Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
I thought you bitches didn’t like it when I go on bloodlust sprees. Now, you’re mad I’m doing what you want? Assholes AND indecisive? Pick a struggle bench.
Kane
It’s just not like you to refuse a hunt.
Jude
I’m not mad, Pres. I’m worried about you.
Gag. Don’t ever say that mushy stuff again, big man. Just gave me nausea I need to take more meds for. Anyway, I’m totally fine. See you later today.
So I lied.
I’m totally not fine.
And I probably won’t be seeing them later today. I mean, I could before my trip to the loony bin, but they’d figure out something is wrong. Jude would also try to fight my dad to keep me out, which would get him in trouble with his own dad, and nobody wants that drama.
Besides, I can’t really tell them.
The words are stuck in my throat like stacked rocks, unwilling to budge.
Just like that time—if I try to speak, I can’t breathe.
If I can’t breathe, I feel everything.
And I hated it—feeling everything. I preferred the numbness, the lack of emotions…the endless floating.
I think I’m getting there, to the floating stage where I don’t exist for a while.
Become part of the stars for a while.
But for now, I have to keep my feet on the ground.
Because there’s something I loathe more than feeling everything—being pitied.
Or being seen as a hopeless case. Dad already does, and I don’t want to add Jude and Kane to the list.
I was out here for a good time. You know, before Dad handed me to his favorite Dr. Fenwick so he could dissect my brain again.
Probe my mind again.
Strap me to a bed, poke me with needles, extract my blood, and give me puzzles.
Will I get those again? The last time they studied me extensively, I was a kid, so maybe they’ll quit the LEGO-like nonsense?
Guess I have to wait and find out.
Though maybe that’s not a bad idea. I’d take LEGO over Dr. Fenwick’s dull personality any day.
I wonder if Dr. Duret will finally come to her senses and tell her boss, Fenwick, that I’m totally fine.
Okay, I’m not, but I’m not dangerous.
Fine, I am.
I’ve been sensing the disintegration of my mind slowly but surely over these last couple of days. The sounds are starting to drown out my thoughts; I can barely hear myself.
This morning, I stared in the mirror, and I don’t know who the fuck stared back at me. He had hollow eyes and snot running from his nose as silent tears streamed down his face.
“You never helped me,” he whispered, and I had to look away before I drove my head straight into him.
He should’ve died. Why the hell is he still alive?
Anyway, my brain has been in a bit of a state for some time, but it’s spiked since the night I hurt Marcus and he pretended nothing happened.
My mind rippled, spanned the fuck out, and finally broke.
Then it was shattered into pieces last night after Dad apologized for his cutthroat intentions.
So what did I do? Killing some desolate souls or slicing some throats normally would’ve been my go-to solutions. Or maybe provoking Dad so he’d send Lenin to beat me the hell up.
But nah, none of those would’ve helped in this state of complete desperation.
Instead, I’ve done something uncharacteristic.
I spent the entire night writing a letter.
Yes. I was writing a letter. Blasphemous under any form of circumstances, and no, Dr. Duret won’t get the credit, because she’s a fucking liar.
It wasn’t helpful or cathartic like she preached. If anything, I found myself hitting the back of my head on the wall so hard, I was sure I’d bleed out.
Or pass out.
Unfortunately, neither of those options happened.
What did happen, however, was lots of shaking and a flood of water that wouldn’t stop coming out of my eyes. Maybe Dr. Fenwick will find a goddamn cure for that.
But I did finish the fucking letter and handed it to Hayes this morning with clear instructions to deliver it personally later today.
After I’m trapped in Dr. Fenwick’s dungeon—sorry, office.
But maybe that wasn’t a good idea, maybe I should ask Hayes to burn it, because I’ll be gone by then, and…what’s the point of it after that?
Just a last hurrah? Me being selfish again with the man who’s only ever been patient with me?
And he has been patient. I know he has. I’m such a clusterfuck, I wouldn’t wish me on my worst enemy. The most nightmarish lover anyone could want.
But Marcus did want me. Even if it was for my outer shell of a body, he still put up with my high-maintenance personality all the time.
The least I could do was let him go, but nah, I had to be selfish again.
I guess I wanted him to know the truth he’s been probing for before I fuck off to that place—where they will kill my soul.