Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
In my white dress and fake wings.
It was him.
All along, it was him.
He was the one doing these things and oh my God, I’m so fucking stupid that I never realized. I’m so fucking stupid that I didn’t realize even when he told me.
“E-every time y-you…” I try again but fail.
This time my vision is starting to get blurry too.
And the next thing I know, I’m enveloped in strong, steely arms and his face—his fucking beautiful face—is swimming in my vision. His stupid fucking bottomless voice is filling my ears. “Jesus, fuck, just breathe,” he says, his voice rough. “Just breathe, Dora.”
Which brings me back to life, his name for me.
And I start to push against him as I yell, “Stop fucking calling me that! Stop fucking calling me Dora. I hate it, okay? I hate that name.” I push against him again some more. “I hate how you say it. I hate your voice when you say it. I hate your face when you say it. I hate your fucking eyes when you say it. I hate, hate, hate every single thing about you. I hate”—I keep pushing and thrashing against him—“you. I hate you so much that it hurts. You lied to me. You lied. You played me. You played with my feelings. You played with my trust. You played with my heart.”
Now along with pushing and thrashing, I’ve somehow started to punch him in the chest as well. I have a very loose realization of it. A vague sense of reality as to what I’m doing. Where my hands are and the harsh things on his body that I’m hitting.
Whereas I know exactly where he’s touching me. I know exactly how his arms are still bands made of steel that are wrapped around my waist, keeping me standing, keeping me grounded and glued to his body.
“Do you understand what that means? Do you have any clue what you’ve done to me? Any clue at all. How you’ve fucked me up.” I hit his jaw, I think. I can’t be sure as I keep going, “Every time I thought I was talking to him, I was talking to you. Every time I thought I’d managed to move on from you, that I thought I could do this, that I could be with him, I was getting closer and closer to you. Every time I thought I’d pulled myself away from you, I was drowning even more in you. Every time I felt guilty for talking to you behind his back was one more time the joke was on me.”
I scratch the side of his neck, tug at his collar, pull at his hair. I do everything I can to get away from him while at the same time get my hands on him.
“The fucking joke was on me because I believed you at the theater, in that closet. When you told me you cared about me. When you let me off the hook. I believed you. But that’s not true, is it? I believed the wrong thing. What I should’ve believed in was when you told me. The truth. Over the phone the other night. When you told me how you’d been lying to me, deceiving me. I should’ve believed you then. But I didn’t. I didn’t believe that you could do something like this and for me no less. And so when Shepard actually told me, do you know what my reaction was? I was happy. For a second, I thought all my dreams had come true. That what you’d said in the closet was right. You did feel something for me. You did care about me. That you cared about me to go to such lengths. But just like how I believed the wrong thing, that was the wrong reaction too. Because if you really felt something for me, you wouldn’t have done this. If you really cared about me, you wouldn’t have hurt me like this. You don’t know how to care, do you? You don’t know the right way. You don’t know… You can’t… You’re twisted. You’re a lair. You’re cruel. You’re harsh. You’re cold. God, you’re so fucking cold. You’re c-colder than winter a-and… It’s my f-fault. For always believing the wrong thing. For always feeling the wrong thing. For loving the wrong twin. For… I… Oh God, you’re so cold. You’re…”
And that’s it.
That’s all the words I have for him.
That’s probably all the words I know right now. The rest flow down my cheeks as salty water and leave my body in hitching breaths. All through this, I am acutely aware of one thing, however, one big and broad and heated thing: him.
I’m acutely aware of how his arms are still around my body, holding me upright. Actually no, his arms have moved. Something I’m only realizing now. Before, he had both of his arms wrapped around my waist, holding me against his body. But now one arm of his has moved and my breaths freeze when I realize where his hand is.