Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“You’d still fuck me if I spread my legs for you.” Her words are low, without a hint of seduction. “You’d probably fuck me even if I didn’t. Just like those guys would’ve tonight.”
Her words are heavy like she’s using all of her strength to get them out, but her eyes never open again.
Leaving her on the bed, I enter the small but tidy bathroom, grabbing and wetting a washrag before returning to her bedside.
“Do you believe in angels?”
When I first place the warm cloth against her cheek, she tries to pull back. I cup her other cheek with my palm and soothe her the way I imagine you would a startled child.
“I think a better question,” I begin as I press the cloth to her closed eyelid, “is why do you believe in angels?”
Her small smile grows.
“Angels keep saving me from myself.” My hand stills, the washcloth covering one cheek. “I wish they’d leave me the fuck alone.”
Chapter 7
Kaci
Tears warm my cheeks before my eyes even open. My head is pounding just like every morning after going out, but the pain radiating behind my eyes isn’t the cause. Waking up, plain and simple, is what upsets me. Within minutes I’m sobbing because I know I’m in my own bed. I’m not waking up in an alleyway, or some abandoned house. It’s clear by the familiar scent of my own sheets that I’m home and safe.
It would be a relief for most people but knowing what day it is makes being alive even more unbearable. I wanted last night to be the night all the pain and guilt finally ended. As much as I want to die, ending my own life isn’t an option. I’m not religious or not considering suicide because of some tainted vision of what the afterlife holds. I’m just incapable of doing it. All my attempts in the past have been failures, and somehow, I know living and waking up each time I put myself in danger is part of my punishment. It’s penance for what happened nine years ago.
Remorse and my need for continuous suffering are why I climb out of bed and make preparations to go to my parents’ house. I strip out of my clothes from last night and cry harder when I look in the mirror and see no reminders of last night. There are no bruises or scratches anywhere on my body. I have nothing to beat myself up for, and I know it only means that I’ll be forced back out of the house sooner than usual.
Ice-blue eyes fill my head when I climb in the shower, and they don’t dissipate when I towel off and get dressed. I’m haunted by them but tormented even more by not knowing who they belong to or what purpose they serve in my life.
The people from the party last night wouldn’t recognize me. Hell, taking one last look at myself in the mirror, I no longer see the girl who’s wearing a prim dress with knotted hair at the nape of her neck. Even though that’s exactly who’s looking back at me, my reflection is as fake as the actress that will go home and pretend life is the opposite of what it actually is, however, with any luck, I won’t have to pretend to be someone else today.
The car I drive to my parents’ house is the same one I was gifted in high school. The hand-me-down BMW has seen better days, but I’ll continue to drive it as long as it continues to crank. It fits in my life just like everything else that could be upgraded but hasn’t. Smaller rundown houses transform into nicer homes before transitioning once again to large estates as I leave Andover and draw closer to Newbury.
My childhood home brings bittersweet feelings when it comes into view. I hate coming here, but at the same time, I need the shame that settles on my shoulders the second the gate swings open, giving me access to the last place I’m welcome. This isn’t home. This is where my parents live in their own grief and blame.
True to form, my father merely grunts when he opens the door and sees me standing here. He doesn’t let his eyes linger for even a second before turning back around and refilling his whiskey glass. Almost as if I’m allergic to this house, my throat constricts the second I step inside and close the door behind me.
“Why are you here?”
“You know why I’m here.”
I don’t see Mother in the living room with him, and I didn’t really expect to, but knowing she’s isolated somewhere in the house makes my gut clench.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he grunts before turning his tumbler up and draining the glass.
Inwardly, I wonder how much he’s drank today, or if he even stopped from the glasses he poured last night.