Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 36950 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 185(@200wpm)___ 148(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36950 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 185(@200wpm)___ 148(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
All that effort and I was not even close to finding my princess.
Dead end after fucking dead end.
When will something finally go my fucking way?
Six
Violet
The darkness had shattered my mind, but hope put it back together. Every time I needed another hint, I tasted Devlin’s blood on my lips to remind myself that it was real instead of the miserable hallucinations that tried to push my sanity away. His blood became an anchor in reality that I could cling to, a piece of him that was spilled in pursuit of me.
I forced myself to sleep. The exhaustion didn’t claim me like it had so many times before. I simply let the ropes grip my wrists until they were numb and then drifted into the darkness. I wasn’t worried about a white light, or never waking up again because Connor said I would live. It might have been the only piece of truth that ever left his disgusting mouth.
I don’t know how long I slept, but I had a little more energy when I woke up. I twisted--pulled--tugged on the ropes. I didn’t care if they made me bleed or scarred my skin. The numbness allowed me to peel away scabs and flesh while I stayed focused on survival or escape. I battled the ropes until I had nothing left, then I slept again. Sleep gave me more energy, so I kept fighting, twisting, and doing everything in my power to force a single thread to loosen.
Time passed like molasses in an hourglass, and I knew it was my blood dripping away--I felt it on my arm. I felt it on my shoulder. If I could have seen how much damage I was doing, I might have quit. The vain image of the girl I used to be would not have sacrificed her porcelain skin for freedom, but I wasn’t that girl anymore. I was a different version of Violet Cabot. I was a fighter.
“Ow, fuck!” I nearly screamed when one hard pull on the rope squeezed my bones so hard my thumb almost broke, but it wasn’t the only new painful sensation.
The rope had moved. It had slid from my wrist to my hand. Progress. It was like salvation poured on my soul. The rope was no longer wrapped around numbness. I could feel it again. Every centimeter was agonizing, but I burned my skin on the roughness until I felt the rope against my fingernail. I was almost there.
I bit down on my tongue and yanked so hard it was pierced by my teeth--for nothing. I refused to give up. Blood pooled in my mouth, but I didn’t care. Another yank. Then another. A harder one, one that made the pain manifest in a kaleidoscope of color in front of my eyes. My hand started to go numb like my wrists, but then I felt the rope pass the nail on my thumb. I was almost free. A quick tug and the weight of the world crashed into my arm as it slumped at my side.
“Almost there…” I sputtered my own blood and it mixed with Devlin’s on my lips.
I squeezed my hand into a fist and pumped until the feeling returned. Hanging by one hand was more agonizing than having the support of the rope on both wrists, but I was able to push up with my toes. My arm slowly lifted until I wrapped my fingers around the blindfold and ripped it off.
Light. It was blinding. I had to force my eyelids closed until I adjusted to it. When they slowly opened and came into focus, I saw that I was in some sort of old shack, or shed--the light that blinded me was coming in between the boards and around the door. Even that shimmer was enough to sting my eyes. I looked up at the rope on my other wrist and forced my arm to lift so I could fight with the knot.
There was enough adrenaline left to make it surge through my body. I chipped and broke my nails as I fumbled with the rope on my other wrist, but after a couple of minutes, I loosened it. My other hand came free, I dropped flat on my feet, and then I simply collapsed to the ground.
“You can’t slow down…” I spat out the last bit of blood in my mouth and stared at it. It was mine. It was Devlin’s. I couldn’t tell the difference. It didn’t matter anymore.
I was a mess. The wrist I fought to free was mangled. It probably needed to be cleaned by a surgeon--it could very well be permanently scarred when the wounds finally healed. It seemed to stop bleeding as the blood congealed. That was another symbol of hope. I wasn’t going to bleed out. I pressed my palms to the floor and tried to get my legs to work. They were weak, but with a little effort, they responded.