Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
With the lights of the bathroom assaulting my retinas, I blinked the dark spots away, forcing myself to look down at my clothes.
But Elliot was quicker, shedding them off me and my limbs which were somehow pliable. I felt completely numb, unable to fight him.
The spray of the shower filled the room with a noise that wasn’t the slap of my clothes on tile, my heavy breathing or my heartbeat.
Elliot made quick work of his own clothes, then after another slow blink, we were in the shower. The water was almost scalding, yet I wished it was hotter. Wished it would burn the skin from my flesh so I could shed it like a snake. Turn into something else. I didn’t make that request. I didn’t do anything but watch the water turn red and go down the drain. The last evidence of my crime. Of Jasper’s life. I figured Knox would’ve burned his body by now.
Erasing him from existence felt easy.
Erasing him from my insides felt impossible.
Elliot’s hands on my skin brought me back from the brink. I was unable to detach from his touch, even in this state. I forced myself to focus on the movement of his hands, lathering soap over every inch of my body. The touch wasn’t sexual, not in the slightest. It was caretaking. As if I were completely unable to take care of myself.
Which was true.
Everything felt drained out of me. I’d held it all together. I’d done everything that was required to fix my life, to save it. There was nothing left. I was nothing. And Elliot was holding me together, instead of saving me in the traditional sense of the word by brandishing weapons, drawing blood. He was washing the blood from me. He was holding me when I didn’t have the energy to hold myself.
The shower turned off, then a fluffy towel encircled me before Elliot began methodically drying me, then himself. Then he gathered me in the towel like I was a child, carrying me to my room.
Still, neither of us spoke. The silence would’ve been jarring if not for the uproar in my head. I vaguely wondered what he was hearing, what he was thinking. But those thoughts quickly floated away. I didn’t have the energy to hold on to them. Elliot rifled through drawers, putting me in panties, his shirt. The softness of the fabric and the subtle scent of him did little to calm me like it did in the past. I could barely hold myself up while Elliot put on his underwear. Luckily, he didn’t leave me standing in the middle of the room, weighed down by gravity for long.
The next thing I knew, we were horizontal. When he gathered me in his arms, I lay there, staring at the ceiling while he lazily drew circles on my back.
Still, we didn’t speak.
What was there to say?
ELLIOT
She was asleep.
Or unconscious.
I figured it was the latter. Sleep was peaceful, something you drifted into when you were relaxed, when your brain stopped running, when you felt safe. Although she hadn’t said a word, I knew that her mind was screaming at her. That’s what I saw behind her vacant stare, her wordless shrieks. Her body was ramrod-straight, even when I tried to bring her into my arms. It was like her muscles were tight as a bow string. And as much as I wished—fuck, did I wish—I had the power to make Calliope feel safe, I knew that wasn’t in my control.
I was powerless. Just like I had been while waiting for her, knowing she was doing something dangerous beyond my comprehension. Even with her there, alive and breathing in my presence, I couldn’t save her, couldn’t bring her back to me. She’d saved herself from whatever physical threat she’d been under. So I had to trust that she’d save herself from the mental battle too. I’d done what I could—washed her, murmured empty platitudes in her ear, brought her to her bed, laid her down with me.
She’d gone along with everything, but not in the way she did when we did other things in my bedroom, when her submission was an active decision. She’d gone along because her mind wasn’t there with me. She wasn’t there with me. Even when her limbs slackened somewhat, when her breathing evened, and it was clear that she was no longer awake, I didn’t consider what happened falling asleep. Her body has simply expired from what she’d been through. I held her tighter. She was painfully limp in my arms. Like she’d given up.
Calliope. Giving up. Unfathomable.
Finding her in a pile on the floor covered in blood was the worst moment of my life. Despite the relief of knowing the blood wasn’t hers. Some part of me knew a physical wound might’ve been easier for me to deal with. I could stitch. Staunch bleeding. But this? Whatever this wound was inside of her? I was defenseless against it.