The Darkness Within Page 3

  “Ah,” she replies knowingly, then leans in a little closer as though I’m about to share the FBI’s most deepest, darkest, intel with her, “and did you want to kiss him?” I sigh heavily, close my eyes to her frown and shake my head slowly, feeling completely exasperated by all of it. “The boy does have it bad for you, you know that, right?” I look at her with a genuine expression which conveys just how much I did not realize this piece of information, even though, apparently, everyone else does. “Oh honey,” she says with even more pity in her voice, “how could you not know?!”

  “Because he’s my best friend,” I say the words quickly just so there out there for everyone to understand, “to me, we’re both eight years old, fighting Lord Voldemort from the highest towers of Hogwarts. Matt doesn’t register with me in that way! It was only when Bowie pushed me, so we were literally face to face, that it dawned on me Matt was holding back…urges.” I explain, closing my eyes as I blush like a flashing red beacon. “I felt his breath on my face, saw the look in his eye and it made me feel…wrong. So, so wrong!”

  “What did he do? Did he kiss you?” Her brows knit together with a little concern, but after I reassure her by shaking my head, she resumes her usual gentle features.

  “He was so close to me I thought he was going to, but then he told me to get out, to leave…” I reply sadly, thinking how awful I had felt about the whole thing. “It was so humiliating, I bolted. Your brother, however, thought it was the funniest thing in the world!”

  At first, she pinches her nose and closes his eyes as she shakes her head over the sad little conclusion to my painful recount of events. Then she takes me into a warm hug, which feels like a sister comforting her little sister, almost, dare I say it, like the mom who is so rarely here for me now. I end up releasing tears again and embarrassingly giving into sobbing against her shoulder. She doesn’t appear to mind though and even starts to rub my arms up and down in comforting strokes.

  “I’m so scared Matt won’t want to be my friend anymore,” I whimper, “I’ve messed it all up!”

  “No, you haven’t!” she chides me. “You shouldn’t ever feel pressured into doing something with a guy if you don’t want to. Matt knows this and it’s probably why he told you to go. He’s a good one, Mils.” she pushes me back at arm’s length, looking at me with a mom expression I haven’t seen in a long while, given my one is always at work. “But you can’t force yourself to like someone you don’t.”

  Eventually, I cave and nod in agreement with her sensible line of thought, something I’ve been lacking in amongst all of my teenage angst. Still, I could almost kick myself for not liking Matt the way he likes me because he is a genuinely nice guy.

  “And leave my butthole brother to me,” she mutters with determination in her voice, “I’ll make sure he leaves you and Matt alone from now on!”

  Chapter 2

  Amelia, 15

  Sam stays for a dinner of leftover lasagna and salad, lovingly prepared by moi because the last time Grant cooked, we ended up with a severe bout of diarrhea and can no longer look at fish without wanting to violently throw up. The last time Mom or Dad cooked, I was still in middle school, and even then, it was always something to whack in the microwave.

  Afterward, Grant drives Sam home while I try and wait patiently for Mom to get back from work. Dad’s on nights, he always is, so he won’t be back until tomorrow morning, by which point we’ll be at school. Mom’s already called to assure me she’ll be here within half an hour, but in all honesty, I’m more likely to see Grant home before she makes it back. I understand they both have important careers which they’re passionate about, but it means her to-do list is rarely ever done and she’s never home much before ten.

  TV is meh and I’ve even attempted to read my homework assignments. ‘Tried’ being the operative word because I don’t seem to be taking any of the content in. So, in the end, I decide to go to the back of the garden, taking a moment to appreciate the fading light as dusk finally hits outside. But the real reason I’m here stems back to when I was nine years old and decided to keep a diary. Like most preadolescent girls, I found I liked unscrambling my thoughts at this time of day. I still do, if only to cleanse myself of any crap I’ve had to deal with, like Bowie. I keep it outside because Grant found it once and made a show of pretending to read straight from the pages, as is the way of big brothers when they want to torment their little sisters. I was so deeply embarrassed by the thought of anyone reading it, I decided to bury it in a top-secret spot at the back of the garden. It’s kept in a sealed box, just so the damp and dirt don’t get to it. To my knowledge, no one has ever found it.

  It isn’t buried deep, so I find it easily, then take it out to vent my leftover venom from before inside of it. Sighing over the events of today, I sit cross-legged under the Maple tree, writing my jumble of words, just before the fading light disappears altogether.

  Thursday

  Me – naïve, ridiculously stupid, blind, a tease? Have I hurt Matt on purpose? Because I can honestly say I had no idea! But maybe I shut it out of my mind, purposely chose not to see, because I didn’t want to acknowledge it. I love him, I always will, but there’s no desire to be anything more than his friend. I haven’t had any desire for any guy in that way, not even when I hear Grant and Sam all breathy and moany in the confines of his bedroom. It’s not even entered my head to lust after a guy, not until fucking Bowie Phillips. I hate myself for feeling like this about him. He’s an asshole and enjoys bullying and belittling me, yet this is the guy my ridiculous body responds to. When I daydream over my first kiss, it is always Bowie who is leaning down to give it to me.

  Matt – kind, warm, funny, intelligent, familiar, handsome, safe.

  Bowie – bully, cruel, wicked, manwhore, arrogant, gorgeous.

  Me – a fucking idiot!

  Feeling so angry with myself over my admission, even if it is to a piece of paper in a private book, I slam it shut and throw it back inside the box with such ferocity it bounces straight out again. The act of which causes me to sigh audibly and roll my eyes in frustration because it about sums it up for me today. I can’t even lose my temper without having to get up and go and put it right. I’m so agitated I growl at the stupid, plastic box before burying it again, not caring that the whole process was supposed to calm me down, not rile me up even further.

  After I’ve patted down the soft earth so it looks level with the rest of the flowerbed, I forcefully chuck the spade into the shed, then stare back at where I’ve just finished digging in a kind of weird trance. It’s taunting me, telling me it knows all of my deepest, darkest, secrets. I think I end up standing there for a good ten minutes or more, completely lost in my reveries.

  The sound of a snapping twig underfoot is the only reason I move, jumping back in surprise over the intrusive noise. My heart thuds rapidly when I instinctively flip my head around to see a tall, dark figure, one I’ve just been having naughty thoughts about. Thoughts which both thrill and disgust me all at the same time.

  Bowie’s smug expression moves towards me, his confident swagger closing the gap between us with determination and predatory steps. For the second time this evening, I am caught frozen to the spot before a boy-man, who looks like he could eat me for breakfast. Before I’ve even registered it, he is up close and personal, though his hands remain tucked up, deep inside the pockets of his black hoodie. I try to say something, to call out, to scream even, but my mouth has lost every drop of moisture, and my every muscle has tensed up from an overpowering surge of anxiety.

  For once, Bowie doesn’t speak his usual form of verbal diarrhea. Instead, he just stands up tall before me, smirking over my obvious discomfort and inability to move. I follow his hand when it reaches out to clasp around my arm. He easily wraps his fingers around to meet his thumb on the other side of my skinny limb, my shapeless figure still left-over from childhood. I then look up at his face, which leans in so close, I can feel his body heat on my skin. If this isn
’t painful enough, all my mind can think of right now is: do it, do it, do it.

  I brace myself for the moment when his lips will press against mine and I’ll know what it feels like to be one of those popular girls, the ones like Melody and Lucy who kiss boys like brushing their teeth every day. I’ll finally understand when they talk about how good a kisser Bowie Phillips is, how he makes you feel like you’re freefalling from space. I’ll also know what it feels like to betray your best friend. And yet, I’m ready for it, so I close my eyes tightly and lean slightly forward, when…

  “Back off, Bowie!” I’m pulled backward by my brother and shifted aside so that he is standing between me and the boy who I’m sure was about to kiss me.

  “Now, now, Granty boy!” Bowie clicks his tongue, an irritating habit he seems to have when he is about to be vile to someone. “Don’t forget whose sister you're dating!”

  Arrogantly, Bowie leans up against the Maple tree with one of his usual gives-zero-fucks expressions written all over his face. Grant could be the size of the Incredible Hulk and it still wouldn’t faze the know-it-all boy wonder here.

  “Doesn’t mean you can have mine!” Grant threatens through clenched teeth. Bowie chuckles sadistically, so I brace myself for what he’s about to say, something horribly wicked no doubt.

  “Don’t sweat it, man,” he juts out his chin towards where I’m now huddled behind my brother, “she’s far too frigid for me.”

  “Shut the f-” Grant begins to step forward, but my pride suddenly decides to wake up and actually defend itself. Thank God because it’s certainly been missing in action so far this evening.

  “Well, which is it?” I ask him and watch as his smirk falters a little. “I mean, am I a tease? Showing off skin for guys all summer, or am I frigid? Surely I can’t be both?”

  For a moment he seems impressed by my newfound bravery but it’s only for a fraction of a second before he tilts his head to the side and fixes that menacing, cold, look back into his eyes. He slowly leans in to whisper inside of my ear, “You’re whatever I want you to be!”

  My mouth gapes open as he returns Grant’s icy stare without fear or hesitation. Once satisfied he’s caused both of us to hate him that little bit more, he turns around and walks away, complete with a taunting wave over his shoulder.

  “See you around, Fridge!” he calls out casually.

  Grant places a protective arm around my shoulder as I shiver against him, with the cold night air finally hitting me in my shorts and t-shirt. He squeezes my much smaller frame tightly before telling me not to bother thinking about the bastard. The trouble is, my mind frequently ignores that advice, seeing as I can’t seem to not think about him.

  Last month, Grant had the mother of all hangovers. I’m talking ‘The Living Dead’ kind of a hangover. I have never had such a thing and it’s not exactly on my bucket list, but I’m walking to school with a sense of dread hanging over me, and I’m next to certain this is what one feels like. My head is close to exploding and I feel like spewing my guts out whenever I pass by an inviting bush. As I see more and more students all making their way into the depths of hell that is our high school, my symptoms only seem to intensify.

  I haven’t even seen Matt since our little near kiss scene, which felt more like a horror film than a rom-com, and I’m desperately worried he’s going to either ignore me, or at the very least, be weird around me. I’ve been trying to kid myself that it was three days ago and maybe he would have forgotten about it, but the closer I get to the usual gang of beautiful people, the more the brick that’s formed inside of my stomach seems to sink. Apart from vacations, we have never gone this long without talking before.

  Then, of course, there’s Satan himself, Bowie Phillips. The less said about him, the better. Hopefully, Sam has said something that will make him stay the hell away from me, though deep down, I don’t believe anyone can make that spoiled, little prince do anything he doesn’t want to.

  Head pointing to the floor, arms huddled around my waist and keeping to the walls like a little mouse, I head straight to my locker to engage with the morning ritual of putting away the books I don’t need until later. Dad used to lecture me on looking after my back when I first started middle school, telling me how bad backpacks were for my posture and growing bone structure. I had rolled my eyes at the time, but took on board the advice, though it doesn’t appear to have perturbed my slouching.

  Unlike other people’s lockers, mine is devoid of pictures, stickers, and other personal effects. Apart from a small message from the last occupant who decided to scrawl in permanent marker, ‘Women be bitches’, my metal box is functional, nothing more. Initially, when I saw the little cursory message, my thoughts ran from ‘how unoriginal’ to ‘this is why I don’t want to date boys right now.’ Now when I look at it, it’s like a friendly comfort; a little symbol to tell me to keep strong and not let the bullies get you down. I’m not sure why, especially seeing as I am a girl, but it’s mine, kept safely in my locker for the next few years.

  Reluctantly, I close the door, knowing I can’t stand with my head stuck inside my locker for the rest of the day, no matter how much I’d like to. When I do, I see Matt’s sheepish-looking expression staring back at me. I feel a mixture of relief and irritation, but at least he seems to be taking responsibility for the horribly embarrassing situation that happened on Friday evening. He should have been my friend that night by standing up to Bowie more forcefully, and he certainly should have damn well come and spoken to me long before now.

  “Careful,” I mutter bitterly, “people might see you talking to me, and then what would they think?”

  “I deserve that,” he says, looking to the floor guiltily. “I’m sorry Mils, I shouldn’t have put you in that position. I should’ve let you go home when you said you wanted to.”

  “Yes, that would have been much more convenient for you, wouldn’t it?” I say a bit more harshly than I meant it to sound, not that I will admit it. Instead, I begin to walk in the direction of my first class, with him falling behind me, flapping his hands around his head anxiously all the while he talks.

  “No, that’s not what I meant! I mean I know you don’t like these people and it was shitty of me to try and mix the two of you. Bowie will always be an ass and I should have protected you from him. I just-”

  “It’s fine Matt, there’s no need to explain,” I turn and pat him on the arm reassuringly, because, really, what is there to say about the whole sorry situation. We’ve had the same understanding for a good year now. It’s just, I thought he was my friend at home, but even that’s beginning to be taken over by Bowie and his cronies. It also makes me wonder whether, push comes to shove, whose friendship he would fight for more. I would never make him choose, but I know ass face wouldn’t think twice about giving him such an ultimatum. At the end of the day, I don’t like them and they sure as hell don’t like me, and poor old Matt is going to have to accept that, no matter how much he tries to mix the two of us.

  “Anyway, I’ve gotta go,” I smile reassuringly, though not quite as genuinely apparently because now he’s looking sadly at me with his big puppy dog eyes, which consequently forces me to loosen my angry grip on things. Well played, Matt, well played! In the end, I relent to his manipulative charms. “We can hang out tonight if you like? I mean, if you’re not with the cool kids that is?”

  “I’ve got football practice, but why don’t you come and watch the last fifteen minutes and we can walk home together? Maybe get an ice cream on the way?”

  He looks so hopeful that if he had a tail, he would no doubt be wagging it uncontrollably while spinning around on the spot out of sheer excitement. I just nod with an expression that tells him he’s won, and all is forgiven. His smile turns into a full, knock-out grin, one that any other girl in this school would immediately drop their panties for. Just not me.

  “Holy fucking shit, Mils, can you believe how hard your brother and his squeeze are going at it? Right in the mi
ddle of the lunch hall!” Mercy glances over her shoulder to see their tongue-on-tongue action on full display. The look of pure shock and amusement on her face prompts me to take a peek against my better judgment. I glance at the same scene I’ve witnessed over a million times at home, sneer, then return to my now unappetizing sandwich.

  “He is pretty smokin’ hot, though,” she says biting her plump, bottom lip, and looking dreamily off into the distance, “she’s a lucky girl! I wonder if his junk is up to the same standard as his face?”

  “Ewww!” I throw a chip at her while she giggles over my abhorrence. “I have no desire to know anything about my brother’s tackle, thanks.”

  “No, you have no desire to hear about anyone’s tackle, period!” she says, then slurps on her milkshake lazily, letting her rich red locks hang down in front of her face. Mercy truly is a beautiful girl and would give Jessica Rabbit a run for her money with her long red hair, alabaster skin, and sizable boobage. “I gave Rich Bryant a hand-job over the weekend. Let’s just say the package doesn’t live up to the shoe size!” she grins with a cheeky wink.