That Which Destroys Me (31 page)

I lean into her like a moth to a flame and as our lips brush, she whispers in a dry tone with her cracked voice, “Preston Stone, you could never be man enough to cause my destruction. Your worthlessness and pitifulness alone steal your ability to ever break me. I hate, no, no, no, no, no, I love to be the one to tell you this, Preston - Wesley Jacobs destroyed me, shattered me, cracked my sanity and left me ruined long before you ever laid a finger on me. You’ve been raping and paring the skin from nothing more than a void where Stella Reese used to exist.”

She blinks as her hands slip from my face then turns, pulling her legs up onto the table before lying back down. Her head lolls to the side and she resumes blankly staring at the wall behind me.

Rage, as red as her blood, floods my vision.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

Did you know when your sanity completely separates from your consciousness, it creates a sound?

Beauty’s words unleash the rutting demons who’ve been crawling and scratching just beneath my surface. Their fingertips brush the chain links before grabbing the electrical tape and taping the sharp new strips of barbwire and chain together.

After they’ve constructed a new apparatus for torture they continue where I left off; raining down strike after strike, slash after slash.

Standing on the outside looking in, I witness my brittle sanity separating from my consciousness - listening to the unmistakable sound it creates with every break. And it amuses me at how much it echoes the sound of the chain and barbwire splitting the surface of my already broken Beauty’s skin.

Hell bent little demons seeking the pleasure of her warm wet blood splattering across their face.

Hell bent little demons seeking the thrill of breaking.

Unlike me, the hell bent little demons are unable to distinguish between the breaking of Beauty’s bones and skin, and the breaking of Beauty alone.

When the obtuse hell bent little demons discern her skin has been as broken as it can be, they thrill at the sight of the sledgehammer.

Before grasping it, swinging it, and bringing it down to thud, cracking my Beauty’s knees.

And I succumb to my new role as nothing more than a semi amused spectator by virtue of being robbed of my life long retribution of breaking my Beauty.

Chapter 40

The Quiet Little Boy in the Shadows

The motivation behind my actions and words to Preston came from where? I’ll never know. And the flicker of desire to consider the conundrum burns out as quickly as it sparked.

I numbly – silently - lay there as Preston, the quiet little boy who always hid in the shadows, tirelessly continues shredding my skin into ribbons.

I’m sure you expect me to be grateful for the numbness, and I would be…but I’m numb. Every lash goes utterly unfelt. Unfelt physically and unfelt emotionally.

When Preston grasped my face with his bruising fingertips and cheerfully exclaimed, “Easy or difficult, nothing will ever be as precious and sacred as destroying you, Stella,” it ripped me from my numb trance, blazing agony across every nerve ending, and pain unlike anything ever conceived by rational thought completely consumed me.

How I was able to squelch the screams tearing their way through my throat, sit up, deliver my reply and lay back down? I’ll never know.

I can, however, easily recite the definition that every shrink, counselor, and therapist repeated during every session, over and over, throughout my life: Compartmentalization is an unconscious psychological defense mechanism used to avoid cognitive dissonance, or the mental discomfort and anxiety caused by a person's having conflicting values, cognitions, emotions, beliefs,
OR HAVING TO ENDURE TORTURE,
within themselves. Yeah, I may have added to it a bit.

Now, I’m no doctor, but I’m willing to place a bet on either compartmentalization being somewhat held responsible, or I’m finally actually at the brink of death. The latter being preferred, if I were able to crave or yearn…if I were able to hope.

Instead, I numbly and silently lay here as Preston, the quiet little boy with blue eyes so dull they looked silver, whales across my knees and thighs with a sledgehammer, splintering bone after bone with every swing. And I continue to stare at the rust stain running from the ceiling to the floor, watching the water slowly trickle down, drip after drop, remembering the quiet little boy from my past.

“Hey, Jeff, has he always been like that?” I ask jumping from the tire swing when I spot Preston.

“Huh? W-W-Who b-b-been l-l-like what?” He stutters.

“Jeff, calm down, breathe buddy, it’s okay. It’s just me and you.” Smiling at Jeff, I turn away with Preston at my back and my body obscuring his view I motion with my thumb for Jeff to look behind me. "Preston, see him up on the roof? Why is he always trying to hide, I wonder?"

“Oh, I-I d-don’t know. H-he’s always been that way.” Jeff takes the stick from my hand and starts poking at an anthill.

I sit beside him and grab another stick, poking the anthill with him. “I feel sorry for him. I wonder what his parents did to make him so sad.” I rest my chin on top of my knees, still poking the anthill.

“S-Stella I don’t think he’s s-sad. H-he’s really really really m-mad. Don’t t-tell n-nobody, b-but I-I’m s-s-scared of h-him.”

I look up at Jeff, “Scared of him? Why? That’s dumb.”

“I-It’s j-just that one t-time, on m-my way h-home, I t-took a s-short c-c-cut through the woods, a-and I-I s-s-saw…” He shudders and clenches his eyes shut before finishing, “…H-H-He h-h-had a knife, a-a-a-nd w-w-was c-c-cutting up a-a, s-s-some kind o-of a-a-animal.” He shudders again before gagging.

“Really? Nuh uh! You’re so full of it, Jeff.” I playfully shove his shoulder.

“S-Stells, I’m n-n-not l-lying! I s-s-saw him!”

“Okay! Okay! Sheesh, Jeff chill out.”

I never did believe Jeff, though. 

Every time I saw Preston, he either looked like the saddest boy I ever saw or like he was in terrible pain. And I always felt so bad for him - when I remembered him - and I only remembered him when I saw him. Which was pretty rare.

Now, as the quiet little boy from my past raises the bloody sledgehammer over his head while standing over mine - his deranged silver eyes jump from my left eye to my right eye - I feel absolutely nothing for him at all; even as I watch him swing it back over his head, bringing it down, down, down, I feel nothing for anything except numbness.

And when the head of the bloody sledgehammer smashes into my face, finally, blessedly ending my life, I feel peace.

Chapter 41

Missing Angel

It’s been a week since Stella left me alone in the depths of Hell. A week. Seven days. A hundred and sixty eight hours - of pure torturous hell. I’ve lost motivation to do anything. I’ve lost desire for everything—other than scotch. Mostly, I’ve lost hope of ever having contentment or happiness again in my life.

The only explanation for my actions last Saturday night that I can conceive is someone drugged me. At first, I blamed Rachel; but I had to discredit that line of assumptions because I don’t remember seeing Rachel until Sunday morning.

I looked at Jude, stacking blame on him was incredibly tempting, because I hate the motherfucker. But hating him doesn’t fall in line with explaining why the hell the cocky bastard would drug me. I didn’t wake up in bed with
him,
a date rape victim. I am left with nothing. My current state of misery is the product of some ass hat drugging the wrong persons fucking drink.

Goddamn drink drugger. I hate my life has been severely altered and I have no idea who the culprit is. I am left looking at every single person who walks by, wondering if they are responsible.

I tried to go to work on Monday and Tuesday, but ended up unable to function and going back home. I worked the rest of the week from home, conferring with Barby over the phone and telling her to tell everyone else I’m ill and I said to go fuck themselves. Barby being the good, proper girl she is, only relayed the first half of my message.

Monday morning has arrived and I’m pulling into the parking garage of the JPH building, I pull into my reserved spot parking my R8, grabbing my espresso, and step from the car.

A solid nine walks by eye-fucking me and I glare at her, “You gotta problem? Didn’t your daddy teach you staring was rude?”

“Never had a daddy, but I sure could use one.” She saunters towards me while she croons her response. I throw my hand up.

“I’m sure you may find this shocking, Candy, but believe it or not, I find absolutely nothing about you attractive. Your voice alone makes me want to stab my eardrums out. Turn around, walk away, and never fucking speak to me again. Understood?”

“Candy? Who the fuck is Candy?” she shouts as I head in the direction of the building’s elevator.

When the doors open, I stalk inside, hit the button to my floor and turn around to glare at her and reply, “The name of every whore I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

I’m behind my desk going through the hundreds of messages Barby stacked on it last week when she comes into my office.

“Hey, you doing any better?”

Without looking up, I shake my head.

“Oh, sorry. I wish there was something I could do to help.” She says sadly.

“Its fine, Barby. Thanks for feeling sorry for me. Even though it does nothing to help, it’s the thought that counts. Got the schedule?”

She nods smiling, “Yes, sir.” After handing it to me, she and I go over the day’s meetings. When we finish and she’s walking towards the exit, I ask, “Has Stella called, have you talked to her at all?”

Her head shakes no. “I’m sorry, Wes. I haven’t.”

“Okay, I…I just wanted to know. Thanks.” I nod before looking down, pretending to know what I’m looking at until she closes the door behind her, leaving me in solitude.

Cupping the back of my head with my linked fingers I look up at the ceiling and wonder what the fuck to do next.

I had Derrick resend the files he has on Stell last Wednesday; but as I stared at the information on the pages, the ghost I’d been chasing disappeared. Nothing. No inkling, no niching at the corners of my mind, no sick feeling of dread in my stomach. I felt nothing staring at the information as minutes turned to hours and hours turned to days - all the way up to staring at it last night until the words blurred and I lost consciousness, passing out on top of Stella’s past.

Whatever it was gnawing at me - whatever I chased for months - simply vanished, leaving not even a hint of its presence behind.

The phone ringing jars me from my bleak thoughts. “Wesley speaking.”

“Wes, what’s up ya kinky BDSM energizer bunny?!”

“Trina?”

“Ahh…Yeah. Wow, way to make a girl feel special. The least you could do is pretend remembering your baby’s auntie. Has Stell taught you nothing? Oh wait…” She bursts out laughing before continuing around her giggles. “…You two have been too busy fucking each others’ brains out for the last week. But don’t worry, you’ll get your education in Stell and Trina 101 soon enough, daddy. Congrats, by the way.”

Three words. Nothing but three words are left in the carnage of what hers do after slamming into me like a fucking freight train.

Whatthefuck whatthefuck whatthefuck whatthefuck whatthefuck whatthefuck whatthefuck!?

“What the fuck?”

“Huh?”

My voice roars, “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

“What the fuck?”

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, TRINA?!?!”

“Huh? What the fuck am I talking about? No! What the fuck are you talking about, motherfucker. And stop yelling at me!”

The phone clatters to the desk as my fingers grasp my hair, holding my head up. My eyes fall to the papers on my desk, but I see nothing except my angel’s back as she runs away.

Where the fuck did she go? Where the fuck has she been? And what the fuck is Trina talking about? A baby? Whose baby?

“Congrats, by the way.”

  My fumbling hands grab for the phone. When I finally grasp it, I yank it to my ear. “Wesley! Wesley, what in God’s name is going on!?”