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)
She yanks the sweater from my hand and pulls it on like her life depends on it. I guess she feels like it does, as cold as she must be. It hangs on her like I guessed it would, reaching her knees, making it so she has to roll up the sleeves a few times for her hands to be visible.
I wish she didn’t look so damn cute like this. I wish a lot of things right now, as we leave the building without a word. She walks with her head down and her arms wrapped around herself, refusing to look at me even when I open the passenger door for her to scramble inside. She’s shivering hard enough to make her teeth chatter so I turn on the heat to help warm her up. Slowly, she relaxes as it gets warmer, but she still won’t say a word. I know better than to ask her to.
Besides, I wouldn’t know what to say back. Talking has never been my thing, even with my friends. All that matters is getting her home.
And if she thinks there’s anything weird about me knowing the way without having to ask, she doesn’t mention it. She just holds her hands out toward the vents blowing warm air, taking any little bit of comfort she can while silent rage rolls off her.
I know that feeling too well.
Chapter 10
Tamson
Thank God, Mom and Dad left the door unlocked. One of the few things that’s gone my way today.
I vaguely notice the sound of Kellen’s engine as he pulls away. He waited for me to open the front door. I bet he thinks that makes him a good person. Meanwhile, I don’t know how he can live with himself. God forbid he be decent for the sake of being decent. No, he has to make sure to get something out of it first.
I still taste him on my tongue as I run up the stairs with his sweater hanging around my knees. I have to take it off. I have to get every reminder of him off me.
There’s a sob trapped in my throat by the time I reach my room, closing and locking the door before falling against it. Now the sob can come out, and it does—silent, but with the power to wipe out all my strength. Not that I had that much to begin with, but now I can barely drag myself to the bathroom. Only the feeling of being soiled and the desperate need to wash this experience off me is enough to keep me moving.
There were times between yesterday afternoon and the moment Kellen woke me up that I was sure I would die in that closet. I tried not to give in to despair, I really did, but certain situations make it impossible to stay strong.
My body is so sore from head to toe, it takes effort to pull the sweater over my head and toss it on the floor. Then I have to go to the trouble of taking off my bra and panties. Finally, I’m able to step into the shower, where the first touch of hot water on my skin is as close to heaven as I can imagine. Such a simple comfort, but profound enough to bring me to tears. All I can do for the longest time is stand with my head lowered while water runs over my hair and down my back.
Pretty soon, my tears mingle with what’s running down my face and dripping from the tip of my nose. How could they? What has to be wrong with a person to think there’s anything normal or right or funny about what they did? How could they do that to me?
I can’t stop shaking. Tears turn to sobs rising up from deep inside me. I can’t stand up anymore. I’m not strong enough. With my back against the wall, I slide down its length the way I slid down the door yesterday once I knew nobody was coming for me.
This is never going to end, is it? They’ll never give up. They’ll never stop finding new ways to torture me. How am I supposed to live with that? How do I fight it? I couldn’t fight the girls yesterday; I couldn’t stop them from stripping me down and locking me up. I was unprepared, just like I’ll be unprepared next time because there is no way for me to anticipate what these psychos are going to do next. They will always have the upper hand. And I’m always, always going to be on my own.
What if I just give up?
The idea lights up something inside me, even as my sobs go on. My heart is breaking, I’m sure of it, and I wish it would. I need this to be over. Images flash through my mind’s eye—are there enough pills in the medicine cabinet to get the job done? What about Dad’s razor blades in his bathroom? All I would have to do is take one. Or I could use a knife from the kitchen. It would take nothing to slice myself open and bleed out, and finally, finally be done with this.