Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Burgundy. The color of blood right as it dries.
I've never cared much about what people thought of me. I didn't care if they were afraid, or if they looked at me sideways for whatever reason. I'd walk down the street and not bat a single eye at another person unless they were a threat.
I was free. To live, to die, to exist between the norm.
Until I arrived at the doorstep of love and found him staring back at me with eyes so soft they reminded me of what it felt like to be free from pain. It has been a whole year, and I still hear the gunshot go off every time I close my eyes at night. Feel the kickback against my chest. I faded into nothing for the first few months, wandering through life with a set routine.
I went to work.
I ran.
I ate… what I could.
I slept.
There was nothing more to me than those set tasks. Did I feel something more for Asher than I gave myself credit for? I can’t even imagine feeling that sad over anyone outside of the very few I keep close. But there's a reason why, it's because they are hard to kill. I felt safety in that fact.
Twelve months. It's a long time to be sad over someone I still, to this day, refuse to accept I felt anything more than lust for.
Lust.
Friendship.
Companionship.
Not that I am well-versed in that either.
Sex I understand, but being so addicted to someone that the mere memory of how they felt buried inside you could make you wetter than a summer storm?
No. I can’t say I’m particularly experienced in that field, or pleased that it’s where I’ve found myself at. Even a year later.
“Ivy.” Her voice is like nails on a damn chalkboard, but I keep myself focused on the wall in front of me. I promised Leon that I’d stick to therapy, so I will. “Are you still having the same dreams?”
She’s beautiful. I hate it. A therapist shouldn’t look like she’d fuck your husband on a Sunday afternoon and then go for drinks with you afterwards. Or that’s my bitterness talking.
I need to get out of this damn room. Did I clean all the blood off me before coming in here? Do I even care?
“Nightmares,” I correct, crossing my ankle over the other. “And they’re not all that bad. I happen to like nightmares. They remind me to stay vigilant.”
“And what are your thoughts on it being a reflection of Parker?” She keeps circling back to Parker, as if I want to talk about him. As if I gave a fuck about the cockroach. Just how much has Leon told this bird, anyway?
I shrug. “Parker was unfortunate, but he was a monster in his own right, so I guess it makes sense if they are about him.” I pause for a moment, head tilting. “Though I’m one to talk.”
I leave my answer vague. It’s to bait her as much as it’s to see if she reacts to anything. Plenty of wives despise their husbands. They probably make up for the majority of her clients.
She stops writing on her iPad, her blue eyes moving to mine from behind her glasses. I hate when she does this. It’s as if she can see right through all the dark, dirty places that I've kept hidden. The parts I don’t want anyone to see, much less someone in her profession.
“Ivy.” She plucks off her glasses and places them on top of her lap. “Why is it that you refer to yourself as a monster?”
Bricks climb high in my head as I try to piece back the rubble he left behind after smashing through it. I keep all of my humanity in a filing cabinet inside my mind, and I'm never opening it again.
“Because you don’t do the things I’ve done and not become one, even if you aren't born one.” I hold her stare, wondering if she'll flinch. “Because who am I to decide which evils are worse than the other?”
Familiarity wraps around this room like an old coat. The ticking clock. The massive tank that devours the entire wall behind her desk, housing random fish of all kinds. She's a maximalist. My mind is cluttered enough without my physical space to be. This office is a nightmare.
Her words refocus my attention. “Not all things evil produce evil, Ivanya. Why do you think the very same thing that can kill you could also be used to save you?” Is she even allowed to say this? What kind of therapist is this bitch? “—Venom, for one.”
The world shrinks around me, making it harder to breathe.
I harden my expression. Fingernails dig into my palms as every muscle in my body tightens.
With a shrug, she continues scribbling on her iPad with obvious nonchalance. “—They need venom to produce the anti-venom.”