Shamed (Broken Souls #4)

PROLOGUE

Jennifer

The harsh, biting pain follows the path of the razor blade as it smoothly glides over the multiple ridges of scarred flesh—some fresh, some a couple of years old—causing me to hiss.

It stings, it always does, but this time, the fierce burn slicing my arm feels infinitely worse, the cut a little deeper, a little harder, a little longer.

You deserve this.

I watch as the red drips from the gash, pooling on the old laminate floor in my dump-of-a-bathroom. I’m sure the faded rust-colored walls were once this bright. Red. I’ve always hated red.

It seems fitting that he would be wearing red that night. The thought and color make me want to hurl.

A sob rips through my chest, my body shuddering with indescribable grief. I just want the horrible pain in my chest to end, the constant dense weight of at least a dozen broken souls who sit heavily on my shoulders to be lifted.

Guilt. It’s so fucking heavy.

He’s right. Everything he said was right.

And everyone will be better off without me.

Tears trickle from my eyes, imitating the leaky tap dripping in the bathtub beside me. Besides my sniffles, it’s the only sound in the room.

The shattered mirror taunts me with a thousand images of myself sitting here.

But I’m all alone now, as I should be.

When this is all over, I can stop ruining lives.

I weakly trail a finger through the blood, gathering enough to spell out the words “I’m sorry” on the floor beside me. I hope he sees it . . . and I hope he knows how much I mean it.

God, what am I thinking? I’d never want anyone to see this. I swipe my hand over the mess.

My head hits the wall behind me with a soft thud as I stare above me. The ceiling—littered with brown water stains—appears to close in on me, joining in on the pressure crushing me.

Another whimper tries to crawl up my throat, but I swallow it back down, trying to dislodge the giant lump blocking my airway.

And then I wait.

I can almost feel the pathetic life drain out of me.