Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 87961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Every time I close my eyes I see Bob’s face, feel his hands crawling over my body, the knife biting into my skin. Whenever I fall asleep I wake up screaming and crying. Each sound, each click of that lock makes me jump. I never thought I would be this person. They made me this person.
Never in my life have I felt so utterly alone, so betrayed, so hurt. I have nothing to live for, because even though I survived this time, he will kill me eventually. He has to. I know it, and so does he. He may have found some trace of a soul this time, but he’s a ticking bomb just waiting to go off. I’m living on borrowed time and I’m never getting out of this.
I slide out of the bed. My legs shake beneath my weight as I make my way to the bathroom and close the door behind me. I turn on the shower, twisting the knobs to the hottest they’ll go before I turn to the vanity and carefully pull my t-shirt over my head. The material brushes against the stitches, making me hiss in pain.
It takes me a few minutes to muster the courage to look in the mirror, and when I do, I wish I hadn’t. I don’t recognise the girl looking back at me. I have to pretend that reflection is someone else, some stranger I don’t know, because this girl is broken and unsalvageable in every way. She’s skinny and frail, her skin sallow. Her skin is a map of bruises and cuts. An ugly red line runs from her chest to her stomach, matching the stitched five-inch long cut across her throat. Her lip is split and face bruised. The part that scares me the most, though, are her eyes, they’re completely lifeless. She looks so sad, so desolate.
Victoria Devaux died three days ago when a man tried to violate and torture her, and she willingly slit her own throat, praying for death. She did that because she was strong, because she was a fighter who took control of her own fate.
The girl I’m staring at is not strong. I’m nothing anymore.
I step away from the mirror until I feel the cold, tiled wall against my back. Sliding to the floor, I hug my knees to my chest. The dry wound on my stomach crinkles, and I flinch from the sudden pain, but I don’t cry.
I’m past crying.
I’ve accepted my fate in this hell.
I don’t know how long I stay like this; it may be minutes, it may be hours. All I can hear is the sound of the shower running, the water splashing against the floor as the bathroom fills with steam. It’s hard to accept that my life has been stolen from me, and that even if I could be handed freedom, at this point, I wouldn’t want it. I’ve nothing left.
Eventually there’s a soft knock on the door. I don’t move. I just keep staring at a spot on the wall across from me.
My stomach clenches at the sound of his voice, and my nails dig into my shins. I taste bile rise up my throat.
I remember too late that I didn’t lock the door. The door cracks, and I hear his heavy boots move across the floor.
He comes in and rummage through the drawers, mumbling to himself. “Are you okay?” he asks, then I hear him stop beside me, and I look down to see his brown boots with what I assume is dried blood on the toe. I don’t answer him. I don’t want to talk to him. I have nothing to say. All has been well and truly said and done. Some things are just beyond words.
I feel him looming over me and then he crouches down in front of me. He gently lifts my chin and examines the wound on my neck.
I look straight at him. A frown etches between his eyebrows as he studies my face. I blankly hold his gaze for a few seconds before pulling my chin out of his grasp.
I get to my feet slowly, and turn to face him. I stand in front of him completely naked and watch as his eyes skate over the long cut down the centre of my body. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back before dragging his hands through his hair. It’s then that I notice the blood covering his shirt, evidence of his last victim. The monster in all his glory. I can’t even find it within myself to be scared. I’m not scared of him. I don’t fucking care anymore.
His eyes dart down to the blood stains, then back up to mine. “You don’t need to be scared of me. There’s a lot you don’t know.”
“I’m not,” I say. “Can you leave? Please.”