The Survivor Read Online Jessica Gadziala

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Dark, Insta-Love, Suspense Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
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But nothing felt alright.

The whole world felt tilted on its axis, and I was slipping off inch by inch.

I threw out my hand, pressing it into the wall to ease the dizziness, to feel more stable.

What was I supposed to do now?

Sleep would have been the obvious answer. But there was no way in hell I could sleep now. Or possibly ever again.

I needed to… talk to the police. To Detective Vaughn. Try to give him more details. Anything that might be helpful. Since I was the only living victim of this deranged man.

To do that, though, I needed to… get cleaned up.

Home popped into my head, a place I’d always thought of as my own little sanctuary. Now, it felt like nothing but a crime scene.

Would the press be there now? Doing broadcasts from outside my house? Speculating about me and what I’d endured?

Oh, God.

Would the news reach New York State? Would my family be watching it, reading about it?

I had to call them.

I would call them.

Then I needed to figure out how to get some clothes. Then shower. And get to the precinct.

Feeling more focused, I walked to the window, pushing open the blinds, trying to orient myself.

There was a pharmacy that was close enough to walk to.

I’d look crazy doing so in my oversized clothes and socks, not shoes, but it would be a means to an end. It wasn’t like it was a box store or anything, but most chain pharmacies had a clothing aisle. Leggings, socks, packs of tees. Nothing fancy. But clean. New. Not worn by God-knew-who before me.

They’d also have some sort of footwear. Even if it was just those throw-away shoes you could keep rolled up in your purse for a night out when your heels started to hurt you.

I could probably get a charger there too.

Toiletries.

A notebook and pen to start writing down things as I remembered them.

Some makeup to try to hide some of my bruises.

Decision made, I went to check my purse, finding all my cards right where I left them, then grabbing my phone, and doing the task I was dreading the most.

Calling my family.

It was early, but my father worked construction, and was always up before the sun.

“What’s wrong?” he answered on the second ring, knowing there was no good reason to be getting a call from me so early on in the day.

“I’m okay,” I started.

“Oh, Jesus. Were you in an accident?” he asked.

“I’m okay, but someone broke into my house last night,” I told him.

“You were robbed?”

“Dad, listen, please,” I begged, stomach flip-flopping. “A man broke in last night and tried to… hurt me,” I said, choking on the words, unable to say what it really was to my father.

Attempted rape and murder.

“What? Oh, Jesus,” he said, and I could hear his lumbering footsteps as he moved through the house, going to wake up my mom, and repeating what I’d just told him before the connection got a little fuzzier as he put me on speaker. “Your mom is here with us.”

“I’m okay, Mom,” I told her, feeling tears well in my eyes because, I don’t know. Moms could just do that to us, it seemed. “I managed to fight him off and I, ah, I stabbed him, then he ran. I’m okay.”

“That’s my girl,” my father said, and I could practically see him nodding his approval.

“Did he… did he touch you?” my mom asked, voice tight.

“He tried to,” I admitted. I didn’t need to tell them about him cutting off my clothes. About the pictures. I hoped the news didn’t know those parts either, so they could be spared from that truth. At least for the time being. “I just… I wanted to tell you guys before you heard it on the news. But I’m okay. I talked to the police. I went to the hospital—“

“The hospital?” my mom squeaked.

“Thought you said you were okay,” my father said at the same time, his booming voice all but drowning out her much softer one.

“I am okay,” I insisted. “I got hit a few times, so they just wanted to make sure I don’t have a concussion. I don’t. I’m fine.”

I was good at this.

Compartmentalizing my own feelings when dealing with my parents.

They were both big with their emotions, just in different ways. My mom with hysterics. My dad with rage. So I’d needed to be the calm and rational one my whole life, easing them into things, putting my own feelings aside to soothe over theirs.

Did that land me in a lot of therapy during college? It sure did. Was it a contributing factor to why I didn’t want to move back to that area? Yes, absolutely.

The conversation was a lot more questions from them and reassurances from me before I managed to say the one thing to get them off the phone.


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