Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“He was a huge man. My mother was a whore, sold herself for the needle, and he was just some random john, but he was the first one I remember. He fucked her right there in front of me. She was so fucking high I don't think she was conscious.” A tremor shook his body, and he sat back, legs folded against his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees. “And there I was, curled up in the damned corner, hugging that doll, kissing her ratty hair like she was my only friend. Hell, she was my only friend.”
He put his hands over his face, and his shoulders hunched like a scared little boy. Her heart clenched painfully, and her eyes burned. She wanted to hold that little boy so damned badly.
Straightening the legs of her shorts, she moved with fast, quiet steps. Then she dropped before him and mirrored his pose with her arms around her knees.
His hands lowered and dangled between them. He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge her at all. “When he was done with my mother, he turned to me. I wouldn't let go of that doll. He was so goddamned strong I couldn't stop him from ripping Isadora out of my hands.”
“Isadora? Your mother?”
His head cocked, and his eyes narrowed in confusion on the broken doll between their feet. He squeezed his legs tighter against his chest, his body curling inward. He was shutting down.
In a bold gesture, she reached out and placed her hand on his cheek, stroking her fingers through the thick hair above his ear.
He shook his head, eyes on the floor, then leaned into her touch. “I'd named the doll after my mother.”
There was no embarrassment or resentment in his tone, just...sadness. He loved his mother, that much was clear, and evidently that love wasn't reciprocated.
A burn seared through her nose. She envied his devotion. She didn't know her mother well enough to love her. There'd been no connection, no relationship. Just illness. She rocked forward to her knees and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
His legs dropped, and he pulled her against his chest, speaking softly into her hair. “When he stomped on the doll, her body split in half, and the arms and legs tore off. Just like that, she was dead.”
She rubbed his rigid back, her own muscles stiff with anguish. The attachment he must've felt for that doll amidst such a neglected, fucked-up upbringing... God, he must've mourned her. The doll. His mother. She glanced over his shoulder and took in the menagerie of brokenness with new eyes.
It was tragic and beautiful and inspiring. She didn't know the depth of his suffering, but the coping, the struggle to self-medicate? She knew all about that. The memory of his doll had stuck with him, and he'd recreated his appreciation for it, clinging to the notion that he could somehow repair what had happened, that he could fix the past with the present.
She didn't think that was possible, but what did she know? Just because she hadn't been successful at taking back her own life didn't mean he couldn't find some kind of peace in creating an indestructible doll.
He adjusted her legs so that she straddled his lap and squeezed her chest to his. His arms were strong and immovable around her, his body a powerhouse of muscle. But she felt the scared boy in the hunch of his shoulders and the restlessness of his fingers gripping at the shirt covering her back. That little boy felt like her insides, fractured and hurting, lonely and scared, but brimming with the desire to love something or someone and to be loved.
His cheek rubbed against hers, but his arms turned to stone and his chest expanded with a long, tense inhale. “After he smashed the doll, he pressed my face into the dirt and fucked me.” Her heart crushed instantly at the emptiness in his voice and the impact of his words. He released a slow breath and kissed her brow. “I came to grips with that a long time ago. He was the first but certainly not the last. For the next four years, many of her drug dealers turned to me when she was too stoned to put out. She OD'd when I was thirteen.”
Amber held him tightly, her hug expressing what she couldn't with her voice. When he leaned back, his eyes were clear and searching. His gentle expression filled her with heartache, but she also felt a strong surge of something else. “I'm proud of you.”
He cupped her face, his thumbs caressing her cheeks as his eyes followed the movement. “Mm. Not much to be proud of, Amber. By age thirteen, I was a whore just like her.”
Her jaw stiffened, her words rushed and heated. “You were young. It was all you knew. And you broke free from it. You didn't let it kill you.”