Coming Home Again (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 1) (16 page)

Chapter Twelve

Dancing another violent dance with the devil
on a demonic beach, I cannot escape. Dancing in sheer terror as icy sweat
trickles down my neck. Nausea and dizziness seem to keep everything in an odd
tilt. The beast yanks me close until I’m firmly against his vile body. Every
point where our bodies meet stings as though bees are attacking me. A growl
erupts from his body before he clamps his chapped, brittle lips to mine. His
taste is bitterly sour, causing me to gag against his mouth. Panic ricochets
violently over me as I push away, but I find myself trapped in his callous
grasp. I feel the bite of his nails as they begin to penetrate the delicate
skin of my exposed back. I try to cry out in discomfort and terror, but I am
being suffocated by his lips overwhelming my own. My lungs burn and squeeze
with fighting against the attack until he abruptly relents the torture.
Confusion blurs my understanding. I try to blink it away unsuccessfully. I can
see nothing clearly—the now, the future. I’m suspended in a world of hurt,
disgust, and shame.

His tarnished skin repulses me with
sickly, brown patches and is scored with unhealed scars oozing grotesquely. His
hands… no hands. Claws! Scaly talons strike out and tear my beautiful gown
savagely into shreds. I am frozen with fear in the sand and cannot escape.
Violent tremors are the only movement I can evoke from my body.

Suddenly he begins pushing and pulling
at me in some type of horrendous dance and I have no clue as to how I’m staying
upright. Every touch riddles my body with searing burns and throbbing blisters.
A muted sob vibrates from my throat as I take in the thick blood slowly seeping
down my bare thighs in wet streams. More confusion riddles me at the sight of
my long, brown curls scattering over the sand. Panicking, my hand flies to my
head and I can only feel scaly bald patches.
Hated… I am hated.
  

I scream out in anguish, but no sound
arises from my mouth. I have no voice.

I try fruitlessly again to escape this
monster’s grasp. Defeated awareness cinches my stomach, causing rancorous acid
to scorch my throat, as I realize dancing with this beast will have a deadly
consequence. His crystal-clear eyes have turned a vicious red, and now he
watches me in a revolting way—making me feel dirty and repulsive. He is
growling out with laughter and piercing the night in an echoing abuse.

I tear my gaze away from his revolting
form to search for help but only discover a scornful moon bleeding a harsh
shade of red and the inky-black ocean crashing against the shore in a bitter
attack with continuous abuse, wave after wave. I even find the powdery sand has
turned on me and is now pricking and tearing my bare feet. I study it in
bafflement and find it to be shards of glass.
Angry… Everything is angry
.

Lightning slashes hatefully through the
sky and thunder screams in aggravation as I mutely beg for help.
Please someone. Please save me. Please…

I’m trying to pull my arm out of his
grasp when I realize it has withered to resemble a dead vine.
More screaming. Still no voice.
I’m in
agony and my heart is beating in an erratic pattern so intense it pounds
harshly in my ears. Surely, I will die in this beast’s arms. I’ve danced a
dance with death, yet only excruciating pain claims me. I can find no relief.

Finally, the volume of my voice breaks
through, and I am suddenly awake. I bolt up to a sitting position in my bed as
the bedroom door opens swiftly. A tall man emerges from the dark and is now
filling the doorframe. Sheer terror abruptly paralyzes me. One nightmare
appears to give way to another.
No…
Please no… Please don’t rape me…

Short gasps of air escape painfully as
I begin to hyperventilate.

“Are you okay?” John Paul asks.

All I can do is sit there and continue
to gasp for air. He begins to step into the room, so I protectively throw my
hands out and bark out a
No
. He
pauses and puts up his own hands in a surrendering fashion.

“Savannah. Are. You. Okay?” John Paul
speaks in a stern yet cautious tone, emphasizing each word. I don’t answer, so
he begins to come forward again. I’m on the verge of completely freaking out.

“No! Go away!” My words come out in a
wheeze, and my hands are still out in front of me.
“Please.”
I feel like I will die if he enters my room. Confused
understanding seems to pass through him as he steps back. We have a bit of a
standoff as I continue shaking and wheezing.

Finally, John Paul, not seeming to have
a choice, backs out of the room and quietly shuts the door. I vainly try to
slow my breathing, but it feels like my chest has been crushed. The bed begins to
quiver in protest from my violent tremors. Drenched in a cold sweat, my first
priority is to get my constricting jeans and shirt off that I’m still wearing
from earlier. The fabric feels as though it is glued to my skin and is choking
me. The panic comes in crushing waves as I finally free my legs before
collapsing onto the floor. As I lay here in a clammy state, I spot my suitcase
and will myself to crawl over to it. I rummage along the bottom of it until I
find my bottle of Xanax. I pop a whole pill and roll onto my side.

I lay on the floor for a while, waiting
for the medicine to relieve the unbearable weight on my chest. I’m just staring
under my bed, and an unexpected memory flashes of an eleven-year-old me hiding
under there. She’s quietly weeping and hoping not to be discovered. She is
already over five feet tall and has trouble hiding under the cramped space.
This image isn’t helping my current state. With great effort, I flip myself in
the opposite direction and try to reassure myself that the memory can’t hurt
me.

“It’s not the same bed, Savannah,” I
tell myself. But it’s too late. The memory won’t let me go. The pain of it is
like a bitter friend who’s showed up, refusing to let go of the grudge and just
go away. It taunts me and I cower.

~ ~ ~

“Let’s
play hide and seek,” Evan suggests. Julia giggles in agreement, and the boys
whoop their agreements. I inwardly groan, and my stomach starts hurting. I feel
the vomit rise up and try hard to swallow it back down. Hide and seek with Evan
is always a dirty game. I could refuse to play the game, but I know from
experience that he will simply take what he wants from me while the others
hide. It’s a game I can’t figure out how to win. The devil always wins.

I
rush off in a mad dash as everyone scatters. I run straight to my room and push
open the window. I have escaped him this way before. The garage roof is right
under my window, so it’s a pretty easy getaway—when it’s not raining, that is.
However, this day it is pouring in thick sheets. I only hope he will think I am
crazy enough to chance it.

The
rain is coming in the window and forms a puddle on the wood floor, but I don’t
care. I scoot under the bed in panic and only have to wait a few minutes before
I hear him slip in and flip the lock in what sounds like hurried motions.

I
watch his bare feet pass by on his way to the window and I hold my breath until
my chest burns—afraid he’ll hear me. The devil stands there for a few moments,
quietly chuckling. That wicked sound tells me he knows where I’m at. Please no,
I silently beg. My heart pounds painfully, and I’m sweating profusely as I see
he is moving closer to the bed. I silently plead for him to leave. Instead, he
has a seat. The bedframe quietly groans from his weight.

His
feet are mere inches from my face and I’m confused when they disappear. The bed
shifts above me. Is he lying on my bed? Why? I hear what sounds like a zipper
and then noises that I wish I could erase come from him. I don’t want to think
about what he does on my bed or the mess he leaves there.

I
try to focus on the pounding rain and not his gross noises, but it doesn’t
help. Keeping my eyes wide open so I can keep guard, I clamp my hands over my
ears to at least muffle his sounds. Please hurry—please go away—please don’t
touch me. I beg these words in my mind on repeat for centuries until I sense
the abrupt stop of the bed’s movements. I survey the empty floor for any sign
of him departing. A scream of terror rips from my lips when all of a sudden he
drops to his knees and stares me dead in the eyes. I swear I am staring back at
the devil himself. I see that his pants are still undone with body parts on
display that shouldn’t be, and I’m so scared at what might happen next. I start
scooting in the opposite direction. Before I can get out of his grasp, Evan
grabs ahold of my hand with his damp one and yanks me near him, causing my
shoulder to ache in protest. I feel my heart hammering in my throat. Grinning
wickedly, he whispers, “Happy birthday, little Miss.” He pulls my hand to his
mouth and places a kiss on it before leaving my room.

After
the fear finally releases me from its snare, I scoot out and sit on my rug
until Julia scurries in later and grabs up my soiled bedding. How she knows, I
don’t know nor do I ever ask her. It is another one of those hushed secrets
trapped in the walls of the Thorton house.

I
stay put on that rug, watching the rain pour mournfully into my window and cry
a little bit more of myself away. Bit by bit, I am becoming more and more lost.

~ ~ ~

I can’t take it anymore, so I crawl
across the hall to the bathroom and pull myself up at the sink. I glance in the
mirror and quickly look away from the mess of myself; knowing that will only
make this worse. I set my bleary focus on getting the shower turned on to the
hottest setting tolerable. Tossing my clothes to the floor, I carefully climb
in and stand under the hot stream for a second, but my legs keep buckling. Not
being able to stand upright any longer, I ease down, rest my head on my knees,
and allow the scorching water to pelt my back, hoping it will wash away the
debilitating anxiety. I stay in this position; breathing in the steamy air and
breathing it back out until the water begins to cool. I stay put until it
becomes frigid cold, begging it to shock me out of this attack. I’m so sick of
these things. They are incredibly crippling. I just don’t know how to rid
myself of them.

By the time I dress in a fresh T-shirt
and comfy yoga pants, my blurry vision begins to clear up and my jumbled
thoughts straighten out a good bit. Relief washes over me that I have dodged an
emergency room visit. I hate beyond
hate
resorting to that. Feeling somewhat settled, I decide to go find John Paul to
set his mind at ease. I find him sitting on the front porch swing, a beer in
hand and the weight of life pressing his shoulders down. I slump down beside
him and let out a long, pensive sigh. The pill is doing its magic, and my body
is feeling nice and numb.

“Sorry,” John Paul says shamefully, as
though he has done something wrong.

“Not your fault. You just interrupted
one of my critically acclaimed nightmares,” I say in a slow, sarcastic manner.
The medicine has my tongue nice and relaxed. I feel his eyes on me, but decide
to keep staring at the old rocking chair on the opposite end of the porch. The
light breeze has it swaying gently.
Focus
on that, Savannah. Focus…

We rock in the quiet until he asks, “Do
you have nightmares often?”

“Yeah, but they’re just repeats of the
same old crap over and over. I’m quite used to them. They’re starting to get
right boring, actually.” I try to joke the awkwardness away.

“Whatever nightmare that was playing
tonight definitely didn’t seem boring to me. Downright scary is more like it,”
John Paul says dryly, not buying a word of my joking.

“Oh. Don’t pay me any mind. I’m a drama
queen. Just ask your mother.” I laugh it off.

“Enough, Savannah!” My brother’s gruff
voice echoes out across the porch. Even the crickets shut up and take notice at
my seething brother.
 
I pitch forward a bit
when he suddenly stops the swing. The next thing I know, John Paul’s hands have
grasped my shoulders and turn me completely to face him. I’m not inclined to
look him in the eye, but have no choice. “I am so sorry for not taking better
care of you. I let you and Julia down.” John Paul runs his hand through his
hair with aggravation. “I wasn’t stupid as to what was going on with Evan. All
I cared about was my dang self. I liked having the freedom to come and go as I
pleased. I figured as long as things stayed the way they were, I would have
that freedom. Then that weekend happened and I wish I could have taken it all
back… I
swear
I didn’t know how bad
things were until after that weekend.” His voice goes hoarse with this
statement.

I sit here staring back at him,
stunned. We have never had a conversation about what had happened. I’m not sure
why we are now. “John Paul—”

 
“You girls weren’t ever right after that.
Neither one of you would even sleep in your own bed.” He shakes his head, and I
can see his frustration building. “You on that rug and when Julia came back,
she slept every night in Bradley’s bed in my room. Man, we are a messed-up
bunch.”

“I didn’t know that about Julia. I
don’t know much of anything about her now.” This fact slices into me. I hate
most of all that our relationship suffered. All of our relationships took a
beating, I guess.