Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 39689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 198(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 132(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 198(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 132(@300wpm)
Why was I the one that always had to suffer?
Why did it always seem like my life would only continue to be a series of tragedies?
I walked toward her. When I reached her bedside, I grabbed her hand, which was already turning cold, in my own. A choked sob found its way past my lips. The gates holding most of my tears back crashed open, and they came flooding out. I dropped to my knees beside her bed, holding her hand in both of my own, and I cried, resisting the urge to wail and scream, instead holding all of it in.
I wanted the man that did this to her to suffer—suffer so painfully that he begged for death, only to never receive its peacefulness. I wanted him to be put through so much pain that he would be left begging to the God that he didn’t believe in to help him, to ease his pain.
It’s what he deserved for what he had done to Lacie.
All Lacie had ever done to the man was love him.
They had met four years ago on August sixteenth. She and I were in college at the time. We were your typical college girls who were fresh out of high school, aiming to be the best in our class. We didn’t party, and we didn’t drink. The only time we stayed up late was so that we could study for our exam the next day. The only thing we were interested in was graduating and getting on with our lives.
Especially me, because I was struggling to recover from the mess Damien had left my life in.
Until he came along.
He caught her attention the second he stepped into the lecture hall. She practically drooled onto the table in front of her at the sight of him. Even I could admit that he was good-looking. He walked in wearing faded jeans with the latest high tops on his feet. The shirt he wore was just a plain grey pocket-tee, but he wore it like no other guy could. He was tall and lean, but it was obvious that he could hold his own.
Lacie saw a gorgeous man. It was one of those moments that young girls have where they immediately begin planning their wedding and how many children they’re going to have together.
Though to most girls, he was their every dream come true, my back went rigid at the sight of him. If I were an animal, all of the fur on my back would have stood up straight like a needle. When his eyes met mine, I saw an unusual coldness in them, and his face was unreadable. His entire body language and those eyes spoke nothing but danger to me.
I’d had enough experience with one of the most dangerous men in the United States to know.
I warned Lacie to stay away from him. But best friend or not, she wouldn’t listen to me, claiming that I was just jealous that I didn’t have anyone that would love me like she knew he would love her.
I had bitten my tongue because Damien had loved me—loved me with every fiber of his being—but his love had destroyed me.
As time went on and as I continued to see Lacie and him together, I began to slowly change my views on him. I thought that I could have been wrong; maybe he was actually just a guy with a bad past, someone who had seen or been through too much. He was nice to her, and it seemed as if he cared for her deeply. At one point, I even thought he might lay down his life for her if need be.
Then, she started spending nights with him, and then those nights led to days, and then those days led to her actually moving in with him permanently. That’s when I started seeing less of her. We would make plans, and she would suddenly cancel on me. Then, she began to stop making plans with me entirely. Finally, she basically stopped talking to me altogether. She even dropped out of college.
She did all the same things I did when I was with Damien.
After three years, she finally left him. She came to me with the knowledge that I would take her in. When she showed up at my apartment door though, it shocked me. I almost didn’t recognize her. She was badly bruised and scarred almost to unrecognition. She wouldn’t eat, saying that she was too fat, but the poor girl was practically a stick. Her bones were pressed against her skin. The best way to describe her was that she looked like she was on drugs, and not marijuana, but hardcore drugs, like meth and cocaine.
After a couple of months, she finally felt comfortable and safe enough for us to go out to town. It was okay for a while; for months, everything seemed normal.