And she does try.
In her journal, she often has entries about how she wants to get past that version of herself. How much she hates it. How weak she feels for not being able to erase it.
In one entry, she wrote ‘Get over it, Cecily’ a hundred times, and those words were splashed with tear marks.
That fucker will cry tears of blood instead.
I stroke the back of her hand once, twice, and while that doesn’t dissipate the stiffness, it makes her arm less heavy.
It’s not much, but it’s a start.
I caress her arm, her collarbone, and then her throat, pausing at the fading mark at the side. Note to self: make a new one.
No matter how much I massage her skin and touch her gently, she barely shows any response. I know she’s in there somewhere, and I need to pull her out of whatever nightmare she’s trapped in.
Usually, I’d eat her pussy, and the orgasm would be enough to snap her out of this state. And while I’m game for that, I want to find other methods that I can use in public.
My fingers glide over her jaw, throat, and other pressure points. She shudders when I squeeze the back of her neck.
So I do it again. “Cecily?”
Her eyes slowly blink open, but she’s staring at an invisible point behind me.
I press yet again. “Cecily, can you hear me?”
“Jeremy,” she whispers, and then tears cascade down her cheeks as her attention zooms in on me.
My thumb skims back and forth on the sensitive skin on her nape in a gentle rhythm I’m not used to. It’s experimental at best, but since she leans into my touch, I don’t stop.
“Jeremy,” she repeats, blinking away the moisture gathered in her lids.
“I’m right here.”
“I know.” She sits up and fists her hand in my shirt. “I felt you. When I was being swarmed away, I felt you. I heard your voice and even smelled you. Usually, no one hears me screaming for help in my head, but you did.”
Still grabbing onto me with a desperate hold and a shaky frame, she smiles through her tears.
Hope amidst ruin.
This is the most beautiful fucking sight I’ve ever seen.
Usually, I do anything to kill any hint of softness or humanity she tries to see in me, but right now, I can’t.
All I can do is stop and stare as she whispers, “Thank you.”
Fuck.
Why is a simple thank-you enough to tilt everything off its axis? Why is this infuriating girl looking at me in this trusting way?
I’m tempted to crush that trust, to show her exactly why I’m the last person she should give this power to.
However, I find myself asking, “What do you dream of in that state?”
She sniffles and slowly releases me to wipe the tears off her face. I expect her not to answer, but then her soft voice carries in the small living room.
“Sometimes, it’s blurry images and faceless monsters. But often, I relive what happened back then, or at least, the helplessness of the situation and how desperately I wanted to stop it but couldn’t.”
That motherfucker will wish for death when I get my hands on him.
“Other times”—her voice tightens with emotion—“I dream of Mum’s and Papa’s devastated faces, especially Mum’s. When I started going out with him, Mum didn’t like him, and that dislike grew once she met him. She said he gave her a bad feeling that she couldn’t put a finger on, but I told her she was overreacting and that I was lucky to have him as a boyfriend. Can you believe I actually used that word? Lucky?”
She laughs to herself, the sound choked and uncomfortable, like her entire posture.
“He was popular, well-mannered, and good-looking, so I couldn’t figure out what exactly Mum found so wrong about him. Every time I talked about him, she’d get this weird expression on her face and try to convince me to find someone else. She’d tell me that I’m pretty and smart, and I could have anyone I want. But I refused and even disliked her for misjudging him. Little did I know that her feelings were spot on.” She sniffles. “After I got back home, I couldn’t face her and kind of fled to stay with my grandfathers. I still can’t face her sometimes. I keep wondering if everything would’ve been all right if I’d just listened to her instead of being stubborn. And somehow, I created some sort of a rift between us that I can’t mend.”
“You didn’t know.”
“But she did.”
“No, she didn’t. She only had a feeling, that’s all.”
“But I should’ve listened to her.”