Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
But never, not even when I’m with my friends, not when I’m in the middle of a party and miles away from sober, do I feel peaceful. Tamson is the closest thing to peace.
And she’s been haunting me since last night worse than ever, to the point where my nerves are ready to shred. I need to do something to get rid of this feeling, like there’s something dangerous pacing in me. An animal that needs to be set free, even if it will tear shit to pieces. I would rather have that happen than be torn to pieces myself. That’s exactly how this feels. Like I’m being ripped apart.
It could be the sleep I didn’t get last night making it hard to string my thoughts together as I sit up with a groan and rub my eyes with my fists. I’m so tired I feel sick to my stomach, but I push through it because the thought of Tamson locked in a closet makes it impossible to sit still. I have to get up, have to try like hell to get in the shower.
For a while, I stand with my forearms against the wall and my head resting on them while water that feels like ice-cold needles pummels my shoulders and back. Not my favorite way to get my brain moving faster, but it works. I feel almost human by the time I’m finished, drying off quickly, then throwing on a sweater and jeans.
No matter what I do, no matter where I am in the house, I see her in front of me. I can imagine her crying, begging for help, screaming until her voice breaks. And there’s nothing for her to drink, is there? She has to be suffering.
I don’t know who I hate more as I head out into the damp, gray morning. Do I hate her for making me care? Or do I loathe myself for being weak and pathetic enough to make the familiar drive to school on an unfamiliar day?
My teeth grind hard enough to make my jaw ache. Turning on the stereo and cranking up the hardest, most pounding music I can find doesn’t help much to ease my anger, my resentment. I shouldn’t have let them do this. Maybe I would’ve been able to sleep last night if I had said no, if I had told them to think of something else. It’s not like they wouldn’t have. I would swear Tiana has turned tormenting Tamson into her life’s mission.
Discomfort makes me shift in my seat when I try to imagine what Tamson’s going through in there. If anything happened to her, if she got hurt or sick or something because of this, it’s on my head. I wouldn’t come out and admit that, but I would feel it. It would haunt me. Not because I give a shit about her or anything, but because she didn’t really do anything to deserve this except being born the daughter of a gambler who doesn’t know his limits. That’s it. That’s all she did. She must’ve been so scared, thrown into a closet and abandoned yesterday. I wonder how long it took her to stop crying.
Fuck it. If anyone’s going to make her cry, it’s me.
The janitor closet next to the science lab. I see it in my head as I park close to the quad. One of the good things about showing up here on Saturday: the parking options. That means it doesn’t take long to reach the science building and go straight to the lab. There is a janitor’s closet next to it, across from the girls’ bathroom. I see why they chose this particular closet. It was probably the most logical place, since she has class here on Friday afternoons.
Sure enough, the knob won’t turn under my hand. When I unlock it, I’m not sure what to expect. Is she going to come flying out, screaming, clawing at me? Will she beg and weep? All I can do is open the door and find out.
The first thing that hits me is the smell—there’s a big bucket in the corner, which she must have used. Of course she did. She’s been in here for more than eighteen hours. The light flowing in from behind me illuminates a small, trembling heap in the opposite corner. She’s sleeping, curled in a ball, shaking from the cold. Even in sleep, she can’t escape her misery. They stripped her down to her underwear—who the fuck told them to do that?
Rage bursts in me, leaping to life in an inferno that could burn me to a crisp if I’m not careful. I didn’t tell them to strip her to her underwear. She must be freezing in here. There’s nothing between her skin and the floor, either. She’s using a roll of paper towels as a pillow, the one little bit of comfort she managed to find.