Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
I think about my mother. The way she used to hum off-key while making coffee in our tiny kitchen, the smell of burnt toast and her cheap vanilla perfume. Carl who never looked up from his phone long enough to notice I existed unless I was late with the rent again. Or unless he was drunk. Which was ninety percent of the time. Did they report me missing? Or did they just shrug and figure I finally ran away like I always swore I would after another screaming match? The bigger, crueler question gnaws at me: did they even notice I was gone? Have three whole weeks passed without a single person in the world wondering where Salem Bloom disappeared to? The thought lands like a stone in my chest, cold and heavy, pressing down until I can barely breathe.
I shuffle over to the giant gold-framed mirror across the room, my bare feet silent on the heated marble. The girl staring back is me and not-me all at once. My eyes—still that same stormy gray—are sunken now, ringed with purple shadows that no amount of concealer they slathered on me can hide. My lips are chapped and smudged with the remnants of the deep red lipstick they forced me to wear earlier, defiance bleeding through in the way I keep biting them bloody. My hair, once a wild cascade of dark waves I was proud of, hangs limp and dull around my shoulders, the shine stripped away by whatever chemical shampoo they used in that first degrading “prep” session. My collarbones jut out sharper than they ever have, my wrists look breakable, and there’s a faint bruise blooming along my upper arm from where one of the handlers grabbed me too hard yesterday when I talked back.
The edges of everything I used to be are fraying so fast I can almost hear the threads snapping. Confidence, fire, that smart-mouth armor I wore like a second skin. It’s all unraveling, thread by thread, leaving me raw and exposed.
I try to force a smirk anyway, the same one I used to flash at boys who catcalled me or teachers who underestimated me. It wobbles, cracks, and dies halfway. My reflection looks pathetic. Broken. “Pull it together, Salem,” I whisper, but the words come out small and cracked, barely audible over the pounding of my own heart. “No one likes a quitter.” The pep talk feels like a joke now. Who am I kidding? I’m so tired. So goddamn tired. My knees want to buckle. I want to curl up on this ridiculous bed and never get up again.
I roll my shoulders back anyway, ignoring the protest in every joint. I try to remember the things I kept repeating to myself like a mantra these past three endless weeks, but the list feels like lies whispered by a stranger.
You are not weak.
You are not helpless.
You are not—
I stop. Because right now, in this glittering cage, I am all of those things. Scared my skin crawls and my mouth tastes like metal. Alone in a way that hollows me out from the inside, the kind of alone that makes the air feel too thick to breathe. Hungry down to my marrow, the kind of hunger that makes my hands tremble and my thoughts fuzzy. Sad, a deep, desolate sadness that sits on my chest like wet concrete, making every heartbeat feel like a chore. Desolate. That’s the word that keeps circling in my head. Like a desert at midnight—endless, empty, freezing cold even under a burning sun.
The lock clicks suddenly, and Clipboard Karen marches back in, her heels stabbing the marble with military precision. I don’t know her name, but she’s a full-on Karen if I’ve ever met one. Her botoxed face is pinched tighter than usual, lips pursed into a thin, disapproving line, that perpetual sour expression carved deeper by whatever expensive fillers keep her looking perpetually disappointed in the world. She’s the one who oversees all us girls, barking orders, checking clipboards, treating us like inventory that might spoil.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” she snaps, eyes raking over me like I’m already defective merchandise.
I blink slowly, too exhausted to flinch. My voice comes out hoarse. “Because I wasn’t sure if it was meant to be worn or used as dental floss.”
She inhales sharply, nostrils flaring. “You think you’re funny?”
“Not really.” The words crack on the way out, and I hate how small I sound. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes but I refuse to let them fall. “I think I’m desperate. And scared out of my mind. And so hungry my stomach feels like it’s eating itself. But the jokes… the jokes are all I’ve got left to keep from screaming.”
She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t soften. Just levels me with that curdled-milk stare that could freeze lava, then mutters something under her breath about “breaking me in properly this time” before spinning on her heel and clicking back out. The door slams behind her, and the lock engages with a final, echoing metallic snap that vibrates through my bones.