The Other Girl - Trisha Wolfe Page 0,19

desperation to be sated.

“Say it,” I implore. “Say you want me. I need to hear it…”

“I’ll say it all night long. I want you, baby. Goddamn, I want you.”

He drives into me with a thrust meant to decimate, and I ride the crush of his body, the feel of him hard and belonging to me the ultimate high.

We die like that, in a frenzy of need and temptation. Reaching the high together until our bodies are spent and broken—the pain a form of satisfied pleasure like no other.

I’m wrapped in his arms, our bodies still on fire. I fit against him perfectly, as if I was made to be by his side. “Will this change tomorrow?”

I didn’t mean to ask it out loud. The thought was there, persistent with the fear of history repeating itself in the backdrop.

Carter leans up on his side and cups my face, his tender touch a stark contrast to the roughness of our lovemaking. “I’d have to be fucking insane to ruin this,” he says. Then he kisses me, stealing the pain away.

I’m rapture in this moment, with him close, the fire for warmth, the sound of the cascade a euphoric cocoon. And yet, fear remains. Every beginning has an end. Even if all you have to dread is the end.

It is fear of death that motivates us to do anything at all.

Otherwise, we’d become these dormant, god-like beings who only watch. Not act.

Despite our apprehension, Carter and I act. We push logic and fear aside, ignoring society and rules, and instead embrace this violent passion between us.

Shakespeare wrote: These violent delights have violent ends. The omen to precede all omens.

Oh, heaven, I hope not.

Villain

Ellis

The bright autumn sun of morning shines a blistering light on the night before, dispelling any illusion that what Carter and I shared was a dream.

In the shower, I touch every bruise and scrape left behind by his brutal, desperate touches. My body aches in the best way; every movement a reminder that he was inside me.

I’m thrilled and terrified at the same time. Elated that I can still feel, and scared that these feelings, that Carter, will suddenly disappear. That niggling little voice worms its way inside my head and whispers: he’s lying.

If Carter is a lie, then I don’t want the truth.

I embrace the truth as I know it. I want to believe that Carter won’t hurt me—that I won’t hurt him. I float through the halls of the academy like a fucking schoolgirl with a crush. Buoyant and carefree. I even wave to Sue the calculus cunt on my way to the office.

Sue doesn’t appear to be in as great a mood. She smiles, but the action doesn’t meet her eyes, which follow me down the hallway.

I shrug her off. I won’t let any negativity invade my bubble. Not today. Because today, I have to believe in the best in people. Not everyone is a deceitful villain bent on destruction. People, for the most part, are inherently good. Most of them too preoccupied with their own lives to give a damn about anyone else.

Carter and I are together. That’s all that matters. I don’t want to give my fear any more oxygen to burn. I need to suffocate anxiety; just snuff it out.

As much strength as I project to the outside world, I’m fragile when it comes to intimacy. Go figure, considering the one and only love of my life evaporated like morning mist the day after we made love.

Jeremey was so caught up in us while he was fucking me, that he failed to mention he had a girlfriend. When I approached him at school, he pretended he didn’t know me. He acted as if the night before had never happened. He laughed with his friends about the obsessed “psycho girl.”

The memory wounds as much now as it did then, and I swallow the fiery bullet in my throat. I had actually started to wonder if I had imagined the whole thing—that maybe I was crazy. If you’re told you’re insane enough times and you’re the only one who remembers an event, it’s not hard to lose your grasp on reality.

I shake the thought from my head, lift my chin. Push through the main office doors.

I say hello to Ms. Jansen as I pass the front desk. When I reach the solitude of my office, I sigh with relief. Then take out the folder I created for Carter. Alongside my recordings, I started a physical file—one not