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)
The mind is a fucked-up thing. Dealing with tragedy and trauma make us do even more fucked-up shit.
I shake my fucking head. There’s no fucking chance I’m going to mentally withdraw and become goddamned Dr. Phil in my head.
“I hid her diary before calling the cops. I took her necklace off and hid it, too. Those are the only two things I have left of that part of my life. I keep them in a safe deposit box in my hometown of Dighton, Kansas.”
She yawns without even bothering to cover her mouth, but she’s still energetic enough to lift that fucking glass to her lips.
Her confessions shouldn’t bother me, but they do.
Pieces, memories, regrets from my own childhood start to seep in.
I can take a step back and understand how fucked up my life was back then.
I know what my father did was wrong. My mother didn’t deserve the way she was treated, the way she was murdered. I know I could’ve done more to help her. I also know that I was a child, looking through a lens, learning how to behave. Maybe it was selfish of me to sit back and let her take the brunt of every blow, to agree with my dad about her wrongdoings because it protected me. What could I have done? I couldn’t square off with my father and come out victorious.
What took me so long to admit was that I didn’t want to die like she did. It was intrinsic for me to survive.
The other side of that same coin was that I was taught from such a young age that women are less than men. They don’t hold the same value as we do. That’s a hard cycle to break and clearly something I struggle with even now.
But children?
They’re to be protected, to be taught.
That’s what makes me wish I was the one to put Lauren’s father down like the sick, rabid dog that he was.
She never should’ve suffered that way. Her sister never should’ve had to deal with a man creeping into her bedroom at night.
I push away thoughts of blaming her mother. She didn’t mention what happened to the woman, but that engrained part of me will always blame the woman first, to point a finger and say Liana suffered because her mother wasn’t enough.
I scrape my hands over the top of my head, annoyed that I even fucking care to begin with.
I don’t want to think about Lauren’s life choices and how they probably all lead back to the way she was raised. It lends an element of culpability to something she couldn’t control, and at the end of the day, choices have consequences.
She chose to step over me and leave me for dead, and there are consequences for that choice. She can’t use her past and expect me to forgive.
It’s not like she’s asking for forgiveness anyway. The limited knowledge I have of the woman is she’s always unremorseful, and I have no doubt this situation is no different.
“It should’ve been me,” she mutters, her voice tired and distant. “Instead of Liana, it should’ve been me. Maybe things would be different. Maybe my life wouldn’t be in fucking shambles.”
She empties the dark liquid down her throat, and I hate the unblemished sight of it. My bruises should still be there. My mark should be painting her skin in blues and purples.
A soft, humorless chuckle erupts from her when she realizes she has drained the whiskey bottle.
“If you’re going to kill me, do it while I’m awake not asleep.” She gives me a weak smile, but it does nothing to detract from the darkness in her eyes. “I wouldn’t want to miss it.”
I don’t respond, and from the blank look on her face, she doesn’t expect me to. Most of the time we’ve spent together has been in silence, and there’s no need to change things up now.
I don’t tell her I won’t take her life, but I know I couldn’t. We’re too alike. Ending her would be like ending my own reflection, an impossible task.
Hurting her, torturing her, fuck, making her come is just too much fun.
I wince from the sound, knowing she’s going to have one hell of a headache tomorrow, when her forehead thumps on the table. Soft sounds escape her lips, making it evident she’s finally passed out.
I should leave her just like she is, just like I left her on the floor the first time I fucked her, over a week ago, but there’s just something a little too lifeless about the way her arms are hanging down, her neck at the wrong angle, that gets me to my feet.
I’m not careful with her. I don’t squat low and gently lift her from the chair. I pick her up like I hate her because I do. Tossing her on the bed is lethargic, but I hate she isn’t awake to experience it.