Toxic

by Nicole Blanchard

There’s less chance of my having the hope of a better life if all the nothingness blurs together.

It’s a wonder something so mistreated can still respond to the cause of its neglect.

The last thing I need is to draw any attention to myself. Vic's, or anyone else’s. I’ve become very skilled at blending into the background.

“I’m sure he thinks he is. You be careful now. Wouldn’t want one of them criminals roughing up that beautiful face of yours.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickles as my body recognizes a predator in its midst.

My throat bobs reflexively as my eyes flash up to his. He doesn’t taunt me, but his smile speaks more loudly than words.

I don’t make it that far. I should have known better. Every instinct since I stepped into the room has been telling me to keep my guard up because the moment I took my eyes off him, he’d pounce. And, fuck me, it’s exactly what happens.

Vic—he hates to be called Victor, as I learned the first night he hit me on our honeymoon—backhands me, making my head snap to the side.

“Clean yourself up before you make dinner.” He pauses to peer into the mirror and preen. “I think I’d like steak tonight.”

Dick

“And what if I say I’m making it my business?” he murmurs. The rough cloth of his jumpsuit hisses as he lifts his hands to trace the shadowed bruises on the rise of my cheek.

His expression turns predatory. “What if I said I wanted to get to know you?”

“That’s too easy, but I’ll give it to you. I’m from Georgia, originally.” His smile is saccharin-sweet as his accent deepens. “A good ‘ole Southern boy, just without the manners.”

The escape I get from my work is one of the only aspects of my life to bring me joy.

In it, I look almost beautiful. Serene. Is this what he sees when he looks at me? At the bottom corner in a slashing masculine scrawl is one word: King.

Hell, even my clothes hang on my frame instead of hugging my curves. I’m fading away right before my eyes, and if I don’t do something soon to save myself, there won’t be anything left.

“I’m someone who knows better than to hit a woman.”

As I study the drawing of myself, I start to think maybe I can be the woman he sees in me, like how a broken bone grows stronger once it heals.

He draws seemingly mundane scenes, moments I don’t even realize have passed and turns them into magic. Turns me into magic.

They have secretly become the single most anticipated moment of my day. I’m slowly becoming addicted to them, and to him.

“You seem to think you aren’t my business.” “Probably because I’m not. I’m not sure what makes you think you have the right to interfere, but I don’t need to be saved. I don’t need anything from you.” “That’s where you’re wrong. I think I’m exactly what you need.”

It has been so long since I’ve felt anything other than violence and fear.

"Let me give you this. One kiss. I promise you'll enjoy it. Let me show you a little something sweet to take away from the sour. One kiss, and if you want me to walk away after I will."

"Gracin," he says, his lips so close they graze the shell of my ear. "My name is Gracin."

What kind of person wants more from a man like him? What kind of woman aches for another kiss from a criminal? Me. I want more. I want it all. I want it right here. Again. And again. And again.

I like that I’ve thrown him off balance. I like that I have the power to shock him, make him want me. Me.

“They could walk in at any second and see just what a dirty girl you are.”

I should push him away. A good person would. A good person wouldn’t have let him kiss them in the first place.

I forget convention, forget the rules, forget expectations. I even ignore the law. The laws that say I shouldn’t touch this man. Shouldn’t encourage his attention. Forget that he’s my patient. That he’s a convicted felon.

I want more. More pressure. More closeness. More aching, filthy, rawness.

He sees too much. Understands too much. My body, which had just been red-hot, cools and with it comes the horror. Oh, God, what did I just do?

What the hell do you do after such a monumental fuck up?

I envy their order when I’m in so much disarray.

For the first time since he hit me, I’m not terrified. I’m angry. And I know Gracin is the reason why. He makes me want things I can’t have. A different life. Him. To fight back.

He signed it with his full name, and under the signature are three words: Come to me.

“I’m playing a most dangerous game, and you’re the prize. Our deal is off, Tessa. I want you, and I’ll take you any way I can get you.”

I let out a bark of laughter. I just can’t win. Story of my life.

sting. All my life it has felt as if I’d been looking for affection—something that seems to come so easy to everyone else.

“Hey,” a soothing voice says. “Hey, no, it’s okay. Baby, calm down. You gotta calm down for me. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

I thought my marriage to Vic was the definition of abuse, but Gracin has taught me there is something much worse than physical violence.

How I feel now? Knowing that Gracin has thoroughly destroyed everything good in me and made me like it? It’s so much worse than any punch I’ve ever taken.

What is broken inside me that I look for love in the worst places? Was it programmed inside me from birth or is it a product of my parent’s neglect? Am I just so fucked up that I’ll take affection wherever I can get it, even if it’s from the worst possible source?