. The room was silent as a tomb. She was breathing, but everything else about her was shutting down, refusing to perceive. She couldn’t fall unconscious, but maybe she could stop being on some level.
Time must have passed.
The next time the door opened, she knew it was Volkan; the weight and cadence of his footfalls were etched into her very being. The inevitability of it held her down, sunk into her bones. He was going to kill her. Fighting back the bone-deep exhaustion, she forced her eyes open and looked at him. He had cleaned himself, his ruined eye now covered with a thick black patch. With his visible eye, he watched her not with the unbridled rage of before, or even the methodical, controlled anger, but with a mild irritation, as if she were a distasteful household chore.
He considered her a moment, then stepped around her. A heartbeat later, she felt the icy blast of cold water.
He hosed her down with brutal efficiency, directing the spray along her body, in her hair, between her legs. Red and white swirled off of her down the drain in the cement. The spray of the hose was like shards of ice, and she curled in a feeble attempt to protect herself, but he maneuvered around until she was some semblance of clean.
When the hose was shut off, the room was again silent save the steady drop of water from her wet hair and the gurgle of runoff down the drain.
“I truly was planning to kill you.”
She jerked her gaze in his direction at that, shivering and watching him through narrowed eyes. He stepped over to her and crouched at her level, and his hand on her skin was warm.
“I’d do it slowly,” he continued, “take you apart piece by piece.” He tilted his head to consider. “I could stretch it out for four or five days, at least.”
She didn’t have the energy to move away, but she retracted from his touch on a subconscious level. The deadened fury of her gaze landed on the eyepatch. Her voice was a croak. “Next time, I’ll make sure I get your brain.”
He smiled at that, and it chilled her. It was the smile that said he was enjoying himself, he was no longer furious, he no longer saw her as a threat. He had decided he’d won.
“Of course, once I calmed down, I realized killing you would be wasteful.” He pulled out a small towel and began to dry her off. She hissed in pain and flinched as he rubbed up against her bruises, cuts, burns. He ignored her pain and persisted, roughly but not unkindly. “Much better to sell you off to someone and at least recoup some of the investment.”
The tenor of his speech, his self-indulgent monologuing, told her that wasn’t the end of it, and so she waited in silence for him to make his point. He’d set aside the towel and was now running his hands over her in healing, drawing on her to take the edge off the worst of the injuries. He never fully allowed her to give herself over to healing, but allowed the smallest stream through to thwart incoming infection, staunch bleeding, drag her from half-dead to painfully functional. The brand flashed in bright pain and then dulled, marring her skin white on off-white.
The healing left her disoriented as always, her mind dissociating from her body as she struggled to keep up with what had happened to her, and in her daze, he pulled her to her feet with a smile.
“I’ve found something better to do with you.” His smile was full and broad and hateful now. “I’ll be able to get a few more months’ use out of you, at the very least.”
“I don’t want it.” Exhausted, defeated, she barely knew what she was protesting, she just knew she didn’t want to be in a world where he was smiling at her like that. “I’m done. Just stop.”
He ignored her and pulled a slip of a dress over her head, then jerked her forward. “Walk with me.”
She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. But the promise of fresh air beyond the basement called to her, and she followed him up the stairs on unsteady legs before she could stop herself.
Upstairs, the estate was quiet. The darkness outside the windows was the velvet of pre-dawn, and the household staff were nowhere to be seen. She wondered how many of them had come down to fuck her, if they were all sleeping off their partying.
Volkan guided her through the house, the short walk down the hall an exertion after hours (days?) spent in chains. The rug was soft as a cloud on her bare feet, and the warmth of the mansion thawed the deep-seated chill in her bones. When they finally reached the room Volkan was looking for, Felicia felt the faintest stirring of strength within herself, and braced herself to turn whatever he had against him.
He opened the door, and she blinked as her eyes adjusted to the lighting—the room was spacious, a few seats were arranged around an open area in the middle, a fire was lit, and kneeling in front of it—
“Marcus,” she breathed, and the world shifted beneath her feet.
He looked up at the sound of her voice, and the cocky defiance on his face was wiped in an instance: replaced with rage, heartbreak, horror, love.
She crossed the room in a few steps and threw herself at him, arms wrapped tight around him. He was warm and kind, and he couldn’t be there. He wasn’t supposed to be there.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, leaning his head into her. He was bound, she realized, arms and legs twisted and forcing him into a kneeling position. She held him tighter.
“You can’t be here,” she whispered, voice breaking. Everything she’d been through was meant only for her. He couldn’t be in this world. Her heart was hammering with terror, defeat.
“Felicia, I’m sorry.” He pressed against her, and his cheek was damp with tears. Behind them, she heard the click of a door shutting, a lock sliding into place. She held Marcus in trembling arms, the bracelets on her wrists digging into both their bodies, and she refused to look behind her.
Contains: lady whump, nonconsensual drugging, torture, restraints, knife
“What…”
Something is wrong. Kamaria’s mind feels detached from her body, her limbs not responding as quickly as they should. Even words aren’t working right. She tries to grasp onto them, but they keep wanting to float away as soon as she thinks she has them.
She narrows her eyes in Roderick’s direction, trying to force him into focus. “What’d…you giv-ve…m-me?” That’s what this has to be. He has to have drugged her somehow. Inside, her heart is pounding, panicked, but she can’t make the urgency show.
He grins. “A special little cocktail that was made just for you. Glad it didn’t take too long to start setting in. Let’s see if you’re fully ready yet.”
He walks toward her, and with her hands chained above her head she can’t do anything to get away or protect herself. A fist slams into her stomach. It shouldn’t be that bad, she’s gone through this a thousand times before, but somehow, it is. The pain is intense. It’s far worse than a punch ever should feel - more like a stab wound that radiates through her entire torso. She doesn’t cry out from years of practice, but the shock and breathlessness that twist her expression are enough for Roderick.
His grin grows broader and more wicked. “Oh, yes. This is going to be delightful.” Pulling a knife from his belt, he flips it in his hand. “Let’s see if I can actually make you scream.”
CW: binge drinking, smoking, self harm, borderline suicide attempt, sex, drugs, a whole lot of mess.
I'm really excited about this one
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Ivy spent the first few days replaying her departure, wondering again and again if she should have hugged him back.
Barefoot on the carpet, the neck of a warming bottle of vodka in her fist, the gun trained at her reflection in the floor length mirror, she found herself wondering again. She watched the girl's face in the mirror, wondering if some hint of expression might break through the surface and betray the numbness radiating off her, but they only stared blankly at each other, handgun swaying as her outstretched arm grew heavy and lazy with liquor. She took another gulp from the uncapped bottle, shuddered as the thick varnish taste coated her mouth, and put the tip of the gun to her temple for an instant before letting her arm drop to her side.
She threw the gun on the mattress with a thud, the thin duvet already tangled from her restless night. She hadn’t let housekeeping change her sheets. She doubted she’d notice any difference. The bedding was frayed in places and yellowed in others, and there were even a few burn holes from previous guests who’d fallen asleep with cigarettes between their fingers. When Ivy had arrived she’d struggled to imagine how careless someone would need to be to fall asleep with fire between their fingers, but found herself waking up with a yelp and burnt knuckles only a few days later.
The motel was well worn and inviting in its decay. It was the perfect place to rot.
She’d left the house without any destination in mind, James’s gun tucked in the top of her bag, the warmth of his arm still lingering around her shoulders. She hadn’t hugged him back. Should she have? Would she even live long enough to regret not returning his apologetic embrace?
She told herself she didn’t care either way.
This was a suicide.
It hadn’t been the plan, but when the cab driver pulled onto the crackling gravel parking lot at her request, she felt certain. It was a hole to curl up and die inside. She was a rat waiting for the cat to pounce, or for the poison to shut her down.
Ivy lit another cigarette.
She’d had six this morning, and her vodka was half gone. She’d need to restock.
She took a heavy drag and set her smoke in the overflowing ashtray and chased it with another drink. Coughing on liquor and ash, she shrugged her coat around her shoulders, the dangling green tassels tickling the tops of her thighs as she wrenched the zipper up to her chin, grabbing her wallet from the table before she stumbled her way outside.
The sun was lower than she’d expected, the air now too crisp for her shorts barely peeking out beneath her jacket. Her skin goosebumped in a way that sobered her enough to realize she was piss fucking drunk. She laughed a little and leaned against the railing. She’d forgotten her lit cigarette inside. Ivy patted her pockets and found a fresh one, closing one eye as she flicked the lighter in the wind again and again, feeling clumsy and uncoordinated until she found a spark and got it going.
It tasted like shit. And it made her feel like shit. Her throat was raw and scratchy now at all hours. Her skin had a grey sheen to it. She even croaked when she slammed her change on the counter yesterday afternoon. When she showered she’d smell smoke coming off her hair in waves — it reminded her of camping with her dad; she hadn’t known how smoky she’d gotten at the campfire until the shower washed it off of her.
If her father saw her now…
Ivy bit her cheek and stared down at the pool. It was hypnotic. The greening water rippled and shimmered in the sun. She could swear the water dropped a little more each day, but whenever she tried to count the exposed tiles (five now) she’d forget the count from the day before. She stared down at it until her knuckles got hot, and then threw her cigarette stub off the balcony. The wind blew it backwards and it bounced against the deck instead of joining the other butts floating among the scum.
Ivy lit another cigarette and started down the stairs.
The motel was strangely silent at this hour. It was a nocturnal place; somewhere people stopped to fuck prostitutes, or pulled over on a long trip when their eyes got heavy, camping in the parking lot until Denise tapped on their window with an outstretched palm, demanding the thirty fee for the night. Now, it was drawn blinds and a disgruntled housekeeper shouldering his way in and out of rooms with bedding over his shoulder and a mop in his hand.
“Still here?” He grumbled as she stumbled past him slopping a wet pillow atop his cart.
Ivy didn’t reply, just dropped her full cigarette at his foot and pushed her way through the reception door.
Denise was licking her thumb before turning to the next page of her magazine. She didn’t look up. “It’s thirty dollars by the night, but you can pay a hundred for the week,” she reminded her.
Ivy slammed a fistful of money on the counter, a few coins rolling onto the floor with a clatter. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Denise’s brow furrowed, eyes hard on the glossy page in front of her. ”Mhm.”
”Bitch,” Ivy breathed for no reason in particular, maybe just for a tiny thrill, before she made her way outside and stumbled across the street to the liquor store.
She bought two bottles of vodka and two packs of cigarettes. The vodka was the cheapest she could find in a glass bottle, and the cigarettes were the only brand she knew — the ones that came in packs that looked like blue playing cards.
Ivy could have stocked up more, but had only two hands and two pockets, and the short walk was enough to feel like a routine. She even let the pimply cashier look at her legs during their fleeting interactions, unzipping her jacket with his eyes while Ivy pretended not to notice. She’d asked him for drugs a few days ago, and he sold her a small bag of cocaine that did nothing to boost her mood nor encourage her fall, only left her heart pounding harder for an hour or so, so Ivy decided coke did not belong in her daily ritual.
She thought about asking strangers here for something harder. She was on death row anyway. Heroin and meth were supposed to be worth ruining your life for. But the motel had to be a magnet for cops looking to bust stray prostitutes to boost their record, and asking the wrong shaggy-haired nobody could get her dragged back to some station where she’d have to explain herself, where she’d be photographed and ID-ed, where they’d call James and ask him what the fuck was going on with his spinning out subordinate. So Ivy decided to avoid drugs altogether.
Ivy grabbed a pre-wrapped ham and cheese sandwich from the convenience store next door and made her way back to her spot on the mezzanine, hugging the bottles under her arms. She stumbled up the stairs and one bottle slipped, cracking immediately against the hard concrete and sending glass and liquor cascading down the stairs.
The housekeeper swore somewhere beneath her, but Ivy didn’t break stride. She shoved her way into her room, the door left unlocked, and slammed her intact vodka bottle onto the round wooden table by the window, took a gulp from her warm half-finished bottle, lit a fresh cigarette, and stepped back into the cold air, thankful for something to do.
She stopped halfway down the stairs and studied the broken bottle. It was glittering in the fading daylight, chunks and shards all damp and dripping with clear liquor, the edges of the puddle already evaporating, fumes stroking her cheeks and watering her eyes as Ivy knelt closer. She settled on three shards, one from near the neck where the glass was thin and jagged and nearly the length of her finger, and two from the rounded base, both with a blunted spot for her grip with knife-like edges stabbing out the other side. She slipped them in her jacket pocket and pressed on.
She was back at the liquor store within the minute, and back in her room with another bottle a few minutes after that. The custodian had grumbled something accusatory to her on her trip up the stairs, and she’d hissed a reply, but she was too drunk to remember if either of them had had a point.
She stashed her shards under the bathroom sink, then found herself standing in a lukewarm shower, her hair going limp and clinging to her face, motel shampoo that may as well have been soap running over her eyes.
Some time later she was curled up on top of the bed, bottle of vodka against her leg, ashtray by her hip. The spotty tv was running a marathon of pretty young women buying wedding dresses as it did every night. Ivy might have even seen this one before.
This was the time of day she should have been outside. It was when the motel had a pulse. Her window would clatter with life, swaths of people stomping up and down the stairs, usually in pairs. Prostitutes earning their living on their back, teens looking for somewhere discreet, junkies looking for a cheap break from the street, and the occasional desperate, unending knocking against someone’s rickety door, “Just one more hit, man, I’m good for it, come on, just one, I’ll pay tomorrow, you know I can, you know—“
But by this time she was too tired and too miserable to spectate. It was when the numbness started to lift off her and she ached with the misery, the guilt, and betrayal.
She thought about opening her wrists that night. Again and again she pictured those shards of glass splitting the vein on her left arm until it actually tingled. But she’d locked her door, and that meant some part of her still cared. It would be cruel to kill that part of her, the one who brushed her teeth at night and bathed her every few days, the one who spent over an hour combing out her hair days ago when it was knotting up into a nest.
That girl deserved a chance. That was the girl James had armed on her way out. The girl he’d hugged in a grip so tight she could feel his heart pounding fast against her cheek. But when he’d held her like that, that girl had already begun to decay.
Ivy supposed she was drinking to drown her, along with that night, and everything else. Mac’s face, his clenched fist around her arm, the fury in his voice and words, she needed them gone. But they came back each night.
He was going to leave you there.
And James, frantically pulling at Mac’s grip. It was a tornado around her, the floor tilting under her feet while she screamed for it to stop.
And when they were done torturing and drugging and raping you, he was going to let them kill you.
And then she was sobbing. And all James could do was apologize.
She knew the moment she stopped crying that she wasn’t home anymore. James wouldn’t keep her safe. Mac would hurt her. She had to leave.
It had been surprisingly easy to pack her bag. Easier still to call a taxi and walk out the front door.
“Ivy.” James. He must have been sitting on the porch. His heavy tread was crunching the gravel behind her with a wary sort of urgency, like she was a dog about to bolt through a gap in the door, like she might take off sprinting if he moved too fast, might be gone before he reached her if he didn’t move with enough purpose. “Hey, wait.”
Ivy didn’t break stride, didn’t glance at him, didn’t say a word.
Then he was at her side, an arm's reach away. His arm’s reach.
“Ivy, you can’t.” He sounded ragged. He looked it too in the corner of her eye.
“Why?” Her voice rattled out, a thin whisper. It ached to talk through her swollen throat.
Suddenly, a loud part of her desperately wanted to know. The naivety was back, and she knew it. But god, how nice it would be to hear him beg, to explain, to tell her he needed her, that she was special, that she mattered. But even if James struck up a magic string of words, it would dissolve before it hit her ears.
He was going to leave you there.
“It all got out of hand,” James said instead.
He was gonna let that creep rape you.
“Yeah,” she agreed, and grabbed the gate.
James caught her shoulder bag by the strap and she faltered a step, shrinking, sandwiched between James and the gate, though he’d given her some distance. Ivy shrugged the bag from her and spun, fumbling blindly for the zipper along the top, trying not to shake while James awkwardly pulled it nearer and Ivy followed clumsily.
“You can’t go,” he said.
”You can’t keep me here,” she countered, digging her hand through the mess of shirts until the felt leather in her fingers. She pulled her wallet free and dropped it in her coat pocket. “You can keep that, though. I don’t really need any of that stuff.”
James hesitated, his arm slowly sagging as the gears in his head ground hard.
”I’ve had enough,” she said. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I quit. And if you make me stay — if you put your fucking hands on me—“
”I wouldn’t do that,” James interrupted, shoulders high, quiet fire in his voice.
“I don’t know anything anymore,” she gave him a bitter smile, but James was staring past her, at the taxi idling on the road.
”Take it,” James said, defeated, handing her bag and his last bargaining chip over. “But, just gimme a sec. Please. Just wait. Five minutes.”
Ivy slung the bag around her and said nothing, heart thudding expectantly; maybe he was going to plead and beg.
But James turned on his heel and sprinted into the house, leaving Ivy standing in the cold night air with a bewildered look on her face. It would have been satisfying to leave then, disappearing into a cab without a word, the way she’d intended. But the last thing she needed now was another mystery. So she pulled out her cellphone and watched three minutes pass before James reappeared with something in his hand.
”Where are you going?” he asked her. “Is it safe?”
”I don’t know.”
“Take this.”
Ivy laughed aloud, high and shrill, just one hard “HA!” as he placed the gun in her outstretched palm. Something about it was so disarming, so hilarious. It was just so James. She loved him a lot then. Hated him, too. “Thanks.”
Abruptly, he’d thrown an arm around her shoulders, his heart thudding hard against her cheek, gun limp by her hip. It struck her then she would likely never see him again. He smelled like yesterday's cologne, beer, and a hint of sweat that was missing something familiar – that stale smoky smell that used to follow him around.
“Take care of yourself,” he managed.
Ivy made a noncommittal sound as James released her, tucking James’s gun in the mess of clothing atop her bag.
And then she’d left and thrown herself away.
Would it really be so bad if she stayed here? What made her so special and superior? She’d submerged herself into a new culture, one where women earned their livings on their backs while she watched from the periphery. She didn’t need the money, that much she knew, but she was starting to feel invisible and the idea of hands against her skin or someone inside her was growing more appealing as she faded into the scenery.
From her place on the mezzanine she watched a pair drunkenly stumble up the stairs, the woman’s hand already jammed down the front of the man’s jeans while he fumbled for his wallet, his free arm around her waist as she led him towards her room with faux laughter. She seemed a constant here, a pretty thing in her mid-thirties, dark hair down to her waist, makeup applied with a heavy enough hand to attract prospective clients, but not heavy enough to look cheap. Ivy wondered how much she charged, if there was an extra fee to spend the night asleep beside each other, if she strictly saw men.
Her chest ached as they disappeared into her room and the wind picked up, battering Ivy’s hair against her face. She pulled her jacket tighter around herself and flicked her cigarette at the pool below. It missed by a mile, bouncing and rolling along the asphalt with a cascade of sparks. She lit another one and considered her options.
The cleaner here didn’t like her much. Maybe even hated her. But hate and lust weren’t always too far apart, and she’d spent the better part of two weeks dirtying this shithole. He might like the opportunity to pull her hair and slam into her until she shrieked and he found release. He was mopping now across from her, on the second story where the motel looped around. She watched him move his arms in slow deliberate circles and wondered how those worn hands might feel around her throat, how his worked forearms could squeeze her waist. She rapidly played through a series of scenarios, the ways she could proposition him, the ways he could reject her, and the idea of a smile on that always-sour face while he laughed at her imaginary expense was too defeating and she dismissed it altogether.
There was a biker tinkering with his motorcycle below. He’d been here nearly as long as her, spending most of his time in the room across the way, the rest smoking by his bike while he changed the oil and tightened bolts, revving the engine at irregular intervals and ripping his way onto the road. Whenever he roared off, Ivy wondered if he’d had his fill of filth and was ready to return to his real life. But he kept coming back, that thrumming cycle announcing him from a distance until he pulled back into his spot below her room, vibrating the walls, sending the sad sailboat in a frame more and more crooked. He had to be hiding from something too. And if he’d been here this long, he had to be getting lonely.
She looked him over carefully. He had to be at least twenty years her senior, his crown starting to thin only slightly, spots of grey shining in the sun, salt and pepper in his stubble. He wasn’t particularly toned, but he was certainly strong for a man his age, yanking the wrench this way and that with a confident kind of control. Sweat was showing through the back of his black shirt in a vee shape, clinging to his spine and Ivy could make out the shape of him – the build of a man approaching his fifties who worked regularly and liked his liquor. She could work with that if he could work with her, a girl with barely any meat left on her bones, a mess of scars buried beneath her jacket and enough cigarette tar in her hair to stain a pillow.
She looked at him hard while she sipped her vodka and let her smoke simmer between her fingers, willing him to feel her eyes on him. He had a lost kind of way about him, avoiding her eyes whenever she made her way through the parking lot on her trip to the shops across the road, but she willed it hard, for him to feel her, to see her, to help her feel real, to sense her kind, pleading stare on the side of his face and lift his head and return it. And after an eternity, just when she had started searching for her voice to call out to him, he stepped back to assess his work and tipped his chin up. Their eyes met for a flash, Ivy nearly flinching, but she held firm and still, blinking down at him, a small smile starting on her lips.
He stared back at her with grey eyes, scratching his chin, a wrench limp by his hip. Ivy couldn’t tell what the small raise of his eyebrow meant.
Ivy lifted her chin at him, an attempt at a casual and friendly greeting. A way of saying “I see you, and I know you’re real. Tell me you see me. Tell me I’m real.”
The man blinked back at her, so unaffected he might as well have been looking through her.
Her heart picked up, sweat breaking through her skin, salt starting to burn behind her eyes. And in one last desperate bid to be seen, felt, and real, Ivy gestured with her chin, a brief point towards her bedroom door. An easy, open invitation.
The man wiped his brow with the back of his hand, expression unreadable, and lowered his eyes back to his bike, throwing his wrench around a bolt and busying himself with his work.
She flung herself into her room and slammed the door behind her. She disappeared that night, so lost inside herself the hours disappeared. She might have slept or sobbed for hours. She might have drank a whole bottle to herself, or smoked a full pack, or both. She had no way of tracking anymore, the days all bleeding together, an empty bottle always on her bedside, an empty pack always crumpled in her pocket.
Ivy staggered to her feet. It must have been the next day because the sun was up. Maybe it was the day after that.
When she deposited her change on Denise’s desk, Denise murmured from behind her novel, “You know, ginger, you can only stay until the end of the month. After that, you gotta go someplace else, at least for a while. I don’t run an apartment complex.”
Ivy stared at her, feeling nothing.
Denise lifted her eyes and looked at her with something that resembled sympathy. “Go dry out for a couple weeks.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Ivy said with no real venom, and left her office.
Denise’s quiet snort of laughter followed her through the door.
The next week passed as the others had, in a drunken ashy blur, and Ivy found herself swaying on her feet, standing at Denise’s counter.
“I just need a little more time,” she must have said. Her eyes might have watered. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
”Sure you do, honey,” Denise said with an air of really knowing, really seeing her. “I bet a sweet thing like you’s got lotsa places.”
”I’m not sweet,” she said. It was the part she could really remember, because she burst into tears.
The room spun and she wept into her palms, feeling selfish, ugly, pathetic, and small. When she caught her breath, she was in an armchair in a room she hadn’t seen before, a smaller office that must have been connected to the check-in desk. Denise was passing her a plastic cup of cold water. Ivy sipped it. It tasted stale and metallic. She dipped her thumb in it and wiped her eyes with the chill, getting some salt off her lashes.
”What’re you doin’ here?” Denise asked her then, standing beside the door with her arms crossed.
She glanced around at the filing cabinets, the half-empty bookshelf, the stacks of papers on the floor, the full ashtray on Denise’s desk, the monitor playing security footage of the parking lot. She shrugged.
”I don’t mean my office,” Denise said with an eyeroll. “I mean, who the fuck are you outside of this, Nina?”
That was some other form of self preservation. Her fake name. Something to keep her off the books.
”You got some shitty boyfriend back home? He beat you?”
Ivy ground her teeth together and said nothing. She knew if she nodded tearfully, it might be enough to keep her haven a little longer, but it felt too cheap.
”I have nowhere else to go,” Ivy said like a mantra.
“You throw a hundred dollar bill on my desk every three days,” Denise countered. “I ain’t seen you bringing anyone to your room, so you’re not selling yourself for it. You got money, at least for now. You’re not an addict — well, not to anything harder than booze. I know Taylor sold you that baggie, but doesn’t sound like you’ve asked him for much more.”
Ivy started to feel transparent, like her skin was glass. She’d run away and was still being watched.
“I’ve seen a lot of types come through this place, and I know how to spot a tourist. I could be wrong, and I’ve been wrong before, but you’ve got all the makings of one. And I’m not in the market to let spoiled little girls stomp around my establishment, littering their butts and smashing their glasses. I shoulda evicted you the first time you told me to go fuck myself. But you’ve got that helpless kinda sadness in you too, and I’m not fond of kicking strays. So tell me, Nina, why are you here? Because if you don’t give it to me straight, I’ll have you outta here by the end of the hour. Hell, I’ll even pay for the cab to take you where you’re headin’ next.”
This is my hospice, she wanted to say. Just a sickbed to hold me until I die.
“I’m not ready to go back,” she pleaded, tears spilling out again. “And I don’t know if I ever will be. I don’t know what to do or where to go. Nothing feels safe anymore, but I felt invisible here. And now that I know I’m not, I don’t know what else to do.”
Denise scrunched her mouth but said nothing, eyes hard and lacking sympathy.
For a moment, Ivy imagined herself returning home. She’d pay for her own cab, Denise could go to hell. It would be a long trip back home, long enough for her to sober up, but smoke would be stuck to her skin and woven in her hair, alcoholic fumes shedding off in her sweat. She’d knock because it was polite, and because it would be a surprise, and because she wasn’t sure it really was her home anymore. James would answer and the look on his face would break her heart in half again, and of course he’d let her in, and she’d wonder how long they were going to keep doing this. How many times they’d let each other down. If her doom was contagious.
Staring at Denise, Ivy hooked a finger into her sleeve and carefully exposed her forearm.
By the time her third cigarette burn scar was exposed, Ivy knew she’d won. But she raised her sleeve higher and higher, right to the elbow so Denise could bask in her damage. Then she did the same with her other arm, letting her tears gather at her chin and splash in her lap. She sniffled hard for effect.
Denise frowned, “Oh, honey. Who did that to you?”
Ivy shook her head and buried her face in her hands and made herself inconsolable.
Denise was kneeling at her side, a cigarette outstretched between her first fingers, a lighter grasped in the others, rubbing Ivy’s knee with a maternal kind of concern.
Ivy took it tearfully, nodding at her with huge, grateful eyes while Denise lit it for her. No one had ever been so pathetic.
“You can stay,” Denise said, a sternness starting back in her voice. “But you fuck with my custodian, you tell me to fuck off, you’re out of here. You smash another bottle, you come get a bucket and clean that shit yourself. And when you’re done here, you leave us a big fat tip.”
“Thank you,” Ivy sniffled, wiping her face in her sleeve. “Thank you so much.”
“Yeah yeah,” Denise sighed, getting up and moving to the door. She waved through it, “Get out of my office and get yourself cleaned up. I feel sorry just looking at you.”
Ivy gathered herself and did as she was told. As she moved through the door, Denise caught her shoulder and looked at her with hard blue eyes. Ivy stared up at her, trying not to shrink under her gaze, preparing to weep again if she had to.
“I mean it,” Denise said, and pointed into her office. The camera footage flickered from the parking lot to the second tier of the motel, the door to her room a blur in the middle. “You wanna be a shitty little girl, you go stomp around someplace else. Don’t make me sorry for this, Nina.”
Ivy nodded and fled to her room, feeling filthy and naked.
She played with her gun again that afternoon, imagining Denise trying to scrub her brain out of the carpet and got very little satisfaction from the image.
Nothing felt good anymore, but there was something she still hadn’t gone all the way on.
For the first time in three weeks, Ivy plugged in her cellphone and placed a call.
****
He came by just after midnight.
She counted to thirty in the quiet darkness, trying not to fling the door open the instant he knocked, as if she could still be someone aloof and interesting. She creaked the door open at twenty-eight.
Clark looked handsome, less boyish. It had to have been four years since she’d last seen him, and the years looked good on him. He’d finally found a haircut that sat at just the right length, the brown in his hair bringing out the brown in his eyes. He had a six pack of beer bottles in his right hand, leaning on the door frame like some cowboy. His shirt was lazily unbuttoned at the top, tie loose around his neck.
Her heart picked up. He had really come to see her. He would hold her and touch her. And she’d spent the afternoon preening herself just so he could.
“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like—“
Ivy cut him off with a kiss, wrapping her fist in his tie and leading him backwards through her room. Clark slung an arm around her waist and hoisted her against him with muscles he hadn’t always had. She moved her hands to his hair, pressing her tongue into his mouth, relieved when he accepted it and pressed his back.
He twisted his face and squinted into the room. “Why’re the lights off?”
”I don’t wanna see you,” she breathed.
That seemed to do something for him, because he kicked the door closed with his heel and led them deeper into the room.
“Bed’s behind me,” she said, “Yeah, just right here.”
“I thought we were maybe gonna talk first,” he said, setting the bottles on her side table with a clink.
Ivy slid her teeth against his throat, “Don’t talk, just fuck me.”
She fell into the mattress with a squeak, Clark climbing atop her, his knee hooking hers aside, his fingers digging into the waistband of her shorts while Ivy frantically tore at his belt.
“You still on birth control?” He asked, hot breath against her ear. “You still clean?”
”IUD, yeah, yeah I’m still clean, I’m not a whore.”
Clark made a noncommittal noise and started pressing himself into her. She was so ready it took nearly no effort, the full length of him inside her while their underwear stayed tangled around their ankles.
They stayed like that, breathless against each other, until Ivy shuddered a fresh breath and bit his neck to spur him on.
”This is crazy,” he said in her ear, pulling up her shirt. “You can’t keep biting me, I’ve got work in the morning.”
”Then bite me,” Ivy said, lifting her arms for him as he worked her shirt over her head. She started unbuttoning his. “Bite me like you hate me.”
”Yeah?” He breathed, thrusting a little harder.
“Mmm…”
He kissed her neck instead, and Ivy kept a hand on his chin to keep him from straying down to her collarbone where his lips might brush the first scar she’d earned, fiddling with the last of his buttons.
Then they were bare against each other, fully naked and woven together the way they so often were in lives so different. They climbed higher up the bed, Clark wrapping her legs around his waist and lifting her to an angle he knew she liked. She clutched the bedding and let her eyes roll back, hoping this would last.
Then he said, “Is this some kind of roleplay?”
She squeaked out an affirmative noise, her throat tight as pleasure shocked up her body. “It’s— It’s whatever… whatever you want!”
He laughed then and his rhythm broke for a heartbeat, “I wanted to have some beers and catch up first, you’re calling the shots on this one, ‘Vy.”
”Fine,” she said, pleasure fading faster than she could cling to, hearing her name from old lips making her sick. “Get on your back.”
”I’ll do whatever,” Clark said, almost apologetically, pulling out of her and rolling onto his back beside her. “You never told me you were into stuff like this.”
Ivy climbed atop him, straddling his hips, moving her palms along his firm stomach. “You’ve really been working out.”
”Yeah,” Clark’s smile shone for an instant in the dark. “I go a few times a week.”
Ivy worked him inside her again and ground against him, hunting for a rhythm that felt familiar and right.
His hands found her hips and started up her waist, then moved across her breasts. Her breath was turning tight, the scars on her arms starting to burn with panic.
”Will you hit me?” Ivy asked suddenly.
Clark went still beneath her. She pretended not to notice, heart pounding in her ears, still moving, hopeful he’d be able to pretend too.
Then he moved, sitting up, jostling her. “Um…”
”Forget it,” Ivy said. “I just thought maybe—“
”Ivy, you’re crying.”
”No I’m not.”
His thumb brushed her cheek. “Hey…”
She recoiled from him, climbing off and putting her feet over the side of the bed, scrubbing at her face.
The bedside lamp flicked on, burning the scene into her eyes as she turned and yelped, “Turn it off!”
She caught Clark’s expression as he did. He looked sobered and sad. Like he pitied her. And then plunged back into dark.
She was really crying then, blindly kicking at the floor for her clothes, managing to pull her shorts on and wrenching a sports bra over her head. “Just go.”
Clark was fumbling for her in the dark, his hand finding her shoulder. “Ivy, really, what is this? Have you been living here?”
”No!” Her voice was getting shrill. “Don’t be fucking crazy. Get your shit and get out of here.”
He sighed and stepped back. “Okay.”
Ivy squinted in the dark and found her jacket, slinging it around her shoulders and zipping it up to her chin, hugging herself at the end of the bed, absently playing with the tassels while Clark clumsily dressed himself in the dark, his silhouette shoving a tie in his jean pocket. He patted his wallet, then his keys, and Ivy let out a relieved sigh.
Then the bed sank and he sat next to her.
He sighed too. ”Are you okay?”
”I'm fine,” she said, having found her breath. “I guess we were on different pages. Sorry to call you all the way out here. I guess I thought it’d be fun.”
He put an arm around her, the weight both comforting and imposing. She wanted it off. She wanted it to pull her into his chest. She blinked at the shine on the television screen and prayed her eyes would stay dry.
“Clark,” she whispered. “I need you to go now.”
He sighed and put his chin on the top of her head. “What are you doing, ‘Vy? This isn’t you. Where are James and—”
“Oh, who the fuck do you think you are?!” She snarled through her teeth, giving him a shove in the chest, flying off the bed. She stood over him, her finger in his face. “What gives you the right to judge me?! Some finance boy who’s had everything handed to him — the boy whose daddy gave him his first job, his first car, bought his way into school — what makes you think you know a fucking thing about me?!”
”Ivy—“
”Clark!” She spat back. “I told you to go, so go. You’ve got your shit. You can take your beer and go.”
”Do you need money or something?”
Ivy laughed, hard, high, and spiteful, “Money?! From you?! What do I look like, Clark?! Do you think that’s why I called you?!”
Clark stood up then, looking down at her, but there was nothing imposing in it. “Why did you call me, Ivy?”
“I just—“ she hugged herself tighter. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
”I think you wanted help.”
“No.”
”I can help.”
”You can’t.”
”You just have to tell me what you need.”
”I need you to go.”
He sighed again and shook his head. “Okay.”
Ivy marched to the door and threw it open, the moonlight painting them both silver, deepening the creases under his eyes, the furrow in his brow, the frown on his face. He seemed to be studying her just as hard.
”I missed you,” he said. “I…”
”I don’t need your pity. I need you to go.”
He hesitated. ”I’m worried I'm doing the wrong thing.”
“Poor you.” Ivy started to close the door against him.
He stopped it with his shoe and dove a hand into his pocket, his wallet coming out in his fist as he quickly thumbed through it—
“Don’t.” Ivy pushed a hand at his chest.
He caught it, put a wad of cash against her palm and closed her fist. “Just take it. I don’t know why you’re here, but whatever the reason, find somewhere else. You deserved better than this place.”
And then he was gone, Ivy slamming the door behind him, screaming as she threw his money against the mirror, it fluttering to the floor with no real power. She dragged the small wooden chair under the door and jammed it shut, locking it, then deadbolting it, and grabbed her gun from the back of the closet.
****
She sat in the empty tub and considered her options between gulps. When she finished her pack, she’d have to choose.
The cherry on her cigarette was the only light in blackness so thick it pressed on her face. She’d sip her vodka, shudder, and chase it with her smoke, lighting the room for those few seconds and then leaving her in the dark, writing words with the lit end that lingered for an instant before they vanished.
G U N
Good and dirty and quick. Let Denise find her. Let that janitor mop her up. At least the carpet would stay clean.
It would be hard to fuck up.
G L A S S
She took another drag and the bottle shards gleamed orange on the side of the tub. She wasn’t a wimp. She could cut deep enough. And it would give her some time to drift off. She could drink on her way out. Maybe it would be nice to run a bath first and bleed into water that welcomed her. But that ran the risk of drowning, and she knew well enough that was an awful way to go.
G U N
She stared at the letters glowing gold before they vanished, still burned into her eyes.
G L A SS
They were both brutal and beautiful. Final and gory. Fitting for a girl like her.
She ashed on her ankle, the cinders hot and shocking without the permanence of a burn. There was a familiar thrill in it. Maybe she’d put a cigarette out on herself first. Maybe the rest of the pack.
But she finished that one and stubbed it on the porcelain before lighting another. She had three to go.
”I’m going to kill myself tonight,” she whispered, just for something to do, just to hear her voice before she silenced herself for good.
She took another deep drink, liking the way her head spun and her toes tingled. Before long, she wouldn't even feel real.
Ivy set the bottle on the rim of the tub and weighed the gun in her palm, taking a deep breath from her smoke to light it for an instant.
It was a mean, heavy thing. She pressed the tip against her tongue, clicking her tooth hard enough it might have chipped, the cold metal scraping the roof of her mouth, her thumb against the trigger. She closed her eyes and squeezed.
The safety stopped her short, as she’d known it would, but part of her had hoped she’d catch herself off guard. But it was just practice. She dropped the gun in her lap.
Then she tested the glass, wrapping a palm around it, dragging it up and down her wrist in light scrapes, just enough to scratch. Maybe she’d do both; start with the glass, end with the gun. Just to be doubly sure.
Yeah. That was good.
Ivy swapped her glass for her vodka and had another drink.
She wouldn’t leave a note. You had to have something in your heart to have anything worth leaving behind.
She nuzzled deeper into the tub, head getting heavier, heart racing harder. Maybe the liquor would get her first. She could choke on her puke and it would seem like a tragic accident. That poor girl in room 206 who had a little too much on a Wednesday night and died in the tub.
She liked the sound of that, too.
But she had a time limit and if she was still awake when her last smoke died, it was wrists then head.
She lit her next cigarette.
And before long, she was lighting the next, her arms feeling like lead, her aim getting shakier. She had to close an eye to get her lighter working even though she couldn’t see anything at all.
Then she was on her last.
”Hmm…” she said to herself, blinking wetly at the ceiling. “Okay.”
Ivy scrunched over and sobbed, cigarette falling from her fingers into the tub by her foot while she heaved tears from so deep within her she hadn’t known they were there. She thought she was spent, but some poor scared girl was screaming to get out. But it was too late. There was no “out,” there wasn’t anywhere anymore.
Sobbing, shaking, and blind, Ivy fumbled for the gun before she lost her nerve.
She grabbed it from the tip, jamming the handle into her palm, feeling for the safety—
A brutal bang shattered through the silence, the front door shaking beyond the bathroom as someone on the other side slammed into it again and again.
She froze, not daring to breathe. They’d finally found her.
It was the perfect time for them to come. She wouldn’t let them take her, and she was ready to go on her own terms. Fuck them. They’d never hurt her again.
The safety clicked off.
The banging continued, a yell accompanying it. A shout that had a pleading tone.
Clark must have gotten halfway home and turned around. Clark might have been a lot of things, but he didn’t deserve to wait outside her door while she shot herself in the head. She’d get rid of him first.
Cursing, she climbed out of the tub and stumbled through the dark, the chair under the door shaking with the force.
”I’m coming!” She yelled, furious and slurring.
The banging stopped. Ivy wove her way against the chair and pressed up on her toes to look through the peephole, her heart nearly stopping.
“Oh.” She wiped her eyes against fresh tears and removed the chair, then undid the lock, then the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
This is huge tbh because he usually really sucks. Clark Fanclub™️ now taking members, Sable is the founder. Reach out to her for your annual dues payments and she'll give you the framework for the fanmail you'll be sending him
CW: binge drinking, smoking, self harm, borderline suicide attempt, sex, drugs, a whole lot of mess.
I'm really excited about this one
____________________________
Ivy spent the first few days replaying her departure, wondering again and again if she should have hugged him back.
Barefoot on the carpet, the neck of a warming bottle of vodka in her fist, the gun trained at her reflection in the floor length mirror, she found herself wondering again. She watched the girl's face in the mirror, wondering if some hint of expression might break through the surface and betray the numbness radiating off her, but they only stared blankly at each other, handgun swaying as her outstretched arm grew heavy and lazy with liquor. She took another gulp from the uncapped bottle, shuddered as the thick varnish taste coated her mouth, and put the tip of the gun to her temple for an instant before letting her arm drop to her side.
She threw the gun on the mattress with a thud, the thin duvet already tangled from her restless night. She hadn’t let housekeeping change her sheets. She doubted she’d notice any difference. The bedding was frayed in places and yellowed in others, and there were even a few burn holes from previous guests who’d fallen asleep with cigarettes between their fingers. When Ivy had arrived she’d struggled to imagine how careless someone would need to be to fall asleep with fire between their fingers, but found herself waking up with a yelp and burnt knuckles only a few days later.
The motel was well worn and inviting in its decay. It was the perfect place to rot.
She’d left the house without any destination in mind, James’s gun tucked in the top of her bag, the warmth of his arm still lingering around her shoulders. She hadn’t hugged him back. Should she have? Would she even live long enough to regret not returning his apologetic embrace?
She told herself she didn’t care either way.
This was a suicide.
It hadn’t been the plan, but when the cab driver pulled onto the crackling gravel parking lot at her request, she felt certain. It was a hole to curl up and die inside. She was a rat waiting for the cat to pounce, or for the poison to shut her down.
Ivy lit another cigarette.
She’d had six this morning, and her vodka was half gone. She’d need to restock.
She took a heavy drag and set her smoke in the overflowing ashtray and chased it with another drink. Coughing on liquor and ash, she shrugged her coat around her shoulders, the dangling green tassels tickling the tops of her thighs as she wrenched the zipper up to her chin, grabbing her wallet from the table before she stumbled her way outside.
The sun was lower than she’d expected, the air now too crisp for her shorts barely peeking out beneath her jacket. Her skin goosebumped in a way that sobered her enough to realize she was piss fucking drunk. She laughed a little and leaned against the railing. She’d forgotten her lit cigarette inside. Ivy patted her pockets and found a fresh one, closing one eye as she flicked the lighter in the wind again and again, feeling clumsy and uncoordinated until she found a spark and got it going.
It tasted like shit. And it made her feel like shit. Her throat was raw and scratchy now at all hours. Her skin had a grey sheen to it. She even croaked when she slammed her change on the counter yesterday afternoon. When she showered she’d smell smoke coming off her hair in waves — it reminded her of camping with her dad; she hadn’t known how smoky she’d gotten at the campfire until the shower washed it off of her.
If her father saw her now…
Ivy bit her cheek and stared down at the pool. It was hypnotic. The greening water rippled and shimmered in the sun. She could swear the water dropped a little more each day, but whenever she tried to count the exposed tiles (five now) she’d forget the count from the day before. She stared down at it until her knuckles got hot, and then threw her cigarette stub off the balcony. The wind blew it backwards and it bounced against the deck instead of joining the other butts floating among the scum.
Ivy lit another cigarette and started down the stairs.
The motel was strangely silent at this hour. It was a nocturnal place; somewhere people stopped to fuck prostitutes, or pulled over on a long trip when their eyes got heavy, camping in the parking lot until Denise tapped on their window with an outstretched palm, demanding the thirty fee for the night. Now, it was drawn blinds and a disgruntled housekeeper shouldering his way in and out of rooms with bedding over his shoulder and a mop in his hand.
“Still here?” He grumbled as she stumbled past him slopping a wet pillow atop his cart.
Ivy didn’t reply, just dropped her full cigarette at his foot and pushed her way through the reception door.
Denise was licking her thumb before turning to the next page of her magazine. She didn’t look up. “It’s thirty dollars by the night, but you can pay a hundred for the week,” she reminded her.
Ivy slammed a fistful of money on the counter, a few coins rolling onto the floor with a clatter. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Denise’s brow furrowed, eyes hard on the glossy page in front of her. ”Mhm.”
”Bitch,” Ivy breathed for no reason in particular, maybe just for a tiny thrill, before she made her way outside and stumbled across the street to the liquor store.
She bought two bottles of vodka and two packs of cigarettes. The vodka was the cheapest she could find in a glass bottle, and the cigarettes were the only brand she knew — the ones that came in packs that looked like blue playing cards.
Ivy could have stocked up more, but had only two hands and two pockets, and the short walk was enough to feel like a routine. She even let the pimply cashier look at her legs during their fleeting interactions, unzipping her jacket with his eyes while Ivy pretended not to notice. She’d asked him for drugs a few days ago, and he sold her a small bag of cocaine that did nothing to boost her mood nor encourage her fall, only left her heart pounding harder for an hour or so, so Ivy decided coke did not belong in her daily ritual.
She thought about asking strangers here for something harder. She was on death row anyway. Heroin and meth were supposed to be worth ruining your life for. But the motel had to be a magnet for cops looking to bust stray prostitutes to boost their record, and asking the wrong shaggy-haired nobody could get her dragged back to some station where she’d have to explain herself, where she’d be photographed and ID-ed, where they’d call James and ask him what the fuck was going on with his spinning out subordinate. So Ivy decided to avoid drugs altogether.
Ivy grabbed a pre-wrapped ham and cheese sandwich from the convenience store next door and made her way back to her spot on the mezzanine, hugging the bottles under her arms. She stumbled up the stairs and one bottle slipped, cracking immediately against the hard concrete and sending glass and liquor cascading down the stairs.
The housekeeper swore somewhere beneath her, but Ivy didn’t break stride. She shoved her way into her room, the door left unlocked, and slammed her intact vodka bottle onto the round wooden table by the window, took a gulp from her warm half-finished bottle, lit a fresh cigarette, and stepped back into the cold air, thankful for something to do.
She stopped halfway down the stairs and studied the broken bottle. It was glittering in the fading daylight, chunks and shards all damp and dripping with clear liquor, the edges of the puddle already evaporating, fumes stroking her cheeks and watering her eyes as Ivy knelt closer. She settled on three shards, one from near the neck where the glass was thin and jagged and nearly the length of her finger, and two from the rounded base, both with a blunted spot for her grip with knife-like edges stabbing out the other side. She slipped them in her jacket pocket and pressed on.
She was back at the liquor store within the minute, and back in her room with another bottle a few minutes after that. The custodian had grumbled something accusatory to her on her trip up the stairs, and she’d hissed a reply, but she was too drunk to remember if either of them had had a point.
She stashed her shards under the bathroom sink, then found herself standing in a lukewarm shower, her hair going limp and clinging to her face, motel shampoo that may as well have been soap running over her eyes.
Some time later she was curled up on top of the bed, bottle of vodka against her leg, ashtray by her hip. The spotty tv was running a marathon of pretty young women buying wedding dresses as it did every night. Ivy might have even seen this one before.
This was the time of day she should have been outside. It was when the motel had a pulse. Her window would clatter with life, swaths of people stomping up and down the stairs, usually in pairs. Prostitutes earning their living on their back, teens looking for somewhere discreet, junkies looking for a cheap break from the street, and the occasional desperate, unending knocking against someone’s rickety door, “Just one more hit, man, I’m good for it, come on, just one, I’ll pay tomorrow, you know I can, you know—“
But by this time she was too tired and too miserable to spectate. It was when the numbness started to lift off her and she ached with the misery, the guilt, and betrayal.
She thought about opening her wrists that night. Again and again she pictured those shards of glass splitting the vein on her left arm until it actually tingled. But she’d locked her door, and that meant some part of her still cared. It would be cruel to kill that part of her, the one who brushed her teeth at night and bathed her every few days, the one who spent over an hour combing out her hair days ago when it was knotting up into a nest.
That girl deserved a chance. That was the girl James had armed on her way out. The girl he’d hugged in a grip so tight she could feel his heart pounding fast against her cheek. But when he’d held her like that, that girl had already begun to decay.
Ivy supposed she was drinking to drown her, along with that night, and everything else. Mac’s face, his clenched fist around her arm, the fury in his voice and words, she needed them gone. But they came back each night.
He was going to leave you there.
And James, frantically pulling at Mac’s grip. It was a tornado around her, the floor tilting under her feet while she screamed for it to stop.
And when they were done torturing and drugging and raping you, he was going to let them kill you.
And then she was sobbing. And all James could do was apologize.
She knew the moment she stopped crying that she wasn’t home anymore. James wouldn’t keep her safe. Mac would hurt her. She had to leave.
It had been surprisingly easy to pack her bag. Easier still to call a taxi and walk out the front door.
“Ivy.” James. He must have been sitting on the porch. His heavy tread was crunching the gravel behind her with a wary sort of urgency, like she was a dog about to bolt through a gap in the door, like she might take off sprinting if he moved too fast, might be gone before he reached her if he didn’t move with enough purpose. “Hey, wait.”
Ivy didn’t break stride, didn’t glance at him, didn’t say a word.
Then he was at her side, an arm's reach away. His arm’s reach.
“Ivy, you can’t.” He sounded ragged. He looked it too in the corner of her eye.
“Why?” Her voice rattled out, a thin whisper. It ached to talk through her swollen throat.
Suddenly, a loud part of her desperately wanted to know. The naivety was back, and she knew it. But god, how nice it would be to hear him beg, to explain, to tell her he needed her, that she was special, that she mattered. But even if James struck up a magic string of words, it would dissolve before it hit her ears.
He was going to leave you there.
“It all got out of hand,” James said instead.
He was gonna let that creep rape you.
“Yeah,” she agreed, and grabbed the gate.
James caught her shoulder bag by the strap and she faltered a step, shrinking, sandwiched between James and the gate, though he’d given her some distance. Ivy shrugged the bag from her and spun, fumbling blindly for the zipper along the top, trying not to shake while James awkwardly pulled it nearer and Ivy followed clumsily.
“You can’t go,” he said.
”You can’t keep me here,” she countered, digging her hand through the mess of shirts until the felt leather in her fingers. She pulled her wallet free and dropped it in her coat pocket. “You can keep that, though. I don’t really need any of that stuff.”
James hesitated, his arm slowly sagging as the gears in his head ground hard.
”I’ve had enough,” she said. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I quit. And if you make me stay — if you put your fucking hands on me—“
”I wouldn’t do that,” James interrupted, shoulders high, quiet fire in his voice.
“I don’t know anything anymore,” she gave him a bitter smile, but James was staring past her, at the taxi idling on the road.
”Take it,” James said, defeated, handing her bag and his last bargaining chip over. “But, just gimme a sec. Please. Just wait. Five minutes.”
Ivy slung the bag around her and said nothing, heart thudding expectantly; maybe he was going to plead and beg.
But James turned on his heel and sprinted into the house, leaving Ivy standing in the cold night air with a bewildered look on her face. It would have been satisfying to leave then, disappearing into a cab without a word, the way she’d intended. But the last thing she needed now was another mystery. So she pulled out her cellphone and watched three minutes pass before James reappeared with something in his hand.
”Where are you going?” he asked her. “Is it safe?”
”I don’t know.”
“Take this.”
Ivy laughed aloud, high and shrill, just one hard “HA!” as he placed the gun in her outstretched palm. Something about it was so disarming, so hilarious. It was just so James. She loved him a lot then. Hated him, too. “Thanks.”
Abruptly, he’d thrown an arm around her shoulders, his heart thudding hard against her cheek, gun limp by her hip. It struck her then she would likely never see him again. He smelled like yesterday's cologne, beer, and a hint of sweat that was missing something familiar – that stale smoky smell that used to follow him around.
“Take care of yourself,” he managed.
Ivy made a noncommittal sound as James released her, tucking James’s gun in the mess of clothing atop her bag.
And then she’d left and thrown herself away.
Would it really be so bad if she stayed here? What made her so special and superior? She’d submerged herself into a new culture, one where women earned their livings on their backs while she watched from the periphery. She didn’t need the money, that much she knew, but she was starting to feel invisible and the idea of hands against her skin or someone inside her was growing more appealing as she faded into the scenery.
From her place on the mezzanine she watched a pair drunkenly stumble up the stairs, the woman’s hand already jammed down the front of the man’s jeans while he fumbled for his wallet, his free arm around her waist as she led him towards her room with faux laughter. She seemed a constant here, a pretty thing in her mid-thirties, dark hair down to her waist, makeup applied with a heavy enough hand to attract prospective clients, but not heavy enough to look cheap. Ivy wondered how much she charged, if there was an extra fee to spend the night asleep beside each other, if she strictly saw men.
Her chest ached as they disappeared into her room and the wind picked up, battering Ivy’s hair against her face. She pulled her jacket tighter around herself and flicked her cigarette at the pool below. It missed by a mile, bouncing and rolling along the asphalt with a cascade of sparks. She lit another one and considered her options.
The cleaner here didn’t like her much. Maybe even hated her. But hate and lust weren’t always too far apart, and she’d spent the better part of two weeks dirtying this shithole. He might like the opportunity to pull her hair and slam into her until she shrieked and he found release. He was mopping now across from her, on the second story where the motel looped around. She watched him move his arms in slow deliberate circles and wondered how those worn hands might feel around her throat, how his worked forearms could squeeze her waist. She rapidly played through a series of scenarios, the ways she could proposition him, the ways he could reject her, and the idea of a smile on that always-sour face while he laughed at her imaginary expense was too defeating and she dismissed it altogether.
There was a biker tinkering with his motorcycle below. He’d been here nearly as long as her, spending most of his time in the room across the way, the rest smoking by his bike while he changed the oil and tightened bolts, revving the engine at irregular intervals and ripping his way onto the road. Whenever he roared off, Ivy wondered if he’d had his fill of filth and was ready to return to his real life. But he kept coming back, that thrumming cycle announcing him from a distance until he pulled back into his spot below her room, vibrating the walls, sending the sad sailboat in a frame more and more crooked. He had to be hiding from something too. And if he’d been here this long, he had to be getting lonely.
She looked him over carefully. He had to be at least twenty years her senior, his crown starting to thin only slightly, spots of grey shining in the sun, salt and pepper in his stubble. He wasn’t particularly toned, but he was certainly strong for a man his age, yanking the wrench this way and that with a confident kind of control. Sweat was showing through the back of his black shirt in a vee shape, clinging to his spine and Ivy could make out the shape of him – the build of a man approaching his fifties who worked regularly and liked his liquor. She could work with that if he could work with her, a girl with barely any meat left on her bones, a mess of scars buried beneath her jacket and enough cigarette tar in her hair to stain a pillow.
She looked at him hard while she sipped her vodka and let her smoke simmer between her fingers, willing him to feel her eyes on him. He had a lost kind of way about him, avoiding her eyes whenever she made her way through the parking lot on her trip to the shops across the road, but she willed it hard, for him to feel her, to see her, to help her feel real, to sense her kind, pleading stare on the side of his face and lift his head and return it. And after an eternity, just when she had started searching for her voice to call out to him, he stepped back to assess his work and tipped his chin up. Their eyes met for a flash, Ivy nearly flinching, but she held firm and still, blinking down at him, a small smile starting on her lips.
He stared back at her with grey eyes, scratching his chin, a wrench limp by his hip. Ivy couldn’t tell what the small raise of his eyebrow meant.
Ivy lifted her chin at him, an attempt at a casual and friendly greeting. A way of saying “I see you, and I know you’re real. Tell me you see me. Tell me I’m real.”
The man blinked back at her, so unaffected he might as well have been looking through her.
Her heart picked up, sweat breaking through her skin, salt starting to burn behind her eyes. And in one last desperate bid to be seen, felt, and real, Ivy gestured with her chin, a brief point towards her bedroom door. An easy, open invitation.
The man wiped his brow with the back of his hand, expression unreadable, and lowered his eyes back to his bike, throwing his wrench around a bolt and busying himself with his work.
She flung herself into her room and slammed the door behind her. She disappeared that night, so lost inside herself the hours disappeared. She might have slept or sobbed for hours. She might have drank a whole bottle to herself, or smoked a full pack, or both. She had no way of tracking anymore, the days all bleeding together, an empty bottle always on her bedside, an empty pack always crumpled in her pocket.
Ivy staggered to her feet. It must have been the next day because the sun was up. Maybe it was the day after that.
When she deposited her change on Denise’s desk, Denise murmured from behind her novel, “You know, ginger, you can only stay until the end of the month. After that, you gotta go someplace else, at least for a while. I don’t run an apartment complex.”
Ivy stared at her, feeling nothing.
Denise lifted her eyes and looked at her with something that resembled sympathy. “Go dry out for a couple weeks.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Ivy said with no real venom, and left her office.
Denise’s quiet snort of laughter followed her through the door.
The next week passed as the others had, in a drunken ashy blur, and Ivy found herself swaying on her feet, standing at Denise’s counter.
“I just need a little more time,” she must have said. Her eyes might have watered. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
”Sure you do, honey,” Denise said with an air of really knowing, really seeing her. “I bet a sweet thing like you’s got lotsa places.”
”I’m not sweet,” she said. It was the part she could really remember, because she burst into tears.
The room spun and she wept into her palms, feeling selfish, ugly, pathetic, and small. When she caught her breath, she was in an armchair in a room she hadn’t seen before, a smaller office that must have been connected to the check-in desk. Denise was passing her a plastic cup of cold water. Ivy sipped it. It tasted stale and metallic. She dipped her thumb in it and wiped her eyes with the chill, getting some salt off her lashes.
”What’re you doin’ here?” Denise asked her then, standing beside the door with her arms crossed.
She glanced around at the filing cabinets, the half-empty bookshelf, the stacks of papers on the floor, the full ashtray on Denise’s desk, the monitor playing security footage of the parking lot. She shrugged.
”I don’t mean my office,” Denise said with an eyeroll. “I mean, who the fuck are you outside of this, Nina?”
That was some other form of self preservation. Her fake name. Something to keep her off the books.
”You got some shitty boyfriend back home? He beat you?”
Ivy ground her teeth together and said nothing. She knew if she nodded tearfully, it might be enough to keep her haven a little longer, but it felt too cheap.
”I have nowhere else to go,” Ivy said like a mantra.
“You throw a hundred dollar bill on my desk every three days,” Denise countered. “I ain’t seen you bringing anyone to your room, so you’re not selling yourself for it. You got money, at least for now. You’re not an addict — well, not to anything harder than booze. I know Taylor sold you that baggie, but doesn’t sound like you’ve asked him for much more.”
Ivy started to feel transparent, like her skin was glass. She’d run away and was still being watched.
“I’ve seen a lot of types come through this place, and I know how to spot a tourist. I could be wrong, and I’ve been wrong before, but you’ve got all the makings of one. And I’m not in the market to let spoiled little girls stomp around my establishment, littering their butts and smashing their glasses. I shoulda evicted you the first time you told me to go fuck myself. But you’ve got that helpless kinda sadness in you too, and I’m not fond of kicking strays. So tell me, Nina, why are you here? Because if you don’t give it to me straight, I’ll have you outta here by the end of the hour. Hell, I’ll even pay for the cab to take you where you’re headin’ next.”
This is my hospice, she wanted to say. Just a sickbed to hold me until I die.
“I’m not ready to go back,” she pleaded, tears spilling out again. “And I don’t know if I ever will be. I don’t know what to do or where to go. Nothing feels safe anymore, but I felt invisible here. And now that I know I’m not, I don’t know what else to do.”
Denise scrunched her mouth but said nothing, eyes hard and lacking sympathy.
For a moment, Ivy imagined herself returning home. She’d pay for her own cab, Denise could go to hell. It would be a long trip back home, long enough for her to sober up, but smoke would be stuck to her skin and woven in her hair, alcoholic fumes shedding off in her sweat. She’d knock because it was polite, and because it would be a surprise, and because she wasn’t sure it really was her home anymore. James would answer and the look on his face would break her heart in half again, and of course he’d let her in, and she’d wonder how long they were going to keep doing this. How many times they’d let each other down. If her doom was contagious.
Staring at Denise, Ivy hooked a finger into her sleeve and carefully exposed her forearm.
By the time her third cigarette burn scar was exposed, Ivy knew she’d won. But she raised her sleeve higher and higher, right to the elbow so Denise could bask in her damage. Then she did the same with her other arm, letting her tears gather at her chin and splash in her lap. She sniffled hard for effect.
Denise frowned, “Oh, honey. Who did that to you?”
Ivy shook her head and buried her face in her hands and made herself inconsolable.
Denise was kneeling at her side, a cigarette outstretched between her first fingers, a lighter grasped in the others, rubbing Ivy’s knee with a maternal kind of concern.
Ivy took it tearfully, nodding at her with huge, grateful eyes while Denise lit it for her. No one had ever been so pathetic.
“You can stay,” Denise said, a sternness starting back in her voice. “But you fuck with my custodian, you tell me to fuck off, you’re out of here. You smash another bottle, you come get a bucket and clean that shit yourself. And when you’re done here, you leave us a big fat tip.”
“Thank you,” Ivy sniffled, wiping her face in her sleeve. “Thank you so much.”
“Yeah yeah,” Denise sighed, getting up and moving to the door. She waved through it, “Get out of my office and get yourself cleaned up. I feel sorry just looking at you.”
Ivy gathered herself and did as she was told. As she moved through the door, Denise caught her shoulder and looked at her with hard blue eyes. Ivy stared up at her, trying not to shrink under her gaze, preparing to weep again if she had to.
“I mean it,” Denise said, and pointed into her office. The camera footage flickered from the parking lot to the second tier of the motel, the door to her room a blur in the middle. “You wanna be a shitty little girl, you go stomp around someplace else. Don’t make me sorry for this, Nina.”
Ivy nodded and fled to her room, feeling filthy and naked.
She played with her gun again that afternoon, imagining Denise trying to scrub her brain out of the carpet and got very little satisfaction from the image.
Nothing felt good anymore, but there was something she still hadn’t gone all the way on.
For the first time in three weeks, Ivy plugged in her cellphone and placed a call.
****
He came by just after midnight.
She counted to thirty in the quiet darkness, trying not to fling the door open the instant he knocked, as if she could still be someone aloof and interesting. She creaked the door open at twenty-eight.
Clark looked handsome, less boyish. It had to have been four years since she’d last seen him, and the years looked good on him. He’d finally found a haircut that sat at just the right length, the brown in his hair bringing out the brown in his eyes. He had a six pack of beer bottles in his right hand, leaning on the door frame like some cowboy. His shirt was lazily unbuttoned at the top, tie loose around his neck.
Her heart picked up. He had really come to see her. He would hold her and touch her. And she’d spent the afternoon preening herself just so he could.
“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like—“
Ivy cut him off with a kiss, wrapping her fist in his tie and leading him backwards through her room. Clark slung an arm around her waist and hoisted her against him with muscles he hadn’t always had. She moved her hands to his hair, pressing her tongue into his mouth, relieved when he accepted it and pressed his back.
He twisted his face and squinted into the room. “Why’re the lights off?”
”I don’t wanna see you,” she breathed.
That seemed to do something for him, because he kicked the door closed with his heel and led them deeper into the room.
“Bed’s behind me,” she said, “Yeah, just right here.”
“I thought we were maybe gonna talk first,” he said, setting the bottles on her side table with a clink.
Ivy slid her teeth against his throat, “Don’t talk, just fuck me.”
She fell into the mattress with a squeak, Clark climbing atop her, his knee hooking hers aside, his fingers digging into the waistband of her shorts while Ivy frantically tore at his belt.
“You still on birth control?” He asked, hot breath against her ear. “You still clean?”
”IUD, yeah, yeah I’m still clean, I’m not a whore.”
Clark made a noncommittal noise and started pressing himself into her. She was so ready it took nearly no effort, the full length of him inside her while their underwear stayed tangled around their ankles.
They stayed like that, breathless against each other, until Ivy shuddered a fresh breath and bit his neck to spur him on.
”This is crazy,” he said in her ear, pulling up her shirt. “You can’t keep biting me, I’ve got work in the morning.”
”Then bite me,” Ivy said, lifting her arms for him as he worked her shirt over her head. She started unbuttoning his. “Bite me like you hate me.”
”Yeah?” He breathed, thrusting a little harder.
“Mmm…”
He kissed her neck instead, and Ivy kept a hand on his chin to keep him from straying down to her collarbone where his lips might brush the first scar she’d earned, fiddling with the last of his buttons.
Then they were bare against each other, fully naked and woven together the way they so often were in lives so different. They climbed higher up the bed, Clark wrapping her legs around his waist and lifting her to an angle he knew she liked. She clutched the bedding and let her eyes roll back, hoping this would last.
Then he said, “Is this some kind of roleplay?”
She squeaked out an affirmative noise, her throat tight as pleasure shocked up her body. “It’s— It’s whatever… whatever you want!”
He laughed then and his rhythm broke for a heartbeat, “I wanted to have some beers and catch up first, you’re calling the shots on this one, ‘Vy.”
”Fine,” she said, pleasure fading faster than she could cling to, hearing her name from old lips making her sick. “Get on your back.”
”I’ll do whatever,” Clark said, almost apologetically, pulling out of her and rolling onto his back beside her. “You never told me you were into stuff like this.”
Ivy climbed atop him, straddling his hips, moving her palms along his firm stomach. “You’ve really been working out.”
”Yeah,” Clark’s smile shone for an instant in the dark. “I go a few times a week.”
Ivy worked him inside her again and ground against him, hunting for a rhythm that felt familiar and right.
His hands found her hips and started up her waist, then moved across her breasts. Her breath was turning tight, the scars on her arms starting to burn with panic.
”Will you hit me?” Ivy asked suddenly.
Clark went still beneath her. She pretended not to notice, heart pounding in her ears, still moving, hopeful he’d be able to pretend too.
Then he moved, sitting up, jostling her. “Um…”
”Forget it,” Ivy said. “I just thought maybe—“
”Ivy, you’re crying.”
”No I’m not.”
His thumb brushed her cheek. “Hey…”
She recoiled from him, climbing off and putting her feet over the side of the bed, scrubbing at her face.
The bedside lamp flicked on, burning the scene into her eyes as she turned and yelped, “Turn it off!”
She caught Clark’s expression as he did. He looked sobered and sad. Like he pitied her. And then plunged back into dark.
She was really crying then, blindly kicking at the floor for her clothes, managing to pull her shorts on and wrenching a sports bra over her head. “Just go.”
Clark was fumbling for her in the dark, his hand finding her shoulder. “Ivy, really, what is this? Have you been living here?”
”No!” Her voice was getting shrill. “Don’t be fucking crazy. Get your shit and get out of here.”
He sighed and stepped back. “Okay.”
Ivy squinted in the dark and found her jacket, slinging it around her shoulders and zipping it up to her chin, hugging herself at the end of the bed, absently playing with the tassels while Clark clumsily dressed himself in the dark, his silhouette shoving a tie in his jean pocket. He patted his wallet, then his keys, and Ivy let out a relieved sigh.
Then the bed sank and he sat next to her.
He sighed too. ”Are you okay?”
”I'm fine,” she said, having found her breath. “I guess we were on different pages. Sorry to call you all the way out here. I guess I thought it’d be fun.”
He put an arm around her, the weight both comforting and imposing. She wanted it off. She wanted it to pull her into his chest. She blinked at the shine on the television screen and prayed her eyes would stay dry.
“Clark,” she whispered. “I need you to go now.”
He sighed and put his chin on the top of her head. “What are you doing, ‘Vy? This isn’t you. Where are James and—”
“Oh, who the fuck do you think you are?!” She snarled through her teeth, giving him a shove in the chest, flying off the bed. She stood over him, her finger in his face. “What gives you the right to judge me?! Some finance boy who’s had everything handed to him — the boy whose daddy gave him his first job, his first car, bought his way into school — what makes you think you know a fucking thing about me?!”
”Ivy—“
”Clark!” She spat back. “I told you to go, so go. You’ve got your shit. You can take your beer and go.”
”Do you need money or something?”
Ivy laughed, hard, high, and spiteful, “Money?! From you?! What do I look like, Clark?! Do you think that’s why I called you?!”
Clark stood up then, looking down at her, but there was nothing imposing in it. “Why did you call me, Ivy?”
“I just—“ she hugged herself tighter. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
”I think you wanted help.”
“No.”
”I can help.”
”You can’t.”
”You just have to tell me what you need.”
”I need you to go.”
He sighed again and shook his head. “Okay.”
Ivy marched to the door and threw it open, the moonlight painting them both silver, deepening the creases under his eyes, the furrow in his brow, the frown on his face. He seemed to be studying her just as hard.
”I missed you,” he said. “I…”
”I don’t need your pity. I need you to go.”
He hesitated. ”I’m worried I'm doing the wrong thing.”
“Poor you.” Ivy started to close the door against him.
He stopped it with his shoe and dove a hand into his pocket, his wallet coming out in his fist as he quickly thumbed through it—
“Don’t.” Ivy pushed a hand at his chest.
He caught it, put a wad of cash against her palm and closed her fist. “Just take it. I don’t know why you’re here, but whatever the reason, find somewhere else. You deserved better than this place.”
And then he was gone, Ivy slamming the door behind him, screaming as she threw his money against the mirror, it fluttering to the floor with no real power. She dragged the small wooden chair under the door and jammed it shut, locking it, then deadbolting it, and grabbed her gun from the back of the closet.
****
She sat in the empty tub and considered her options between gulps. When she finished her pack, she’d have to choose.
The cherry on her cigarette was the only light in blackness so thick it pressed on her face. She’d sip her vodka, shudder, and chase it with her smoke, lighting the room for those few seconds and then leaving her in the dark, writing words with the lit end that lingered for an instant before they vanished.
G U N
Good and dirty and quick. Let Denise find her. Let that janitor mop her up. At least the carpet would stay clean.
It would be hard to fuck up.
G L A S S
She took another drag and the bottle shards gleamed orange on the side of the tub. She wasn’t a wimp. She could cut deep enough. And it would give her some time to drift off. She could drink on her way out. Maybe it would be nice to run a bath first and bleed into water that welcomed her. But that ran the risk of drowning, and she knew well enough that was an awful way to go.
G U N
She stared at the letters glowing gold before they vanished, still burned into her eyes.
G L A SS
They were both brutal and beautiful. Final and gory. Fitting for a girl like her.
She ashed on her ankle, the cinders hot and shocking without the permanence of a burn. There was a familiar thrill in it. Maybe she’d put a cigarette out on herself first. Maybe the rest of the pack.
But she finished that one and stubbed it on the porcelain before lighting another. She had three to go.
”I’m going to kill myself tonight,” she whispered, just for something to do, just to hear her voice before she silenced herself for good.
She took another deep drink, liking the way her head spun and her toes tingled. Before long, she wouldn't even feel real.
Ivy set the bottle on the rim of the tub and weighed the gun in her palm, taking a deep breath from her smoke to light it for an instant.
It was a mean, heavy thing. She pressed the tip against her tongue, clicking her tooth hard enough it might have chipped, the cold metal scraping the roof of her mouth, her thumb against the trigger. She closed her eyes and squeezed.
The safety stopped her short, as she’d known it would, but part of her had hoped she’d catch herself off guard. But it was just practice. She dropped the gun in her lap.
Then she tested the glass, wrapping a palm around it, dragging it up and down her wrist in light scrapes, just enough to scratch. Maybe she’d do both; start with the glass, end with the gun. Just to be doubly sure.
Yeah. That was good.
Ivy swapped her glass for her vodka and had another drink.
She wouldn’t leave a note. You had to have something in your heart to have anything worth leaving behind.
She nuzzled deeper into the tub, head getting heavier, heart racing harder. Maybe the liquor would get her first. She could choke on her puke and it would seem like a tragic accident. That poor girl in room 206 who had a little too much on a Wednesday night and died in the tub.
She liked the sound of that, too.
But she had a time limit and if she was still awake when her last smoke died, it was wrists then head.
She lit her next cigarette.
And before long, she was lighting the next, her arms feeling like lead, her aim getting shakier. She had to close an eye to get her lighter working even though she couldn’t see anything at all.
Then she was on her last.
”Hmm…” she said to herself, blinking wetly at the ceiling. “Okay.”
Ivy scrunched over and sobbed, cigarette falling from her fingers into the tub by her foot while she heaved tears from so deep within her she hadn’t known they were there. She thought she was spent, but some poor scared girl was screaming to get out. But it was too late. There was no “out,” there wasn’t anywhere anymore.
Sobbing, shaking, and blind, Ivy fumbled for the gun before she lost her nerve.
She grabbed it from the tip, jamming the handle into her palm, feeling for the safety—
A brutal bang shattered through the silence, the front door shaking beyond the bathroom as someone on the other side slammed into it again and again.
She froze, not daring to breathe. They’d finally found her.
It was the perfect time for them to come. She wouldn’t let them take her, and she was ready to go on her own terms. Fuck them. They’d never hurt her again.
The safety clicked off.
The banging continued, a yell accompanying it. A shout that had a pleading tone.
Clark must have gotten halfway home and turned around. Clark might have been a lot of things, but he didn’t deserve to wait outside her door while she shot herself in the head. She’d get rid of him first.
Cursing, she climbed out of the tub and stumbled through the dark, the chair under the door shaking with the force.
”I’m coming!” She yelled, furious and slurring.
The banging stopped. Ivy wove her way against the chair and pressed up on her toes to look through the peephole, her heart nearly stopping.
“Oh.” She wiped her eyes against fresh tears and removed the chair, then undid the lock, then the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
