Force of Will

[Quaid McCain]

Shaking his head, he watched as she hoisted herself up off of him, her demeanor changing in an instant. She didn’t seem relaxed, then. She didn’t seem calm, or collected, or gentle, or any of the things that he had come to know her as. She was panicked. She was filled with an agitation, with an outrageous anger that burst from her all at once, an assault of everything, and at the same time nothing, thrusting into him with a wild, chaotic fury that made his head feel like it was going to explode.

He lifted his hands, pushing the heels of his palms into his temples as he rode the pain of having so much of her thrust into his mind at once. It was agony, feeling so much all at one time. He closed his eyes, trying to keep himself in one piece as blood began to seep from his nose. He squinted at her, hearing her words as clear as crystal, even though her lips didn’t move but to make an angry sigh. He doubted very much that she meant to throw so much into him at one time, that she was actually trying to hurt him, and so he bore the pain in silence, until it became manageable, and he could open his eyes to look at her again.

The piercing agony had become little more than a major headache, something he knew a thing or two about, from playing football. He could handle a headache. He offered her a smile, and with the back of his hand, he wiped the blood away from beneath his nose, the black, smoky texture vanishing in a wisp of his breath. He sat up, one hand holding his weight upright as he watched her with dark eyes, the world around them flickering in and out of existence as the lamp that acted as the sole source of light in the garage began to gutter out with a loud buzzing sound.

He shrugged a shoulder at her question, and leaned forward, his eyes staring into hers, so that he knew she was paying attention to his answer.

“I have to know, Oak, because I care about you. You have to have figured that out by now. We’re connected on an entirely different level, you and I, than your average teenage wonder-couple. We’ve got something special, like what everyday horndogs think they’ve got when they’re just trying to get into each others’ pants. So yeah. I want to help. I want to know you, to figure you out. I want to know what you think, to hear about what you see. Is that so bad?”

[Oakley]

As the agony contorted his features into something grotesque, she was instantly filled with regret. Hurrying to his side, she dropped to her knees on the worn cement and held her hands out, fingers moving with a feather-light touch across his cheeks. There was nothing she could do for him. Her tears flowed freely now, the clear drops falling from her chin to soak his shirt, and she did nothing to stop them. Curling her fingers against his shoulders, she dropped her head as her shoulders shook. He deserved to know the truth, and though she was choking on the fear, she knew what she had to do.

‘He slaughtered her.’

Closing her eyes in concentration, she tried to organize the curse that had haunted her since childhood. The memory played in her mind like a movie, crystal clear and vibrant in its horror. The crimson that splattered across the peeling and garish yellow wallpaper, the way her screams echoed off the paper-thin walls. The pale, small hand that rolled, no longer attached, across the stained hardwood to rest at her bare, dirtied feet. The way she remained frozen, a child carved of ice, lips open in a silent scream as the hooded man stalked towards her, large fingers twisted in the blood soaked curls of her sister. It played out in slow motion as he lifted his hand and brought it down across her cheek.

Each second of the memory had her digging her nails into his shoulders, the black of his blood seeping down her skin until it vanished in a thin wisp. The tendrils cycled in the air around them, and yet she noticed none of it, her eyes closed so tight that her face started to ache. Suddenly she pushed from him, and though he didn’t budge an inch, she still managed to scramble uneasily to her feet. Clutching her fists, she brought them to her temples, slamming her knuckles into the tender skin as she shook her head. It was all too much. The room began to spin, and though she was consumed with the urge to scream out, she couldn’t. No matter what was to happen, she doubted she could ever speak again.

She hardly noticed the lights as they flickered, though the buzz was incessant. A thousand small, tiny bees swarmed around her ears, drowning out the sound of her mental anguish as she spun in a circle, mind completely uncontrolled. She needed to speak to him, to put into words the nightmare that had consumed her every thought, but each time she tried to speak, His face came into view. Gripping her hair, she began to pull at the strands, her entire form shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.

She was out of options.

‘He ripped my sister apart. We couldn’t escape Him. He tore her to pieces in front of me. I was too young to stop him. When he was finished, he told me to live with my shame. If I spoke of it – he would find me. He would kill me. I never spoke again.’

[Quaid McCain]

Shaking his head, he gently took her shoulders in his hands and grasped her, holding her tight, even as she shoved him away, the push a weak attempt at putting distance between them. He hardly thought it a sincere plea for space. Instead, he gripped her, squeezing her shoulders as he looked into her eyes, watching as she spoke without speaking, listening to the voice that he knew had to be hers, without actually hearing it at all. He shook his head at what she was telling him, his dark eyes taking her in with a grit of his teeth, the sound of them grinding together lost just beneath the crescendo of buzzing from the single bulb overhead as it flickered again, before it went out with a loud pop, plunging the both of them into darkness.

He sighed, his eyes moving from her to where the blown bulb swayed on a twine string from the garage ceiling. The old shop lights had gone out long ago, and he doubted his mother was ever going to replace them. All he had now was this one, lonely bulb to help him see out in the dark garage. He closed his eyes a moment before he turned back to her, gaze sliding open again. He was used to the darkness, used to the blindness that typically came with it. He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze before he turned to rummage through a beat up box tucked next to the kitchen door. Without glancing over his shoulder, his hands dug through broken glass as he picked up the question ringing in his head, louder than her voice could hope to be, with the same kind of intensity as the explosion of overwhelming power that had ripped through him moments ago.

“Who, Oak? Who did this to you?”

The words were barely a whisper, the sound almost lost on the sound of broken glass rustling against worn old cardboard. He felt the sharp edges of broken bulbs scraping against the tips of his fingers, threatening to slice clean through the flesh of his hands, though each edge earned a deft twitch of his fingers, pulling away just before he’d applied enough pressure to break the skin. In moments, he held a fresh bulb in his hand. He turned from the box and reached up, taking the old bulb from its socket as he watched her. “Tell me who it was, Oak, and I’ll make sure they don’t hurt anyone ever again. But I can promise you this much for sure, right now. He’s never going to put another finger on you. That much I can say with conviction. You think on that.”

When he looked away, the new bulb flickered to life, bathing the garage in its low, mellow glow. There was a bang inside, and the sound of shuffling before the house went quiet again. Kayla must have made her way to the couch, finally. He shook his head, and looked back to her again. He’d meant every word he’d said. Nothing was going to get at her again, as long as he had anything to do about it.

[Oakley]

As darkness embraced them like a long lost friend, Oakley pressed her trembling fingers to her lips. The gloss had worn off in her frantic melt-down, the smooth skin cracked from the abuse of her teeth. The only sound was the steady hum of electricity from the house and the tinkling of glass as he sorted through a box, his back tensed as it faced her. She made out his shape as the shadows came to life, each one far more sinister than the last. Without a second thought, she limped her way towards him, her mind feeling as though her brain had turned to cotton. Even her movements were sluggish as she held out a hand, fingers brushing lamely across his shirt. The nightmare had ended on a final scream the moment the bulb had went out, the pop shattering the memory into a thousand pieces.

Now, she felt as if she were living outside of her body, watching as she dug her nails into his arm. She could feel his tense bicep beneath her hand, smell the familiar scent of his cologne, see the rage brewing just beneath the surface in his eyes, but she couldn’t act. Even as he brought the garage back to life with a simple twitch of his wrist, she could only stare at him, her body no longer hers to control. His question, barked at her with intensity, had gone unanswered – just as his promise for her safety had. Even though she stared at him, the room began to pulse around her, the clock spinning on the wall. Her hand on his chest tightened in his shirt, the cotton tearing in her grasp she lurched forward.

This was no act of gracelessness. This was purely mental. The experience had been too traumatic, and her mind did the only thing it could to protect her. Within seconds, it had shut down her entire body, sending her collapsing into him as she spiraled once more into the dark.