20. Arlo
I was wrong.
Hota was right.
Fat lot of good that will do either of us now.
My middle screams as I crawl into the bed I haven’t slept in since Hota pried his way into my miserable life and made it worth living. I try to remember that it’s still worth living.
The shame is a cloud that gets darker and more foreboding with every breath I take. It crowds close, morphing into the shape of him . My devil. It laughs his thick and mucky laugh. It taunts me with ugly words. Words that didn’t matter until suddenly they did. They do.
I knew you liked taking me up the ass.
You can’t hide it anymore.
Look at that pool of cum you left on the floor.
You liked it.
Cold sweat coats my skin. My stomach pitches, and I’m retching over the edge of the bed.
Nothing comes out.
Like nothing should have come out when he…
I gasp for air and heave spittle.
Pain steals what little breath I had. It forces me back onto the bed, shivering in the fetal position.
I’m reasonably sure he cracked another rib. My piss has been tinged with blood for the past two days. Since he couldn’t hurt my “pretty face,” he focused on turning my guts to mush and fucking my brain up a million times worse than my body.
I don’t know how it happened. How I let it.
“Fuck.” I bite my lumpy pillow and muffle a sob.
When I’m stopped by the knifelike pain in my abdomen, I hear the metal of the knob shift.
Locking it was the right thing, though it feels so fucking wrong.
Every part of me calls out for Hota. Every part except my guilt.
I can’t let him see it. I can’t let him see me, not like this.
“Please,” I beg, hating that I know he’ll give me what I ask for, even if it’s the last thing I need and the last thing he wants.