Tortured Sinner by Tessa James
Claire - 5
Falling asleep in a different time zone, let alone a new place, is not a simple task. It should be, given the exhausting day I’ve had and the dose of sleep-aid I took. But, instead of nodding off, I toss and turn, my mind flitting in a million different directions.
I don’t settle on one specific topic very long before my brain throws me to the next. I think of my dad, and what it must be like for him to uproot everything and move out of the country. I can relate, obviously, but only to an extent. I don’t focus on my mom much. I’ve spent a lot of my childhood wracking my brain on how this woman operates and the reasoning for her abandoning me and Dad, but I never can quite make sense of it.
I think of Rosie and my friends back home, starting at Turner University next week without me. I shudder at the memory of Griffin, and the fading parting gift he left on my arms. Each mile between us continues to build the courage I need to finally rid him from my story. I even ponder about Greta, my guardian angel Uber driver, and what her life here must be like.
No matter where my imagination takes me, I keep creeping back to the guy from my building. I don’t know why it bothers me so badly that he was such a dick. I think part of me had hoped asshole guys were going to be a thing of my past, but apparently, I’m a magnet for them.
I roll to the edge of my bed and bring my legs down to rest my feet gently on the floor. I slide my feet into my cozy slippers and grab a sweater from my suitcase I shoved into my closet.
Not having received my boxes from back home, I’m forced to resort to a blank notebook instead of losing myself in fiction.
I quietly make my way out of my mom’s place and down the hall. The stairs don’t even creak under the weight of my body. I take residency in the corner of the empty courtyard at a small table. My spot is nearly hidden but still gives me enough light to see the pages awaiting my pen.
For being in a busy-ish area, there isn’t much sound that travels into the complex. It’s more of a muted chaos than anything else. It’s enough to know there is stuff going on outside of here, but not overpowering to where you can’t think. Although, at times, I wish there was something to drown out my own thoughts.
I stay there for a little while, doodling and writing lines of poetry that pop up. I don't reflect on what comes out, I just let it happen. I give my soul free rein to do what it pleases without dissecting the meaning behind it.
I’m grateful for this tiny sanctuary in this hectic world.
I wasn’t quite sure what to expect when I found out I’d be living in a building like this, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised. I halfway expected it to be busy and loud, with people coming to and from at all hours, but overall, it’s fairly laid-back. Aside from the asshole who knocked me down, I haven’t drawn the attention of anyone else living here. I’ve noticed the sound of the occasional door shutting, but that’s pretty much it. People don’t seem to frequent the courtyard other than to walk through to get to their units, and for that, I’m thankful.
That means this will be a great spot for studying, and reading, whenever my packages arrive from home.
An electronic clicking steals my train of thought, and my attention shifts to the gate near the front.
A shadowy figure appears from behind it and slowly comes forward.
At first glance, I assume the person is drunk, especially when I notice them clutching their side like they might hurl.
But when I hear the person hiss in pain, and the light finally illuminates them to show their blood-caked cheek, I realize he's not intoxicated, he's injured.
My heart pounds watching the guy who ran into me earlier stumble his way closer to the stairs.
I don’t dare move. From where I’m sitting, he must not know that I’m here, and I’d rather keep it that way.
I hold my breath when he’s only a few feet away.
He drags himself up the stairs, letting out a faint groan with each labored step.
Whatever hurt his side must have broken a rib.
Or more like who, not what.
The guy gets to his door, and I continue to watch. I shouldn’t stare—it’s creepy—but I can’t help but wonder if he’s going to make it in.
He leans against the doorframe and fumbles in his pocket.
A second passes where I think he’s not going to find his key, but he does.
He disappears into his house and I’m left alone, my thoughts wilder than they were when I came out here.
* * *
Ispend most of my weekend in and out of bed. My entire Saturday was filled with Chinese takeout and binge-watching Netflix. Friday, the day of my arrival, had been mentally draining enough that I quarantined myself to get a little R&R. I’m not sure how well it worked, considering my mind hasn’t really slowed down much at all.
And now here I am, Sunday morning, going stir-crazy, ready to get the heck out of here.
I take a long shower, standing under the water for way longer than I should, and get ready for the day. Since the weather is warm here, I leave my hair to air dry on its own. I throw on a white spaghetti-strapped crop-top and faded jeans, but when I scan my arms, I decide on layering it with a lightweight cardigan. The bruising has faded, but not enough to make me comfortable in exposing myself yet.
I check my phone for any new notifications and slide it into my pocket. Griffin hasn’t said a word to me since he hung up on me, and for once, I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of following up. It’s all a game to him, and right now, what he wants is for me to grovel. I’m done playing by his rules.
I have been done for quite some time.
Our relationship was pretty much over six months ago, but we’ve both been going through the motions. I had caught him cheating on me with a girl from his work. I walked in to surprise him, and boy was it a shock to us all. The two of them were making out in the break room, hot and heavy. His hand was down the front of her pants and hers was tangled in his hair. Who knows how far they would have taken it if I hadn’t thrown a wrench into their plan.
Completely mortified and shocked, I ran out of there and went straight home.
To my further surprise, Griffin left, too, and followed me to my house. He jumped out of his car and dropped to his knees, pleading with me to forgive him.
In hindsight, I have no fucking clue what made me believe him. Maybe it was the desire to get him off my lawn so the neighbors would stop staring, or maybe it was hoping that the good Griff would come back. Or that, perhaps there was a logical explanation for why his lips were on someone else’s.
I was a fool though, because the Griffin I saw then was the Griffin that exists every single day. The little blips of good Griff that come and go are the hooks he sinks in to keep me around. They’re fake, not real, just a tool he uses. And like magic, they work every time.
Things were different after that, though. I could feel myself slipping further from his grasp. Growing a little colder toward him. I was building a tolerance to his bullshit. Don’t get me wrong, I continued to fall for his tricks, but each time the cycle of good to bad finished, I grew more aware of what was happening.
Not only had he deceived me, but he also had everyone else fooled, too. Which continued to complicate the situation that much more.
Even my dad was under Griffin’s spell. Despite my dad’s selfless and caring heart, I managed to hide the things Griffin did to me from him. I didn’t want to burden him with my teenage problems, when he was handling enough on his own.
I open the front door and turn back to take a last look for anything I forgot. I have my keys, phone, some cash, and my I.D. in my pocket. I don’t plan on going far, but the basics are covered if needed.
Tomorrow is the unofficial first day of school. Campus will be open, and teachers will be coming and going from their rooms, but no actual classes will be in session. Freshmen are supposed to use this time to get acquainted with where everything is and prepare for Tuesday. And according to the mailer they sent out, the university uses this day to set up booths for extra-curriculars, too.
Considering I haven’t even seen the school in person yet, I’m going to use my time now to walk the few blocks and make sure I have it mapped out correctly. I’d rather not have any major surprises when the time comes.
Heading down the stairs and into the courtyard, I catch sight of something I haven’t seen before in this building.
A kid.
A boy with brown shaggy hair, leaning on his elbow, his face buried in a book. He’s sitting at the table I was at last night, lost in whatever he’s reading.
I guess I’m not the only one who uses the space after all.
I’m opening the gate to leave when I’m startled by a loud bellow from above.
“Billy, get your ass up here!” the man yells down at the young boy.
Billy slams his book shut and hustles upstairs.
I try not to be obvious as I watch the two of them go inside and shut the door.
The man raises his voice again, but it’s too muffled for me to hear.
I leave the building and attempt to shake the icky feeling that interaction just gave me. It could have been completely harmless, but it seemed much deeper than surface-level harsh parenting.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I nearly jump out of my own skin.
I pull it out to see Rosie’s face across the screen. Gratefully, I accept the FaceTime call.
“Hey, you,” she beams. Her dirty blonde hair is in her usual beachy waves. Her backdrop tells me that she’s sitting on her bed at her house.
"Hi, Rose." I hold the phone sort of close to my body to avoid being one of those obnoxious public phone users. There aren't too many people around, but I still want to be considerate.
“Where are you? It’s all muffled.”
I show her a little bit of my surroundings. “I’m walking down to check the campus out. Want to come with me?”
“Yeah, of course.” Rosie pauses, and even with the distance and technology between us, I can sense the dynamic is about to change. “I wanted to talk to you about something, but it can wait until later.”
I bring the phone up toward my face so I can get a good look at her. I narrow my gaze. “What’s going on?”
She shakes her head and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, averting her eyes for a moment. “Nothing.” She quickly changes the subject. “Ohh, what’s that?”
I turn to check out what would have been in the frame of my shot. “Brams. It’s a café. Really good, actually. Definitely going to be a regular place. Their coffee is spot on.”
Rosie raises her eyebrows. “Wow, and that’s coming from the java snob.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
“Don’t act like you aren’t. I know it. You know it. Everyone who knows you knows it.” She fluffs a pillow and lays back against her headframe. “What’s the weather there? Are you wearing a sweater? I thought it was eighty-something?”
I bite at my lip and come up with a lie. “It’s a bit chilly in the shade.”
“Right, sure it is.” Rosie adjusts the phone to her other hand and rolls over on her side. “You’re coming in bright and sunny on my end.”
I flip the screen to the forward-facing camera, glancing both ways and then crossing the street. “There it is.”
Up ahead is the small but pretty campus. From the map I’ve been trying to commit to memory, there is one main building with four smaller structures on each corner. Walkways float between them with some tree coverage and the occasional picnic table or bench. It’s not as intimidating as I thought it would be, but maybe that’s because it’s empty.
Tomorrow, when students will be filing in to find their classes, it will probably be a completely different story.
“Did I tell you I got accepted into that writing class?” Rosie anxiously tries to hide her excitement.
“Brantley?” The small, hard to get into six-week class we both daydreamed about taking together. The one that would potentially evolve our written word and shape us into better writers. Something we planned on doing together. Although I’m disappointed I can’t be there with Rosie, it’s such a huge step and I’m so fucking happy for her.
“Yep.” No longer able to hold it back, her cheeks turn up into a beautiful smile.
“Rose, that’s amazing!”
Within an instant, her grin fades. “It would be better if you were there.”
I sigh and nod. It sucks, but it’s not the end of the world. There are worse things that could happen than me missing a creative opportunity. “Maybe next year, okay?”