The Eyes Of Wonderland

#Chapter8-01

#Chapter8-01

As the January rage terrorized the streets of Bouvet, it showed no mercy. The roads were lost beneath fast-flowing rivers, the water level rising, overflowing onto the sidewalks, and the surrounding trees looked in danger of being uprooted. The blackened skies unleashed a web of fury, the rain falling like an army of bullets, tinkering off the bonnets of stationary cars.

If there was even a nugget of common sense in my head, I would have been indoors, wrapped up all warm and snug, watching Jeepers Creepers for the gazillionth time. Or at very least have accepted Blake's offer to drive me. Instead, my teeth were chattering, my feet were soaking f*****g wet, and as I huddled away beneath the flimsy bus shelter, glaring at the house across the way, I couldn't bring myself to cross the road.

You weren't that drunk — Deacon's words had jammed in my head, pulling a broken record gig. Like reapers of death, the phrase walked the halls of my mind, kicking everything else out of the way so that they had complete reign.

And I couldn't shake it out. I tried. Tried to think of anything but him, his words, or the f****d-up ache that settled over my lower body, the sadistic reminder of what had gone down last night. I tried, but nothing shy of a fifth of vodka seemed close to working.

"Man up, Isaac," I growled to myself, tugging the thin material of my jacket tighter around my body. I should have worn a coat. I had toyed with the idea even before setting out, but the smallest part of me, the masochistic little voice that stomped its feet in the back of my head, had encouraged the self-punishment. Like enough of the s**t would wash away the taint.

Which only pissed me off all the more. It wouldn't have been so bad if I'd been the one in control. I wouldn't have been very f*****g happy, but I could have justified it, at least. But being bent over and used like a little b***h?

No. It didn't happen. Couldn't. I was six-foot-one, well built and played every sport that didn't involve a participation trophy. I went to the gym almost every f*****g day. Well, I used to. I'd been slacking lately, but that was once again Blake's fault. He'd been my workout buddy, and without him there to push me, I'd dwindled down to two days, if that. If I was gay, which I f*****g wasn't, I'd be the man, not the f*****g women.

"I was drunk," I coached myself, forcing my molars apart. They had locked together so damn tightly that my entire jaw was aching. "He took advantage. I ain't nobody's bitch."

The words were swallowed by a harsh gust of wind. It struck the bus shelter, sending the thing into a swaying frenzy, and it infiltrated my mouth and nose, robbing my breath. My chest burnt. I choked. Gasped. Squeezed my eyes shut. Didn't help.

But taking it as a sign that the disgusting weather was only going to get worse, I pawed at my face, achieving nothing but the smearing of the build-up of water droplets that dampened my cheeks, and took a step forward. Right into a jet of water that sloshed right up into my Air Force.

"Mother fuc — " Another burst of wind had the words dying on my lips. Ducking my head, scrounging deep inside for courage, I made my way across the street, falling to a stop at the end of a drive. A black KA sat on the drive, and the gate swung open and closed, bashing against the frame.

Closing a hand on top of the saturated wood, giving it a firm push, I stepped in. The effect was instant. Stones fell a hundred miles before crash landing in my gut. Lungs malfunctioned. Spiders bred and multiplied beneath my skin.

And I hadn't even knocked the f*****g door yet.

Swallowing hard, I lifted my head and marched. I knew anger. It was as close a friend to me as Blake had once been. It lived beneath my skin, and its burn was the only thing in this life I felt certain would never truly leave me. There wasn't much encouragement to get it to come out to play. All I had to do was think of last night, the humiliation the prick had inflicted upon me, and my blood caught fire. It kicked the nerves to the curb. Spat all over the jitters.

Rap-a-tat-tatting against the door so hard that my knuckles ached, there was a few seconds delay before it swung inwards. And then I was out of breath again, those pesky f*****g lungs hitting default mode. 'Cept this time, I wasn't so sure it was the wind. Smouldering pits of unsupported shades, merging between hues, the greeny-blue eyes froze me to the spot.

For a split second, the avalanche of water beating down, plastering my hair to my skull, or the cold bite of the bitter air, it faded from awareness. Disappeared completely. Then twanged back into focus like a stretched rubber band as soon as he opened his mouth.

"Isaac," he greeted, brow crumpling as his gaze flicked behind me, lingering on the skies piss-fest, before returning on my face. "You're soaking."

"And you're f*****g obserbant," I spat back.

He was just a man. An ordinary man. Handsome, sure, but still just a man. His clothes were ordinary. A zip up hoodie and faded black jeans. He was average size, nothing to be considered truly special. And yet . . . his lips twitched, eyes darkened before narrowing slightly, and he suddenly seemed more than just a man. Seemed to grow in size, despiste not moving. Seemed to invade my personal space, despite not moving.