What the hell?!
I stand in the doorway, my mouth popped open in shock.
“You know she’s right. You should stay away from me. I am trouble,” he says, turning on his side, his mud-covered boots dirtying up my white sheets as he taps the ash from his cigarette, the soft lilt of his accent deceptively kind sounding.
My gaze drops to the hot ash floating towards the threadbare rug covering the wooden floor. It sizzles a little at the contact, and I have the sudden urge to rush forward and stamp my foot on it.
“Your room is much nicer than mine," he continues, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his wet boots putting out any possible fire. “You’ve got a lot of shit too.”
His assessing gaze tracks across the room to the worn leather trunk filled with my possessions. It’s an heirloom, and my dad insisted on me using it to transport my belongings. Our family crest is emblazoned in gold leaf on the lid, an ostentatious display of nobility and wealth that makes me die a little inside.
“It’s locked,” he points out.
I fold my arms across my chest, resisting the urge to raise a sarcastic brow.
Of course it’s locked.
Inside my trunk are all the things that are most important to me aside from my clothes, none of which I want this arsehat to see. On instinct, I lift my hand to my chest, my fingers trailing over the key that’s resting there on a long piece of leather string. He notices, and I immediately pull my hand away.
“That’s the O’Farrell crest. I’m guessing you're an O’Farrell?” he asks, looking up at me from beneath his curtain of black hair.
I nod. My hackles rising at the intense way he studies me with his liquid amber eyes.
“Daughter?”
I nod.
“So it’s true then… you don’t speak?”
Chewing on the inside of my cheek to stop me from glaring at him, I nod again. Yes, it’s true.
The tip of his cigarette sizzles as he draws in a deep breath, then blows it out, smoke curling upwards like a snake, following his words into the air. “That’s fucked up.”
No more than you are.
My ugly thoughts must reveal themselves on my face because he barks out a laugh.
“We’re all fucked-up here. Comes with the territory.”
We stare at each other, me wondering how he was able to interpret my thoughts so easily, and him enjoying making me feel uncomfortable with every passing second that he remains seated on my bed. How did he get in here anyway? And more to the point, what does he want from me? Or is this simply intimidation tactics? Either way, he’s beginning to piss me off. Not that I’ll show him how affected I am.
Swinging my backpack around to the front of my chest, I unzip it and pull out my notepad and pen, discarding my bag in the process.
This is my room, I write, showing the page to him.
“And?” is his obnoxious reply.
And you should leave, I add, keeping my anger at bay by schooling my features into a bland expression. I’ve learnt that allowing my emotions to sit on my face like an open book is worse for me than hiding them. People give up trying to get me to speak when all they’re faced with is a neutral expression and indifference. I like the protection it affords me.
Crushing the butt of his cigarette directly onto the side table beside my bed, he stands, striding over to me. “Make me,” he says.
Loosening the tight grip my fingers have on the pad, I swallow down my frustration and force myself to not react. I want you to leave.
He laughs, then quick as a flash, snatches the notepad from me and chucks it over his shoulder. It lands with a thud on the floor behind him, and my chest tightens with pain. I know it’s only a cheap, lined notepad but it’s my only form of communication, and throwing it away is akin to silencing me. I’d wanted to learn sign language, but my father didn’t want me to draw any more attention to myself and forbade it. When he realised I was never going to talk again, he allowed me to communicate with a notepad and pen, but surreptitiously. God forbid I was too obvious about it.
“What’s the matter? Did I hurt your feelings?” he goads, snorting with laughter.
I want to tell him that I’m sick of being silenced, of not being heard.
Its been the same for as long as I can remember, even before my mum was brutally murdered before my very eyes and I lost the ability to speak.
Good little Cynthia, be seen but not heard.
Don’t misbehave.
Be quiet.
When Arden takes a step forward, his steel toe-capped boots touching my trainers, I stand my ground despite not giving him any sign of the fury whipping up like a storm inside my chest.
It doesn’t matter that he’s almost a head taller than me and I have to look up at him whilst he smirks down at me. It doesn’t matter that my slight frame is overshadowed by his broad shoulders or that he brings his hand up to grip my face, I remain calm in the face of his unprovoked anger.
“Interesting,” he mutters, his grip tightening on my jaw even as he lifts his other hand and gently slides his fingers over my lips, confusing my already overstimulated brain. “So stoic, I wonder what it would take to hear you scream?”
His voice is a warm caress even though his words are as sharp as a knife, and just as threatening.
“You’d better bench that thought, Arden,” another, slightly deeper, male voice says from behind us.
Arden’s grip loosens a little, but he still doesn’t let me go. “Things were just getting interesting, you’re spoiling all my fun,” he complains to whomever is standing behind us. “I haven’t found out her secrets yet.”
“I bet,” is the stunted response.
“What’s going on, Lorcan?” Arden asks with an annoyed sigh as he looks over my head.
“Dr Lynch is on his way. You’ve ducked out of too many therapy sessions and he’s pissed. Better get your story together or face a week in solitary. You know how much that place sucks.”
Solitary? That doesn’t sound good.
“Fuck!” Arden swears, letting me go abruptly. He takes a step back and glares at me. “This isn’t over.”
I blink up at him, all my courage from before draining from my body. If he doesn’t leave soon he’ll witness just how much he’s gotten to me, and I can’t have that.
“Arden,” the boy at the door urges. “Come on. You’ve got to go.”
“Now you know who I am, Little Mouse,” he says, staring back down at me and ignoring his friend as his fingers stroke down the column of my neck. “But if you tell your father about our little chat, I will have no problem sneaking into your bedroom in the dead of night and wringing your neck.”
His fingers wrap around my throat, squeezing tight enough to tell me that this isn’t an empty threat, that he means every word. “Do we have an understanding?”
I nod my head, trembling.
He smiles. “Good. Now move!” he demands, releasing me from his hold.
With a heaving chest, I step out of his way, my back pressed against the wall as he strides past me and out into the hallway beyond. Bile rises up my throat, threatening to break free from my pursed lips, but I swallow it back down, refusing to show how bothered he’s made me and how much emotion is brimming inside of me from our brief interaction.