Sold To The Devil I Ruined

Elenora woke up with a gasp. Her lungs heaved, searching for air that wasn't thick with the smell of rain and expensive cologne. She was in a bed she didn't know. The sheets were too soft. The room was too quiet. Outside, thunder rumbled, a low growl that dragged her mind back to the nightmare she had just escaped. But it wasn't a nightmare. It was a memory. In her sleep, she had been back at the prep school. The sun had been shining that day, bright and blinding on the manicured green lawns. She was seventeen. She was wearing her custom-tailored blazer, the crest on the pocket stitched with gold thread. She was holding the keys to a limited-edition convertible, tossing them in the air, catching them. The metal was cool against her palm. Around her, the circle of sycophants laughed at something she said. She didn't remember the joke. It didn't matter. They always laughed. Then she saw him. Fitzgerald. He was younger then. Thinner. His clothes were second-hand, the cuffs fraying. He was near the trash cans behind the cafeteria, fishing out a textbook someone had thrown away as a prank. One of the boys next to Elenora picked up a rock. He threw it. It struck Fitzgerald on the temple. A thin line of red blood trickled down his pale skin. He didn't cry out. He didn't run. He just stood there, clutching the dirty book, his eyes burning with a silent, terrifying intensity. Elenora felt a twist of boredom mixed with curiosity. She raised a hand, stopping the boy from throwing another. She walked over to him. Her shadow fell over his face, blocking out the sun. "Hey, stray," she said. She nudged his worn-out sneaker with the toe of her boot. Fitzgerald looked up. He didn't look away. That annoyed her. Nobody looked her in the eye. Elenora reached into her bag. She pulled out a wad of cash. It was her allowance for the week. More than his mother made in three months. She threw it. The bills fluttered down like green confetti. They landed on his shoulders, in his hair, in the dirt. "Be my bodyguard," she said, smirking. "That should cover your sick mother's meds for a while." Fitzgerald looked at the money. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. His knuckles turned white. He was shaking. But he knelt. He knelt in the dirt and picked up the bills, one by one. The dream shifted. The scene changed. The art studio. The smell of turpentine and oil paint. Fitzgerald was standing in the corner, holding a heavy canvas. He had been standing there for an hour. His arms were shaking. Elenora was painting. She didn't like what she had done. In a fit of pique, she grabbed the jar of dirty paint water. She splashed it on him. Gray, murky water soaked his shirt. "Clean it up," she said, laughing. "That's what you're here for, Woodard. To clean up my messes." He got on his knees and scrubbed the floor. The dream shifted again. The rain. The muddy field. She made him carry her because she didn't want to ruin her shoes. He slipped. They fell. She slapped him. "Useless," she screamed in the dream. "You are useless." Fitzgerald sat in the mud, rain dripping from his nose, and looked at her. That look. It wasn't submission anymore. It was a promise. Elenora sat up in the dark room, sweat sticking her shirt to her back. Her heart was racing. The door to the bedroom slammed open. Light from the hallway flooded in, blinding her. Fitzgerald stood in the doorway. He filled the frame. He wasn't the skinny boy from the dream. He was broad, imposing, a wall of muscle and expensive fabric. He held a tray in his hand. He walked to the bedside table and dropped the tray with a clatter. Soup sloshed over the side of the bowl. It looked cold. There was a piece of stale bread beside it. "Eat," Fitzgerald said. Elenora looked at the food. Her stomach turned. It looked like slop. "I'm not hungry," she whispered. Fitzgerald leaned against the doorframe. He crossed his arms. A cruel smile played on his lips. "I didn't ask if you were hungry," he said. "I said eat. Don't expect anyone to spoon-feed you." He paused, his eyes raking over her disheveled form. "My Queen." The title was an insult. A knife twisting in an old wound. He threw the word at her like she had thrown the money at him.