Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
And then he rubs his fingers on my tongue, the sloppy sound of saliva echoing in the air around us.
He keeps doing that until I start licking him.
Until I talk myself into believing this is a dream.
It was not a dream.
No matter how much I try to convince myself that I’m imagining things and that I couldn’t possibly have done that in public—where anyone could’ve seen me. The truth remains that I didn’t have a dream.
Not even a little. Not even close.
I pace the length of my bedroom and bathroom, nursing a pounding headache and thoughts so chaotic, they add to the migraine.
My inhales and exhales are fast, fractured, and completely repulsed by the reality I woke up to this morning.
At five a.m. Like clockwork.
Only, nothing makes sense.
I stop pacing and look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, my hand gripping my hair tighter the longer I stare at the fucking cunt. The weak bloody wanker who couldn’t stay in control, just because he had a few drinks.
Black ink covers my features, turning it faceless. What stares back at me is unrecognizable.
A monster.
My heart hammers and I storm toward the mirror, then drive my fist into it. The surface cracks but doesn’t splinter, and I have to look at six distorted versions of my face.
“Fuck you,” I whisper to all of them as blood drips from my knuckles, my fingers, and then splashes the white sink in red.
I want to punch the mirror again—this time, erase myself completely, but I don’t, because this is also messing with my fucking control.
The ticking invades my brain until it’s the only thing I can hear.
Tick.
You’re useless.
Tick.
You’re nothing.
Tick.
Weak.
Weak.
Weak.
I strike the side of my head with my bloodied fist until I think I’ll knock myself out.
Black ink slithers from the mirror and swallows my feet, my knees, and my thighs. I grab a piece of the mirror and press on it.
Blood pours out of my fingers, and with it, the ink rushes out of my bloodstream and dissipates from around me.
I let the glass fall to the sink and exhale harshly. Streaks of red line the white porcelain and drops of blood follow in quick succession. I let my life essence pour out of me as I look at my reflection—hair glued to my temples and my eyes glassy. Dead.
It’s done. I’m calm.
I’m back to being in control.
But I can’t stare at myself too long. Otherwise, it’ll come back.
My gaze falls on the blood that’s gushing from the cuts in my fingers, soaking my palm, the back of my hand, and forming a small pool in the sink.
It’s done.
All I have to do is pretend last night never happened.
I’m a master at pretending. Have done it my whole life and have always succeeded.
This isn’t any different.
My movements are mechanical as I wash my hand, biting my lip against the pain. Dark, forbidden images invade my brain. Teeth nibbling on my swollen lip, bruising, devouring—
Stop.
My hand shakes as I hit the tap shut and bandage my cuts.
I’m about to step into the bedroom when I catch a reflection of my distorted image and I have to look away before my face becomes black again.
Wait…
Please don’t tell me that’s what I think it is.
I get closer, tilting my head back, and, sure enough, there’s a dark-purple hickey near my jaw and another at my Adam's apple.
That fucking—
I expel a long breath and exit the bathroom, pulling on my hair and nearly toppling everything in my wake.
My movements are frantic as I put on my running shorts and T-shirt. My body is begging me to sit this one out and give myself time to recover from the hangover, but if I do that, I’ll just allow myself time to think.
I can’t think.
Not after the blood fest this morning.
I rush back into the bathroom and slap two plasters against the hickeys. If anyone asks, I’ll say I cut myself while shaving.
Deny.
Forget.
Pretend.
My holy mantra will work its magic this time as well. It always does.
I leave my room, pushing against the headache and the fog swimming in my mind. I just need a run and everything will get back to normal.
Yet as I go down the stairs of the mansion I share with my brother, cousins, and friend Remi, I’m hit with how I felt when I took these stairs up last night.
Or early this morning.
Fuck, it’s only been a couple of hours since Nikolai dropped me off near the house. On his motorbike.
I wish I didn’t remember much after the colossal lack of judgment on my part, but I do. Painfully so.
He removed his shirt, which I’m sure he didn’t want to be wearing in the first place, and used it to clean us up before he dragged me to where he’d parked his motorbike.
Me on a motorbike? Not in this lifetime.