Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Please, Ren, please come back to me.
30
SCARLET
I’m unsure how much time passes.
I’m no longer crying. A numbness has overtaken my mind.
I never thought I’d find myself here, least of all with Ren. My eyes are swollen and hurt from the constant crying, but more than that, my heart hurts.
How long did I beg him to let me out? How many times did I tell him to speak to me, to let me explain what I meant? I’ve lost track, half out of my mind with fear and confusion.
I cover my mouth with my hand to stifle a sob.
The truth is right in front of me, written in blinking neon letters a hundred feet high. I can’t help him. I love him, and I can’t help him.
I’m carrying his child, and I can’t ease whatever torture he’s going through. Because that’s what it is. He’s being tortured by whatever lives inside his head.
I’m the world’s biggest fool. But then, how was I supposed to know how bad things really were?
Maybe you would have if you’d stepped back and looked at everything clearly. No. Instead, I made excuse after excuse for him, explaining away the mood swings and how he treated me.
The way he not only killed a man but laughed at my reaction.
I should have seen it then.
Why didn’t I see it? That he’s sick, really sick.
Because you didn’t want to see it. Because you thought you could help him.
Denial is a hell of a thing.
I can’t believe it didn’t hit me until an hour ago. If he pushed Q down the stairs, which he has admitted, he must already have been sick before he left Corium.
His condition was under our noses all this time, and we never saw it.
Not even my brother or father saw it. Either he was hiding it well or it only got worse over time.
Maybe he didn’t even know—I’m sure he doesn’t know now. Truly sick people never do.
My Ren. My everything.
He’s so sick, and there’s nothing I can do to help.
And while I have yet to confirm I’m pregnant, I can feel it.
If it was just me, this would be different. I wouldn’t be this scared. Knowing myself, I would stubbornly hold on, convinced I could pull him out of this somehow. That there was still enough of him left, that I could get through to the part of him that’s still healthy, still self-aware.
Maybe I could convince him to go to a doctor for my sake.
Now, I’m afraid I don’t have the time for that. I don’t know how he will react if I tell him I’m pregnant because I can’t predict anything about him anymore. A light switch flips on and off inside his head, and he goes from his normal self to this other version of him. The version that is coarse and crude. Cold and violent, with a thirst for blood.
A sudden idea makes me shudder.
What if it’s that part of him in charge when I tell him about the baby? What if he hurts me because a baby isn’t in his plans? All that matters is New Haven and revenge. There’s no room in that for a baby, is there? The thought leaves me cracked open.
I cannot believe I’m actually thinking this, but then I can’t believe anything that’s happened. Maybe I’ll be able to figure it out one day, but this is not that day.
Today, there’s only one thing I can do, one thing I have no idea how to pull off. I promised him I’d always be here, no matter what, but this is bigger than us. I need to get out of here to get him the help he needs.
It still doesn’t feel real, thinking like that. I’ve sacrificed everything to be with him because I was sure it was right. That this is where I’m meant to be.
That was before. Before I saw the depth of his illness.
Before I knew I had a baby to think about it.
Am I justifying myself? Trying to convince myself this is the right thing to do? I guess so—and I have to try harder because a part of me, a very big part, wants to stay.
No, that wishes I could stay, which are two very different things. It would be nice if I could. If there was a way we could be together without me waking up every morning afraid of what I’ll find. Of who he’ll be this time.
I will not put our child through that.
This is about more than me. Maybe it’s the wake-up call I needed.
I pull a shaky breath into my lungs. There hasn’t been much noise on the other side of the door. No throwing or breaking of things.
No talking to himself, which I take as a good sign.
I’m sure he’s still mad at me, or else why would he still have me locked in this room? I tiptoe over to the door and press my ear to the wood, closing my eyes to block out everything but what I hear.