She made me dirty.
I was seven the first time. My body reacted naturally even though I didn’t want it. I pleaded with her to stop, even that young I knew it wasn’t right for her to have her hand down there.
I was seven when her pimps came in my room and found her on her knees in front of me. I thought, thank God, someone to help me.
But it was only the start.
They yanked me by my hair, pulling me with them. They took me to the basement where they take the girls who don’t behave. They ripped my shirt off and proceeded to whip me. Over and over again. The leather and glass dug into my flesh. They marked me, because apparently I didn’t pay for her services. They beat me over and over until I learned my lesson.
The whips were payment. They got off on the blood, on the pain.
When my mother found me hours later she picked me up, didn’t ask any questions, and poured zelyonka or brilliant green on it. It's antiseptic and it burned for hours.
I remember praying, praying that God would save me, but he never did.
Yvonne would come to my room nearly every night so she could play with her pet.
I was twelve when she took my virginity.
I was thirteen when they started using me for money, pimping me to other people. Women at first, then it was men. The things they did to me, unspeakable. I wanted to stop, I threatened to tell people at school, but Yvonne told me if I said anything they’d kill my mom.
Last year at fifteen, I became a monster.
They made me break a new girl in. I refused at first. I refused to damage another human the way they were destroying me.
She was young, scared, looking for money, and I could tell this wasn’t what she wanted to do with her life. I let them whip my back for hours, five, before I passed out.
When I woke up, it continued until I caved.
I hurt her. I hurt her so they wouldn’t hurt me.
I was weak.
I was impure.
A monster.
“You can’t leave this life, Malakai. Where will you go? How will you earn money? Let me take care of you, pet,” she purrs in my ear, leaning closer to my chest.
Her other hand descends, grabbing my crotch and squeezing roughly.
There was something that switched in me. Like a fuse. It blew, and I just…I snapped.
I slammed her small body into the closest wall, my fingers wrapping around her throat crushing her windpipe. Her shock of surprise changed into a gurgle of air and spit as she tries to gasp for air.
Her head crashes into my wall, and I grind my teeth as I look down at her fearful eyes. I was no longer a little boy and she was realizing that quickly.
“The only reason I stayed was for my mother’s safety and now that she is dead.” I smirk.
“I owe you, nothing.” My grip tightens on her throat, making sure she feels my hatred through my hand.
This animalistic rage surfaces in me, the need for vengeance, to make her pay for every dirty thing she did. To make her feel my pain, every time they forced themselves inside of me.
Her nails claw at my arm, begging me to release her, but I don’t.
My free hand grabs the knife again. Holding it to her cheek, pressing lightly. The fear in her eyes grows wider, and so does my smile. A real smile that reaches my eyes, the first smile in years.
I drag the knife down her body, slowly, letting the tip dance along her clothes pressing enough so she feels it on her skin. I release her neck a little, allowing her to breathe.
She chokes for air, gulping it down, until it turns into a sinister laugh.
“You’ve done so good, pet. Look at the man you’ve become. Such a good little thing you are. My creation, my darling little boy,” she cackles.
I return my grip on her throat, pressing the knife a little harder into her stomach.
“I’m leaving, Yvonne. If you try to stop me, I will slaughter you. I will cut you from navel,” I press the knife near her belly button, “To mouth.”
“I will crack your ribs open and rip your heart out to keep in a jar as a souvenir. And then as your body lies there, bloody and in pieces,” I whisper as my fingers dig into her wind pipe and my mouth comes close to her ear.
“I’ll let those special customers of yours fuck your corpse until you’re nothing but a home for maggots to bury themselves in.”
I release her completely, tossing the knife onto the bed. She slides down the wall, peering up at me with tear filled eyes. Part from pain, the other part from fear because she believes me.
My wrath is strong enough to kill her seven times and bring her back an eighth just to do it all over again.
I grab my book bag, pulling my hoodie back up on my head and move toward the door.
“You’ll be nothing, Malakai. Just like your mother, you will be nothing. You’re just a fucking bastard.”
I want so badly to turn around and rip her throat out with my teeth, but I refrain.
I tear out of the apartment building with a burning anger, rage that scared me, because it was deadly. I could’ve murdered her, I wanted to. I lost all control and became someone I didn’t want to be.
I didn’t want to be a monster anymore. Not like the people who raised me.
I suck in the cold air, breath after breath allowing myself to refocus and calm down. When I do, I look up to see Aunt Nina still standing outside the church. I was sixteen, all alone, and my choices were between the evil behind me or the unknown.
I could easily turn around and go back and kill her. I would have to live with her death on my conscience and frankly, she?
She wasn’t worth the fucking time.
One
Toska
Charlotte
“I wonder when we are gonna see the Empire State Building.”
A snort of annoyance leaves me before I can stop it. The one time my headphones weren’t over my ears muffling the sounds of adolescence ignorance. I have the worst luck.
The pure intellect that my high school is capable of is astonishing. Considering we are in Chicago, and not New York City.
God, I fucking hated high school.
It smelled like dick cheese, Axe, and Bath and Body Works spray mist. Not to mention I’m surrounded by people with the brain capacity of a rock. When did we stop talking about things that mattered?
When did school become more of a fashion runway and gossip hot spot than a learning facility? Was it ever? Did we ever stop shoving information down students’ throats so they can pass a test? Did we ever teach?
Where are the classes that inspire, that delve into topics of philosophy, subjects that make you really think, not just remember it for a passing moment.
“Do you have something to say, smurf?”
Oh, original, Stacy. Really.
I’d been dying my hair since middle school, the blue phase never really left so the nickname smurf happened organically.
Stacy, self-proclaimed Instagram influencer and leader of her pack of bitches. The hierarchy at my school was idiotic. Queen Bs they like to call themselves. Their life goal is to rule a high school in Canada, what high aspirations, don’t ya think?
I was currently wearing black and green striped knee-high socks over my skinny jeans, I’ll let you do the math on what level of the totem pole I was on. I liked it though. Being invisible to the outside world. I was just different enough that I blended in.