Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 47626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
I try to speak, but my throat feels clogged and dry. My mouth opens and closes in a moment of futility. “You need water, little one. I am sorry. Here you go.” He brings the glass to my lips, and I suck it down like I haven’t had it in weeks. I guess I haven’t. “Slow down baby. I don’t want you to choke.” he removes the glass from my parched lips. “Alright, try to talk now.”
I open my mouth and a squeak comes out. I try once more, and a raspy voice emerges. “Thank you,” is the first thing I say.
“For what?” I look at him like he is crazy. Is he serious? Not only did he save my life, but he held me through the most awful nightmare.
“For everything. Especially for holding me.” He mumbles something about having it his way and never letting go. Before I can ask what he means, he gets up taking his heat and safety with him and looks at me.
“I am going to get you chicken soup. Inside or outside?” I look at the glass door which I didn't notice before. I realize we are on a beach. What I wouldn’t give to smell the ocean.
“Outside,” I answer him, anxious to feel the wind on my irritated skin. I begin scratching my arms, a compulsive action I can’t seem to stop ever since they gave my first hit and then withheld it from me. He has a look of concern, but says nothing.
“Perfect. I will be back.” He walks out the door and I get up and go to the ladies room. I look at myself in the mirror and I see a shell of who I was. They succeeded in breaking me, especially when they began putting needles in my arm. I don’t think I will ever get back to myself.
Feeling the sadness and hopelessness coming back, I snatch the IV from my arm, never mind the blood dripping from it now. I open the outside door and walk like the dead to the water. I am supposed to feel the sun, allow its radiant rays to rejuvenate me, but instead all I see is a way out.
My feet move without provocation like weightless things that can carry me to peace. Of course my brain knows I am in the water, but the synapses in it no longer register that I am a person.
For weeks I was told I was nothing, a piece of pussy to be used and tossed away like trash. They taunted me about the type of man who would buy a virgin. About how evil he would be and how he would use me and pass me to his friends. I wished for death, and here it is at my feet, literally.
I feel the cold water at my knees. Do I stop? No. I keep going. I feel it when it is at my waist. Do I pull back and try to save myself? Of course not. I register that it is now up to my chest, masking the ever-present need for a fix. This should alert me, wake me up, but it does the opposite. It makes me feel calm and deserving of finality.
The water is over my head now. I don’t bother trying to come up. I simply stay under until my last breath takes me. Then I feel it. Something strangely resembling salvation. But then, suddenly I am being pulled from the water, the voice of my unwanted hero cursing me and pleading with me to be okay. I hear his words, but I don’t let them sink in.
“Jesus, Piccola. What have you done? Why would you do this? Please be alright.” That’s funny because I don’t think I will ever be okay again. “Shit, baby. Breathe for me.” I hear him but I also see a chance to be free from this pain. I have no will to live and you need will, don’t you? His hands push on my chest and the end I was seeking is no longer within my reach. My lungs begin to expand, and water is coughed up repetitiously, until I begin wheezing. “Thank fuck. I thought I’d lost you.” I should be grateful, right? Instead I am crying, hitting him, cursing him for bringing me back.
“Why didn’t you let me die? I have nothing. I am nothing. You should have let me be free.” I scream at him before coughing and running out of breath. He looks at me with so much compassion and something else I am not ready to dissect.
“Oh little one, you are already someone to me.” That makes me cry harder. Shivering, I bury my face into his chest and sob for the girl who was a prisoner but was also vibrant and free. I cry for the girl who is now lost and fragile.