Chapter 12
Woodrow—present day
“Why are you all sweaty?” Jolie waited for me to turn to the watch I’d placed on my bedside table before asking her question, like she couldn’t bring herself to look and speak to me at the same time.
I’d dropped off for a little while; my spinning head needed the comfort of a soft pillow. But sleep wasn’t a peaceful time for me. . . monsters lurked in the dark, dragging painful memories from the shadows.
I’d trusted Jolie not to run as she filled her stomach with a taste of everything on offer, while I tossed and turned at her side.
I knew she wouldn’t go too far with her face exposed.
And even if I was wrong, I wouldn’t have had the energy to chase her right now.
I was always tired these days, and it was getting harder and harder to fight the drowse.
An empty space occupied the gap between us on the giant bed. She lay so close to the edge, anyone would have sworn I had a disease—one she could catch.
She was probably fucking fearful to see who had actually woken up this morning.
Lucky for her, I was still me.
For now.
My soul was vibrating out of my glistening skin.
I struggled to claim back my staggering breaths from the nightmare that stole them.
The big white face of my watch told me I was up too fucking early to face the day. Because it wasn’t day. The room was illuminated by a false light. The lamp at the bedside allowed her to read her eBook without any strain on her eyes.
The curtains were drawn; a slight crack down the middle showed no sun peeping in.
“Have you been to sleep yet?” I asked, examining the pinked whites of her eyes.
“Not yet. I finished my book.”
“That was quick.”
“I’m going to start another one tomorrow. It keeps me out of my head, and that’s good.” Her words sounded of optimism, but her tone was the complete opposite.
“When did the daydreams start?”
“It’s a PTSD coping mechanism, apparently, or so, I’ve been told. It started the day my dad was killed.”
“You don’t believe that?” I lay back, adjusting my single pillow beneath my head. Anything too high was a no-go.
“I didn’t at first. I thought I was developing a mental illness.
I thought I was losing my mind, but I didn’t care because it muted my pain.
Now, I see it for what it is. I didn’t have it before all my trauma.
Before all the loss. And it does help me cope.
But I’m always aware. That’s not always the case with mental health disorders. ”
I tried to nod, but my dry throat wouldn’t allow me to comfortably do so. “Is there still a bottle of water on the bed?”
“Probably.”
“Can you take a look?”
I felt the I don’t want to do anything for you attitude emanating from her skin.
“Jolie, I can ask you as my girl, or I can demand you to do as I say because you’re my slave.
” I didn’t want to make that comment. I’d never make her do anything she didn’t want, not while I was this version of me, at least. But my pain did the talking.
. . and I knew that comment would get her riled up enough to bring more to the conversation I wanted.
“I’m not your fucking slave.”
I almost laughed, wondering how she didn’t also object to being my girl. But laughing hurt too much, too.
She found the water and threw it towards me, not caring where it hit. Not caring if it caused a flip inside my head and a war in this room.
The bottle crunched as the weight of the water hit my ribcage.
I unscrewed the cap and took a swig.
That hurt more than fucking anything. It brought tears to my fucking eyes.
“Get some rest. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
“We do?”
“It’s our last day here. So, we’re going to enjoy it.”
I kept my eyes on Jolie while waiting for the heavy flush of slumber. I prayed she’d bring me happy dreams, but her image could do that or give me nightmares.
She was still beautiful to me, despite the scars. . . the burns. . . the painful fucking reminders.
But she had no idea how haunted I was by all that happened to her.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the weeks ahead, not the years behind us.
And I knew, if I was given the chance, I could make her happy.
I could make her forget the pain. Again.
I could make her love me, even more than she hated me.
“This is gonna hurt, kid,” warned my cellmate, without giving me chance to respond in my sleepy, groggy state as he yanked a teenage me from the minimal comfort offered by the top bunk.
He’d interrupted a dream—a really good dream—the best.
I was free, running through the daisies, leaving the darkness behind.
The heat of the flames warmed the chill of loss from my bones. The smoke touched the fluffy clouds above, mingling its dark shade with their gray as the orange fire and black smoke ate up my home with giant bites.
I looked back to the abstract image of loss and gain. Of pain and freedom.
It was just us. Just me and Jolie. . . free.
Jolie’s hand wrapped in mine. My fingers tight around hers as I let her guide me from the flames. From my parents and Nessie. From Woody, who I begged to stay with his little sister. From Hell. . . so, I could show her heaven. The real Heaven. . . the real me.
But that was all over now, my blissful fantasy, rudely awakened by a brute’s hands.
My scrawny body was saved from the concrete floor that was about to knock out my teeth, by a man almost too big to fit in this 8x8, let alone bring guests with him.
Letting go of my sweatshirt, he propped me on my feet, and not a second later, he ripped my pants from my body.
My fingers rushed to stop him, but my tiredness handed leverage to him when I wasn’t quick enough.
The material flayed and fell to the floor in tatters.
I looked down at the result of his actions. My pathetic reaction gave him time to push me, literally push me, from the boxer shorts concealing my modesty.
I hit the wall with a thud, and the concrete gifted me a migraine as a welcome gift.
I didn’t have time to react; I didn’t know how to react. Usually, in situations where I felt scared or threatened, a savior would step in. A person who hated the world and everyone in it—everyone but me.
Heavy arms forced me around, pulling my jumper up over my ass as it tried in vain to hide it.
Movement sounded behind me and my legs were kicked apart.
Someone hit the back of my head, knocking my face into the concrete for the second time.
My neck twisted causing pain in my throat, so intense, I couldn’t even scream.
The position was suffocating me, and the wall was rubbing at my face like sandpaper, creating minor imperfections that only time could heal.
My fingers splayed, pressing firmly to the wall, niggling closer to my face. I prayed for a small separation from the stone. . . from my body.
But I got neither, with the giant creep holding me in place.
My cellmate moved behind me. Stepping out of his trousers, he left them behind on the floor with mine.
A heavy thrust pushed my skin deeper into the concrete, and as a result, my neck hurt more, too.
A pain ripped through me, starting at my rear. I screamed, and a distorted sound evacuated through my lips before dirty fingers forced themselves into my mouth and gagged me.
I almost fucking died from the pain and pressure caused as the guy behind me fisted strands of my hair and pulled my head back enough to clamp his mouth over my dry lips, whispering sour promises against my skin.
The pain in my throat blasted me harder than whatever he’d shoved into my ass. But every part of me hurt.
I sealed my lips shut to avoid his dirty kiss. The threats on his tongue, of a more brutal fucking, acted like a superglue to my mouth.
I felt my insides stretch uncomfortably, making room for my cellmate, who was pushing himself deeper inside me. His hands were on my hips steadying me as I shifted away from the thickness of what I could only assume was his dirty fucking dick.
“Please, God. Please, God. . .” let this end, I begged, but God didn’t hear my almost silent pleas.
I fought for freedom, but I was one teenager against a small and hateful army of criminals.
My eyes moved swiftly in their sockets. Searching around the cell, I took in the appearance of the pricks filling the space as they moved in and out of my view.
My abuser—my cellmate—was older than me, by at least twenty years, like most of the others in here.
The badly designed tattoo on his face, one I’d seen before—an upside down cross in the center of his forehead reminded me of my father, because in a different place, he wore the same mark—that of the devil, or so, that’s what my mother had said.
My daddy wore it on his hand, claiming that when he lifted said hand, the cross was no longer upturned, claiming it as a symbol of God—something he only ever said to please his susceptible wife.
She was such a gullible idiot, believing all his damn lies.
No, that was the damn lie, one I’d believed for too fucking long.
My mother was no idiot. She was the worst kind of woman—someone who had been through hell and could only drag herself out by trampling over all the people she dragged down with her.
An enemy to her own gender.
An innocent, turned traitor.
I thought of her, and it ignited a strong sense of anger, fear, and hate, but nothing was as strong as the anxiety pills I’d taken this morning, muting the other part of me that usually took over when I felt any of these emotions.
Nothing but the pain.
My cellmate, or the prick I shared a cell with, as he’d be known going forward, pulled out of me, then pushed back inside quickly, forcing me to take all of him.
His thrusts became violent and short, stabbing into me until it became lethal enough for me to struggle to breathe.
I shook my head, causing myself more pain, and I closed my eyes. . . needing to be anywhere but here.
I prayed when my lids rolled up to reveal my sad eyes, I’d be somewhere else.
But I didn’t get my wish.