Goddess of Pain - Katie May Page 0,3
her that interested you?”
He nods towards the desk in the front room, and I place my backpack on the ground as I sit. He moves to sit next to me, my graded paper in his hand. Pleasure rushes through me at the bright red A at the top.
“She’s inspiring,” I answer without preamble. “As a woman during her time, it never ceases to astound me the bravery it took to write a story like Frankenstein. It’s a literary masterpiece and one of the novels that shaped modern-day horror.” I shrug my shoulders once as I release a sheepish laugh. “I don’t normally write fiction, but there’s something…inspiring about her words. Something that calls to me.”
Maybe it’s the darkness she depicts—the monsters we can’t help but love. There’s something poetic in that savagery, something I can’t put into words.
Professor Whitmore smiles indulgently as his hand goes to my thigh, clasping down. Immediately, I tense, my spine straightening as his thumb leisurely strokes circles on my skin.
“That’s amazing to hear, Ms. Lopez. You always should find someone who inspires you.” His hand raises, going underneath my skirt, as icy terror steals the remaining warmth from my body.
“Don’t…don’t touch me.” I’m grateful when my voice doesn’t wobble.
Rule number three: Don’t show fear.
“We’re just having a conversation,” he says lightly as his hand climbs higher and higher, lightly caressing my panties. Rage consumes me, coating my vision like a bucket of spilled red paint, and I grip his wrist, wrenching his hand from between my legs. He releases a pained wheeze, eyes widening in horror, as I grip his fingers and twist them to the side. The resonating crack is music to my ears.
“I said…don’t touch me,” I repeat, my voice low and deadly. At that moment, I’m not the sweet college student the rest of the world sees me as. I’m not the friendly, smiling, laughing schoolgirl. I’m a predator, and this man has just become my prey.
When fat tears begin to streak down his cheeks from the pain, I release his hand with a huff of disgust.
“I’m so sorry that you tripped and broke your fingers,” I say with mock sympathy. “It’s a real shame, isn’t it?” His mouth opens, closes, and then opens again, eyes continually spewing disbelief and raw, animalistic hatred. “Goodbye, Professor Whitmore. I’ll make sure to have my next essay ready for you by next week.”
Without a word, I get to my feet and storm out of the classroom. My entire body is shaking with adrenaline and anger. It practically thrums through me as if there are thousands of intricate wires expanding the length of my body. I can still feel his disgusting, slimy hand on me, pressing down on my thigh. I can still see the hungry, malicious gleam in his eyes. But I refuse to cow before someone like him, someone who thrives on making others feel weak. I’m a survivor first and foremost.
Him? He’s nothing but a piece of shit who will find himself squashed beneath karma’s damning foot.
The courtyard is miraculously empty as I step down the steep staircase and stare up at the blinding sun. In front of me, a twisting path through the forest leads to the dorms and football field. In the other direction is the campus parking lot for those like me and Avery who commute. It’s there I head, shrugging my backpack further up my shoulder.
How dare that man touch me?
How dare he?
I debate whether or not I should go to the police, but then I recall the way they laughed at me before, and that thought dissipates in a cloud of smoke. I learned long ago to fight my own battles. If my brothers and father have taught me anything, it’s that you can only rely on yourself.
My silver Slugbug is parked directly beneath the largest pine tree, providing the vehicle with much needed shade. The air is crippling hot and humid today, and already, a fine coat of sweat covers my skin.
Biting down on my lower lip, I fumble with the keyring in my backpack pocket.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I drop it, the key rolling beneath the car. I get onto my knees and clasp my hand around the ring…only to freeze when I spot the bomb mere inches from my face, directly beneath my back tire. “Fuck,” I hiss, and with a blistering speed, I maneuver backwards until my back is flush against a rustic truck parked beside me. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Is this my stalker? The