Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
My stomach rolls with thoughts of being able to overpower him. I know I have to, but deep down, I don’t want to be the one to come out victorious. I’ve fought all my life to put myself in situations that will finally end my pain, but there’s always that part of me that pops up, needing to fight.
The same will happen tonight. I can only hope that he’s relentless.
As I creep closer to the house, I attempt to shake off the memories of his skills in playing my body, of giving me exactly what I needed. I don’t need that shit in my head, in my body, but I’m also incapable of clearing my mind.
My pulse races, my body quickening with the possibilities.
I can guess what will happen tonight. I know he’ll use me before he discards me. That’s his own weakness, his own inability to have me in front of him and not take what he wants.
I know I’m just as much an addiction to him as he is to me, and he hates me for it. I see the animosity in his eyes every time he looks at me.
Well, not every time.
I freeze, my feet planted firmly on the ground when I think about the soft touches, the light brushes of his fingertips.
I hate myself for wanting that side of him as well, even though he was only using it to disarm me. It was another manipulation, not his own need to comfort me. I can’t let myself imagine any differently. Getting delusional, hopeful, will only make things end too quickly.
I want the pain long and drawn out. I need to feel alive, even in my death.
The sight of my breath leaving my lips on the chilly night air grounds me once again. It’s as if experiencing everything for the very last time is almost cathartic. Before long, I’ll no longer hurt or feel cold. I’ll no longer ache or need. It’s a thrilling experience as I silently step onto the front porch.
For a flash of a second, I consider just knocking on the door. He’d never expect that, and maybe the sight of me standing in front of him will startle him enough that I could get the upper hand just a little. I want to hurt him, want to draw blood, even though I know how this ends.
I know I have to beg him to destroy the necklace and diary before I draw my last breath. I know I’ll spend the rest of my eternity haunted by them if he doesn’t. I pray he’ll grant this one final wish, but I doubt he will. Torturing, even after I leave this earth, would be more his style, and it makes me pause once again.
My heart is racing, the sound of it so loud in my ears that I can’t determine if the front door makes a noise as I work to open the lock. As I tuck the lock kit back into my pocket, I listen for noise, try to sense any movement, and come up empty.
He could easily sneak up on me. The man has the same if not more skill level than I do at this sort of thing.
I toss away the idea of searching his house for my possessions. I have no idea where to look, and if my returning for his final justice is his plan, he’d never leave them out where I can find them. He’d never risk avoiding the confrontation.
I know he’s here. I watched from a distance as his house went dark, each light turning off.
From spending time in bed with him, I also know he’s as much a restless sleeper as I am. It’s difficult to experience and do the things we do and just fall into a peaceful sleep at night. It means I only have a short time to catch him fully resting.
A zing of excitement at what’s coming rushes up my spine, the thrill of apprehension chasing right after it as I make my way silently toward his bedroom.
When I woke up untied, I didn’t spend much time in his bedroom. The urge to crawl back on the mattress and wait for him was too strong. I said the words that ended whatever it was we had, and for some reason, he kept his end of the bargain.
I’m slow and cautious as I make my way through the house, determined not to alert him by making the mistake of running into a piece of furniture. Thankfully, his house is sparsely furnished, making it easy to get to his bedroom door silently.
The door is cracked, and I hold my breath, as if it makes a difference, with a prayer in my head the door doesn’t squeak.
It moves, silently and efficiently, and I pause, staring at the form on the bed.