Twisted in You Read online

  Twisted in You

  Fabiola Francisco

  Copyright © 2017 Fabiola Francisco

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Books by Fabiola Francisco

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek - Red Lights, Black Hearts

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Perfectly Imperfect

  Restoring Series

  Restoring Us (Complete Series)

  Resisting You (Aiden and Stacy Novella)

  Sweet on You Series

  Sweet on Wilde

  Whiskey Nights

  Red Lights, Black Hearts

  Sign up for Fabiola’s newsletter to receive the latest news, sneak peeks, sales and other updates.

  This book is for anyone who has ever suffered.

  For anyone who thought quitting was the only answer yet had the courage to follow that shimmer of hope.

  You are a fighter. You are brave.

  Home alone. What a welcomed gift many take for granted. Rarely am I home alone, well completely home alone. Usually I am home and I feel alone, but there is always someone there. Even if it is an inconspicuous figure to most, I know it is there. Haunting me during the day, possessing me at night. I hate it. I really fucking hate it.

  I remember when it all started. I was fifteen. Or maybe it was earlier, and I’d forgotten. Blocked it away in the secret box that is my mind. Truth is, I never felt normal, the same as my peers. They’d all gone and been happy following the rules these Georgian assholes implanted in us.

  Me? I’ve always felt lost. Out of the loop in so many things. I feel like I haven’t found my place in life. I’d matured earlier than most kids my age, was forced to. Maybe that is why I never feel united, sisterly, true to my “species.” Honestly, they can go fuck a cow. I’ve been through enough to deal with the hypocrites.

  Momma wants things to be perfect, life to be a dream. Well, I’ve got news for her. Her husband’s a dirty man.

  Now before you go blaming the rebel daughter with curb appeal, let me explain myself. That man is a bastard. A filthy, disgusting, arrogant son of a bitch, who lives his life putting others down and taking what’s not his, me included.

  Daddy dearest, although not my biological father, is the one who has raised me as his own. But I guess what isn’t your flesh and blood is game for you to fuck with. When I was little, I thought he was a good man, but I was living in the naïve world of a five-year-old. I grew up, and so did my problems. He drinks himself into oblivion. The words, the hatred, the abuse, all of it subtle, lurking in the shadows of the night like a black panther waiting to make its attack. Secretive, aggressive, threatening.

  I shudder at the memory. That first night I was sleeping, dreaming of happiness. The weight on my bed shifted. I felt a rough hand on me, trespassing. I kept my eyes closed for fear that my predator would notice me awake and attack.

  I wasn’t sure if someone had broken into our home and landed himself on my bed, or if it was someone familiar. Then, I smelled the alcohol. I heard the whisper, “Shh . . . Stay quiet.” And I knew exactly who it was. I closed my eyes tighter, hoping this was a nightmare, that if I didn’t move he’d go away. He didn’t.

  Instead, his hand moved south on my body and into my pajama pants. I tried to squeeze my legs closed, but he opened them aggressively and began to feel the depth of my body. That was the day my world changed completely.

  I was a virgin up until I was fourteen. I wish I could still say I am, but the darkness took that away from me and dug me into the depths of hell.

  I hate that man. For years, the abuse has gone on, not only sexually, but verbally. The bad talk, put-downs, the insults. They all occur under our roof; a roof I wish the big bad wolf would come and blow off because he is safer than the pig I am living with. But in Georgia, we put on masks and pretend life is dandy.

  I began cutting myself not long after. When washing away the sins he’d left on me wasn’t enough, I’d grab a blade and cut. Cut out the nasty, cut out the filth, the disgust that seeped into me. Tonight I’m alone, I could so easily grab that blade and cut in peace.

  The abuse continues, the demon taking what he wants in the underworld, my life sinking deeper. The son of a bitch is always drunk. I fear for when it will happen, where, and how I can try to deal with it. You get to a point that you can’t prevent it. You just know. You know this is your life, and you accept your fate, letting the underworld fully encompass you.

  Once you join it, there is no turning back. You become one of them. Numb, indifferent beings that simply exist. After years, the cutting doesn’t hurt, the abuse is part of daily life, and the hatred towards those involved diminishes. Or so you think.

  I dread when my mom works late, knowing I’ll get home from school to a drunkard who is ready to take and take. Take my innocence, my purity, my hope for normality.

  Eventually, all roads led to hell.

  This hell is full of demons dressed as angels sent from the heavens, but if you look closely you’ll see the red-glossed eyes, the burning evil, and the possession.

  I hear the chaos now as I hide in my room. The devil has been released from the confinements of hell earlier than usual, and he’s lashing out more violently, uncontrollable. No longer does he attack in the depths of night, but he’s unmasked himself in daylight. Momma can’t deny it anymore, either. She can’t pretend everything is peachy. She is a victim, too.

  I peek into the living room, trying to stay hidden.

  I wish I could say it is a stormy night, but it is one of the most beautiful days we have had in weeks—ironic, a symbolism for freedom, but not my own. The hitting, broken bottles, the screams.

  I hear Momma trying to call for help, trying to save herself, but he wins. He always does. Before the final blow, she looks me straight in the eyes and mouths, “run.”

  Eighteen. I am an orphan at eighteen. I know many others lose their parents at a younger age, but to witness the murder is something that will stay with you forever.

  I watch as my stepdad calls the police and feigns emotional distraught as he tells the authorities that we walked into this mess,
with my mother lying lifeless. They mark it as breaking and entering gone wrong. It’s wicked. But to have to stay with the devil is a cruel joke.

  I plan to take my momma’s advice. If I stay, I’ll be next. The threats are plain. The devil is burning this place down.

  Fuck school, fuck college, I need to survive. So I grab the little savings I know Momma had hidden. I spied on her once and watched where she kept it. Sometimes I would take some to buy blades that would help ease the pain. I had wondered if she planned on climbing out of this hell and that’s why she was saving it. I had also wondered if she would have taken me with her. I guess there’s no use in wondering now.

  I grab what’s left and run. The bastard is drunk out of his mind, and I know the routine. He sleeps for about an hour, then awakens and comes to possess. I have an hour to leave, and I’ll be damned if he stops me. I hope that he won’t miss me or try to come after me. Give up and not go through the trouble. I hope that if I am not near, he won’t care to have to work to find me, that he will be too busy drinking himself into nothingness.

  I jump on the first bus out of Georgia and head to Tennessee. It will get me far enough and still have money saved to live. I’ll get a job, find a safe-haven, and hope evil won’t find me. The problem is, once you’ve entered the darkness you carry it with you. Evil always follows. It lingers. It becomes you.

  I scratch my scars anxiously. I’m an addict in search of her next hit, but on a bus, it’s impossible.

  Once I arrive in Nashville, I book the first motel room I find. It’s late, and I need to ease the fear creeping up my spine. I grab a razor and sit on the closed toilet seat. I take off my bracelets, exposing the healing scars. They are too light already, too faraway from the truth. I’m not healed. I’m not protected. I’m not hurting. I am numb.

  Using the razor, I cut lines across my wrists up my forearm until little specs of blood appear. That’s what I’m looking for. Blood to cleanse the grime that has become my life. Control of the little bit of life I still have. The pain isn’t too bad anymore, and sometimes I wonder if I cut a little deeper, if it would hurt or stay numb. I switch hands to cut the other one.

  I am relentless, wanting, needing more of this escape. Something to distract me from the memories of Momma’s lifeless body on the floor, of the devil’s mean words, of his persistence in intruding my body, aggressively invading . . .

  The more I think about it, the harder I cut. I can’t take it. I can’t take the memories. If only my soul was as numb as my skin. Ugh! I throw the blade across the grimy bathroom of this broken-down motel. The filth reminds me of the mess of bottles left behind, the empty glasses broken on the floor after a rage. I won’t be able to stay here for long, if I want to find solace.

  The diner I went to this morning is hiring, so I asked about the job, grateful for some kind of fresh start. I made sure to hide my arms under my sweater. I was hired on the spot.

  The girl who works there, Carly, was appalled when I told her which motel I was staying in and offered for me to stay with her. I don’t know why she was so nice. She had just met me. I was wary. What if she had demons of her own? She had smiled warmly, maybe seeing the shattered glass ready to crawl out of me. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? I’d already experienced hell.

  She told me to go this afternoon to check it out, and I could move in if I want.

  I have nothing with me but my small bag when I knock on her door. Her smile kindly welcomes me as she shows me around the house. She asks about my life, but I’m as vague as possible.

  The hours turn to days, yet the lingering feeling of fear follows me. Once you enter darkness, there’s no turning back. Once you’ve played with the devil, you’re his to keep. My cuts stay hidden behind fabrics, the same way my truth stays hidden behind veils.

  I work long hours. Taking the late shift keeps me distracted from the nightmare that swallows me, always looking over my shoulder, afraid he will appear and drag me back.

  I begin to scratch the burning itch on my arms. It’s my only sense of control, and working the hours I do makes it difficult to keep a grasp on that control. Sometimes, I cut out words.

  I am constantly in a battle between the immorality I left behind and the slight light trying to break through. Why do I feel like demons are marching near, if I had managed to escape? Managed to leave him behind in his drunken state before he could attack again?

  I couldn’t help but wonder if he had heard me leave and followed me, but after two months, he hadn’t shown up. I shudder at the thought of what he would do if he did find me. I saw the evil in his eyes, the violence he was capable of, and the hatred he would carry with him when he would fuck me.

  My head snaps to the side while I’m rinsing plates to load the dishwasher. I hear it.

  The dark clouds form a tornado and come destroying the small bit of peace I was starting to feel. I hear it. I hear the sardonic laugh that haunts me at night. I feel the malevolence that would sin on Saturday and pray on Sunday; camouflaging as a believer of the Lord, yet the leader of the Underworld. I have to leave before he sees me. Before he stabs me with his trident and seizes me again.

  If only he’d have one too many drinks and get in a car. Shatter it against a wall or drive off the side of the icy road and make the world a better place without him lurking the shadows.

  “Mikayla, are you okay?” Carly asks, wide-eyed. I shake my head, having lost the power to speak, move, even breathe. “Do you feel ill?” I nod. I need to leave, even if I don’t ever confirm the cackle is his.

  We leave through the back door and head home. Home. I haven’t felt like I’ve had a home in so long. But now, now I can’t risk being taken prisoner again when I’ve tasted freedom. I am so tired of fighting, so tired of feeling, tired of not having control. I hate the darkness. I want light. I want to fly freely with angel wings.

  I fill the bathtub. The cutting out of control. I don’t want to feel anymore. Fear anymore. I want to be permanently numb. I can’t stand the thought of him penetrating me again. I know this time, if he grabs me, I won’t be able to leave again.

  I dig the blade deeper, forgetting everything. I’m no longer numb. I draw deeper in and the blood trickles out, first little by little, then in spurts until the water in the bathtub is crimson. Crimson like the walls in hell, but this isn’t hell anymore.

  Then darkness completely overtakes me, but this darkness doesn’t linger in the depths of torment. No, this darkness is peaceful, serene. In this darkness, I hear faint music and children laughing. And then silence.

  Beep . . . Beep . . .

  I hear mumbling. I still see darkness, but there seems to be light trying to shine through. Is this it? Is this the peace you’re supposed to feel? Fuck, it doesn’t feel very peaceful. It feels painful.

  “No relatives nearby . . . Georgia . . . Parents . . .” I hear someone say. No! I can’t let them notify anyone. This can’t be the end of it if they are asking about my family.

  Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . .

  What the fuck! That noise is driving me crazy.

  I try moving. I try stopping them. They can’t call him.

  Wake up!

  I wanted to be gone. Why aren’t I gone? Why do I hear people talking about relatives and feel pain in my body? Is this purgatory? Is this my punishment for trying to control when I exit this life? I can’t take it.

  I wanted out. I wanted to be released of the memories, of the fear, of the devil. He’ll come back. I know he will. He came too close.

  I try blinking. I try moving my hands, but something is making them stiff. “I’ll go check her charts again.”

  “No!” This time my eyes open and find two strangers staring at me in disbelief. “Please don’t.” My voice is raspy and dry. “He’ll get me.”

  “Who—” I shake my head, silencing them. I can’t tell them. Instead, I silently begin crying. I thought it was over.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re a legal adult,
so we can work things out with you,” one nurse says, concern filling her eyes. “You’re lucky to be alive. You may not think so now, but you are. We are going to send you to a recovery center in the outskirts of the city so you can recuperate.”

  I roll my eyes. Rehab? I’m not crazy. I don’t need rehab. I need the devil to go back down to hell and finish burning until he is a pile of dust blown away by the wind.

  You have to be fucking kidding me that they’re going to send me to some shit center where we’ll sing “Kumbaya” in a fucking circle.

  As soon as I got here, they took everything away from me.

  I can’t have a blade. I can’t have anything. How do I deal with the lingering sins? What do I do to erase the memories, if only temporarily? How do I gain control?

  I’ve been sentenced to my purgatory. Chasing fucking Freedom. What the hell would these people know about freedom if they’ve never been incarcerated? How can they come tell me to get over my trauma, if they’ve never been traumatized?

  I hate this place. I hate not being able to control how I release my demons and let them float out of me for a little while.

  But I feel safer. I feel like he can’t come get me. In the hospital, I told them I had no living relatives. I didn’t lie. The devil isn’t blood. He is a drinking, abusive son of a bitch that has ruined my life. That has permanently etched me with his trident, burning a hole so deep within me that I will forever be scarred by the evil that possessed me.

  Turns out, Carly had found me in the bathtub floating in a crimson sea of my own doing. She called for help immediately, and they took me to the hospital. She should’ve let me sink to the bottom of that sea. So much for not letting her see the demons within me.

  While I’m here, reversing the traumas and becoming a stable human being in our fucked up and warped society, I can’t do anything to control the anxiety and memories that seep into me during the most inopportune times. And like if the joke weren’t any funnier, I have to do fucking therapy. Therapy. Talk to some shrink about why I cut myself. Write about my emotions. Paint what I see in my head.