Dirty Little Secrets

Ch. 17: The Glass Prism

EMERY

Soft yellow rays of sunlight peer through the blinds as I stare up at the ceiling, replaying the overwhelming events of last night in my mind. My damn mind. I thought it was my heart that was broken, sick, but the ailment has travelled to my brain. I cannot seem to justify my actions, they're irrational, dangerous. I am not irrational. I've never been irrational. My life has been a series of thought-out choices, decisions that align with societal expectations. Get an education. Get a job. Get a boyfriend. So on and so forth. I've done all that. I've checked those boxes. I've read that reaching one's goals is supposed to produce a sense of accomplishment, of joy, of energy to keep moving forward. But I haven't experienced any of that. I've always felt empty, and unfulfilled. I chalked it up to depression, a mental condition in which I wasn't capable of feeling such emotions. But it turns out that I am. Conflict stirs inside my belly.

A contract.

Flashes of the hedonistic pleasure I witnessed at Club Hades ripple through me. Euphoria. Ecstasy. Joy. That's what I felt when I was there. It was secondhand, but I felt it. In the outside world, life passes me by in grim shades of black and grey, like a sketch of a painting that's only in its early stage of creation. In Damon's world —though grey in its own right— life is vibrant, nearly blinding with color. Even those who dwell in the darkness could use the company. He was right. I do dwell in darkness, but not just when the sun decides to rest and its sister takes patrol. I dwell in darkness on the brightest of days, the light never shining strong enough to scatter away the clouds, the rain, the perpetual state of night.

I close my eyes and see Damon's face. I see the sun. The heat kisses my skin, warmth coating every inch of me. Exploding through me, like I'm a prism, a heavenly rainbow shoots out into the endless corners of my mind. Prisms are clear, solid, and full of nothing but glass. Ordinary without light. My whole life, I knew something was missing, something that every person, whether they admit it or not, needs. Light. Is he the light? Or does he simply represent the potential of light? I can't tell. I don't trust myself to be objective. Not with him. Not when his words, his touch, his wicked promises, destroy and muddle my ability to think with reason, with logic.

He's blackmailed me, he's flipped my goddamn life upside down, and yet...I find my hatred for him dwindling with every encounter. I fear my brain, my trusted and authoritative ally, is losing its high-level position, and this stranger's heart, this loud and growling beast, is climbing in the ranks, on the precipice of complete and utter control.

I want to give in. I want to succumb to the burning desires no longer laying dormant. I want to break free of all shackles, of all restraints. I want to feel him inside of me. I want his lips to mark my skin, to brand me, to color me with light. But he has rules. He has a system. Because he's done this before. It's evident. A sad realization that I am just another prism, another ordinary object for him to shine his light. What if I get accustomed to his light? And what if he grows tired of mine? What then? At this moment, I cannot fall any further into darkness, but if I decide to let him in, and he chooses to leave...I can plummet into a night so bleak that even the moon never rises.

I chase my tail for what feels like hours, weighing my options, flipping between the allure of day and the safety of night, until a clanking noise echoes from the kitchen and I sit up, my bones freezing. Someone's in here.

Acting swiftly, I slither off the bed, wrapping the silk robe Damon had purchased for me around my body. Tiptoeing to the walk-in closet, I gently reach up and grab the iron from the top shelves. I laugh inwardly at the idiocy. Right, 'cause an iron beats a gun. Modern-day rock, paper, scissors. Sucking in a deep breath, and holding it, I poke my head out my bedroom door, frowning as inaudible feminine humming sounds from the kitchen. I straighten my shoulders and follow the unfamiliar melody. As I approach the kitchen, I tilt my head, lowering my makeshift weapon. Hovering over the stove is a plump elderly woman.